Dream London Page 3

  “Why me?”

  “Because of who you are, James.”

  “Who I am? Captain Jim Wedderburn is a rogue. He drinks and whores, he fights and steals.”

  “But people listen to you, James. You’ve got the looks, you’ve got the voice. There are wiser men, it’s true – no offence,” he raised a hand at that, “and there are people who may be better placed to give advice. But there’s something about you that makes people want to follow you. You’re a natural leader, James.”

  “Maybe so,” I admitted. I knew that people listened to me. I’d risen through the ranks in the army because of that.

  Alan leant forward.

  “Have you heard of the Cartel?”

  I said nothing.

  “You’ll have heard the rumours, I’m sure.”

  I picked up the champagne bottle, felt the cold weight in my hands.

  “I’ve heard that there are interests who don’t like the way Dream London is going,” I said, carefully. “Former bankers, some of the underworld, politicians, the minor royals left behind in the city: all the people who have been gradually losing power this past year or so.”

  I refilled both of our glasses.

  “And I have to say,” I added. “I’m delighted about that.”

  Alan pulled a long face.

  “Oh James, don’t be like that. They talk about you, you know. The Cartel speaks very highly of you.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “No need to be sarcastic. What if I told you they had a job for you? One that would pay very well.”

  I gazed at Alan.

  “It would depend on the job,” I said. “More to the point, it would depend on the money.”

  “We’re not offering cash,” he said. “We’ve got something even better than that. We’re offering you land. Freehold. How would you like to be a Lord of Dream London?”

  TWO

  DADDIO CLARKE AND THE MACON WAILERS

  THE MAID ARRIVED at that moment with fresh plates. I heard a sizzling and, at the same time, smelt a deliciously savoury aroma. Mother Clap was approaching, bearing two beautifully thick steaks on a silver platter. She laid the steaks onto our plates, pink blood oozing onto the china. I was torn between hunger and curiosity, impatient as the accompanying dishes – the little glass jars of condiments – were laid before us. I was impatient to eat, impatient to hear more. I watched as Mother Clap ground pepper, first over my meal, then over Alan’s, watched as she spooned potatoes, green beans, braised cabbage onto our plates. Then there was a little French mustard, a little salt. A smear of Gentleman’s Relish. I was impatient to resume our conversation, but still I had to wait as the Burgundy was poured into my glass to taste. I sipped and nodded and watched as she filled our glasses.

  At last, the meal was ready, but still Mother Clap remained at our sides.

  “Shall I cut your steaks up for you, gentlemen?”

  “No thank you, Mother Clap,” said Alan, happily.

  “Are you sure? Would you like me to blow on your steak and cool it down?”

  “We’re both big boys, Mother Clap. We can look after ourselves.”

  “If you say so.”

  Finally, we were left on our own. I cut into the meat.

  “Freehold?” I said. “Where?”

  “Belltower End. That’s where your, ahem, business is based at the moment, isn’t it?”

  “You know it is.”

  “How much do you currently pay in rent?” asked Alan through a mouthful of steak.

  “Way too much. And it goes up all the time.” I gazed at him suspiciously. “Am I to take it that you’re my landlord then? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Me? Hardly.” He seemed disappointed. “I can see that you’re not as aware of what’s going on in Dream London as you maybe thought.”

  “I know that land in Dream London is at a premium,” I said. “The shape of the city changes all the time. A man can go to bed rich with 100 acres and wake up poor with property the area of a postage stamp.”

  I ate a piece of steak, warm red blood bursting in my mouth. It was delicious.

  “Indeed,” said Alan. “And the opposite is also true. It would be to anyone’s advantage to take freehold of a property that is due to grow.” He winked at me. “Take your time to think about it.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Two things,” said Alan. He laid his fork on his plate, a piece of meat speared on the end. He was obviously not so hungry as I.

  “One thing, I suspect that will be rather easier than the other.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “First the easier thing. We want you to find the people behind what’s happened to Dream London.”

  I gulped down a piece of steak.

  “Hah!” I said. “Like no one else ever tried!”

  “Oh, lots of people have,” said Alan. “But I think you could succeed. Join the Cartel. A title and a uniform would look good in the boardrooms up east. Captain Jim Wedderburn would be a valuable addition to our cause.”

  “And how would you get me into the boardrooms?”

  “Come with me. I’ll put you up at my place. Give you a veneer of respectability. Set you up with a job in the City, where all this started. You’d be our man on the inside. You know it would work. With your looks and charm, you’d be welcome anywhere.”

  “And in return you’ll give me the freehold of Belltower End. That’s a huge price you’re willing to pay. I’m not sure the Cartel could afford it.”

  Alan smiled.

  “Ah! That’s the interesting thing! You see, if our plans succeed, the Cartel will reacquire large parts of this city. If the Cartel succeed, we’ll all be winners, James.”

  I dipped a piece of meat in the mustard. Cracked brown seeds adhered to the pink flesh.

  “I think I’d want more than Belltower End,” I said. I popped the meat in my mouth and stared at him as I chewed.

  Alan nodded. “That can be negotiated.”

  “Uh-huh. And the second thing you want?”

  “Ah! The second task.” Alan placed his fork on the side of his plate once more. He gazed at me with a serious expression. “You must have realised, James, that people are becoming inured to the changes. Dream London is Dream London, they say, and it’s not going to change back.”

  He was right. I thought of Christine and her little piece of parchment, searching for the perfect man.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Well, that’s the second part. When the fight begins, we’re going to need a figurehead. A charismatic bad boy willing to become good. We want someone who will stand up and lead the revolution against whoever is doing this to us.”

  “And that person is me?”

  “Who else? Like I said, people follow you, Captain Jim Wedderburn. But you’ve got more about you than that, though. Do you know what I’ve heard it said that you could be?”

  “What?”

  “A hero for Dream London. The hero for Dream London.”

  I laughed at that.

  “It’s true, Jim.”

  “I’m sorry Alan,” I said. “Me? A hero? I don’t think so.”

  “Well, maybe we could talk about that later on, too. Aren’t you a little bit tempted by our offer?”

  I shrugged. “I want to know what’s going on here. Who doesn’t?”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The Cartel. They sound like the same people who ran things in the old days.”

  “Some of them are,” said Alan.

  “Supposing we do succeed in overthrowing whoever is doing this to Dream London. What will I have gained? We’ll still have the same old group of people lining their pockets.”

  “But you’ll be part of them, James. You’ll be the Lord of Belltower End.”

  “It’s an interesting offer,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t take too long.” Alan reached into his pocket and drew forth a silver case. He
opened it and pulled out a card.

  “My address,” he said. He replaced the case in his pocket. “If you do want to join us, you must get to that address before daybreak. Especially, you must get there before you learn what time it is.”

  I stared at him, wondering if he was winding me up.

  “No joke,” he said. “You’re currently lost in the moment. That’s our security. No one can pinpoint this conversation. The Cartel have to protect themselves, you know.”

  He looked around the room, looked at all the diners who were suddenly paying us no attention.

  “I think you’ve helped me make up my mind,” I said. “I hate to be pressurised into making decisions. My answer is no.”

  I placed my knife and fork on the plate and stood up.

  “Thank you for the meal, but I must be going.”

  “Don’t be so hasty,” said Alan. “Sit down and finish your dinner.”

  I looked around the room and its seedy grandeur. I imagined the rest of the Cartel sitting in rooms such as this, full of their own sense of entitlement as they strove for past power. It’s not that I didn’t want a part of it, I just wasn’t sure that they could deliver. I reckoned I’d be better off as I was.

  “No, I don’t think so. Thank you for your offer, but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a hero. I’ll bid you good night.”

  “Good night,” said Alan. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed.”

  I turned and walked from the room. Mother Clap held the door open for me as I left.

  SO I RETURNED to the street, still unaware of the time, though now, at least, feeling a little fuller.

  ... and I stood there, thinking about what Alan had told me, wondering if I’d been too hasty. I was tempted to head back up the stairs to Mother Clap’s to find out more. Was I missing the boat? Alan had said I had to act before sunrise, but it’s a basic rule of doing business: never let other people impose deadlines on you. Besides, I thought about the sort of people in the Cartel; the sort of people who claimed to be acting for the common good, but all the time were just feathering their own nests. People just like me. They couldn’t be trusted. I snorted suddenly. Alan had said I could be the Hero of Dream London. Did they really think I cared about that sort of thing?

  I began to walk. Not back to my room, but out, instead, out into Dream London. The stars were so heavy that the purple sky bulged in the middle, sagging down to pierce itself on the city spires. I walked from the seedy tiredness of Belltower End into the more prosperous shadows of Mandolin Vale. The buildings here were shiny with black gloss tiles, the windows reflecting dark shadows of other places.

  Captain Jim Wedderburn is afraid of nothing. But James Wedderburn heard a sound that sent a chill through his body. Drifting through the night like an icy wind, weaving its way in and out of the lamp posts, he heard the sound of accordions.

  Accordions: the sound of evil.

  Accordions are like chameleons. They’re just a little bit too unusual even for this world; the mechanism that makes them work is not quite discernible. Have you ever seen the interior of an accordion? It’s not as if they contain microchips or anything that would explain the noise that they make. They wheeze out their sounds without any seeming regard for the laws of science. And now, when we inhabit a world where microchips are just so much pretty patterns in sand, accordions seem more sinister than ever. Their shiny cases, like the shells of insects. The way they seem to breathe in and out whilst their keys shine like white teeth in the night.

  I should have turned and walked away, but something about their sound drew me in. I turned the corner and I saw them: three accordion players standing under the lamps in the middle of a little square, their music echoing with the tinny reverb of the lost hours. A year ago there had been cars parked all around the railed gardens in the middle of the square, but now the cars had slipped away to the periphery of Dream London, and the houses had crept inwards, huddling the square down to size, looming over the dark locked garden at its heart, blocking off the starlight that sought to illuminate it.

  The people who lived in the surrounding houses should have been cursing the musicians who must surely be keeping them awake. Should have, but they wouldn’t have been. Musicians are another one of the groups who have done well from the changes. They don’t pay taxes. They have the right, if not the duty, to perform where they will. But most of all, they get respect. Even the most tone-deaf sixteen-year-old who manages to coax three chords from a guitar whilst singing songs of whingeing self-justification is accorded a respect, an adulation even, that was once reserved for those who might have discovered penicillin or clothed the poor.

  Still the music drew me on. The upper storeys of the houses around the square seemed to lean forward, and I felt as if I had stepped into a bowl of music. That unnatural accordion vibrato swirled in currents around me, streams of melody tangling my head. The three accordionists looked into the distance as I passed them by; they had that blank, half present stare that musicians adopt when they’re concentrating. I don’t know what it was they were playing: something vaguely Eastern European, something in a strange mode and time signature. It put me in mind of vampires and people dancing under the stars. The accordionists were standing with their boots planted wide, pumping the bellows as they sent a stream of music to fill the garden and to entrance me.

  I felt my pace slow, and I realised that I hadn’t walked into a space of music, but rather into a web. It was a trap, and one into which I had been successfully lured.

  I shook my head in annoyance. Of course it was a trap! Why else would I have walked towards a sound that I hated?

  The music softened and I heard footsteps coming towards me. A slow, deliberate pace. Someone was coming closer and closer.

  Something metal pricked my back.

  “That’s a knife, Captain Wedderburn.”

  “I can feel it.”

  “The music will stop in a moment. I don’t want you making any sudden moves. Really, I don’t.”

  “I won’t.”

  The voice was hesitant. This was a half-hearted threat, if I ever heard of one.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Me? I don’t like to say. But this isn’t about what I want. I was sent by the Daddio.”

  “Who?”

  The voice sounded a little surprised.

  “You haven’t heard of Daddio Clarke and the Macon Wailers?” it said.

  Now I understood. “Right. The Daddio from the East End. I’ve heard stories. I’m not sure that I believe most of what I’ve heard.”

  “Really? I’m not sure I would admit to that.”

  At that moment the accordionists’ bellows sighed to a halt. The music lingered in the air for a little longer before fading into the night. I heard the clicking of buttons, the snapping of catches as the accordions were placed in their cases and lifted, the receding footsteps of the players. Now my mysterious assailant and I were left alone.

  My voice was calm. No sense in panicking a man holding a knife to your kidneys.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m not sure why you’re here, but you can tell the Daddio that Captain Jim Wedderburn sends his compliments and wishes him well. Beyond that, as far as I’m concerned, we have no other business with each other at present.”

  “I think you misunderstand me. The Daddio isn’t unhappy with you. Quite the opposite!”

  “Then why are you holding a knife to me?”

  There was a pause whilst my assailant thought of his answer.

  “To ensure I have your attention,” he said, eventually.

  “You have it.”

  “Good! Then let me tell you that the Daddio also wanted you to know that he admires you, Captain Wedderburn. He wants you to know that a man of your calibre could do well in his organisation. He’d like to offer you a job.”

  Two jobs in one night. Why had Captain Jim Wedderburn suddenly become so popular? I played for time.

  “Why does the Daddio think
I’d be interested in a job?” I asked.

  “Why do you think you have a choice?” The voice seemed genuinely mystified.

  We seemed to be having trouble communicating. One of us had to break the impasse.

  “Listen,” I said. “I can’t think like this. I’m going to step away now.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the pressure of the knife withdrew. I stepped forward, out of range, and then turned to face my captor.

  Any thought of fighting died right there and then.

  He was a man, but only just. He was much taller than me, and much, much wider. His arms were as thick as my legs, his legs as thick as my body. He wore what might once have been regular clothes, but if they were the seams had been unpicked and extra panels sewn in so they would fit. There was something slightly grotesque about his body, but that was nothing compared to his head. It was twice as big as it should be. His eyes were narrow and bright, his mouth a wide slit like something cut into pumpkin. But worse than all of that was what lay inside his mouth...

  “What’s that in your mouth?”

  “In my mouth? There’s nothing in my mouth.”

  He sounded so certain I didn’t know how to disagree with him. I leant closer to check, but there was no mistaking it. Two eyes were set in his tongue, and they looked down at me with a keen intelligence.

  “What are you?” I asked.

  “One of the Daddio’s Quantifiers,” said the man, reluctantly.

  “What happened to you?”

  “What do you mean, what happened to me?”

  The two eyes in the big man’s tongue were looking at me. I did my best to ignore them. I looked up into the Quantifier’s eyes.

  “What sort of a job does the Daddio have for me?”

  “The Daddio is getting ready to expand his organisation. Extortion, protection, gambling. He does it all. Vice. Who controls the whores of West London, Captain Wedderburn?”