London and the other cities.”
She lowered her voice, remembering. “Two days ago I was in Manchester Piccadilly. You stand there on the platform in the twenty-first century. There are people there using mobile phones, drinking Starbucks coffee, and then you hear a shrieking whine and you see this train gliding into the station, sliding in between the normal trains. Something shaped like a dark green crocodile. All brass and sparks. There are two little round portholes at the front for the driver to look out of. All around you the station descends into silence. Everyone is looking, despite the fact this must happen every hour on the hour. The atmosphere there! Half terror, half fascination.”
“Every hour on the hour,” I said, a terrible longing creeping over me. Oh, to ride that train, out of this place! A question occurred to me. “But who would want to come here?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Bill. “Me for one. But don’t forget what I said. Dream London isn’t totally isolated. There are traders, ambassadors, people doing business. The city holds loved ones hostage to ensure that traveller’s return. They can ride the train because Dream London knows they will be coming back.”
“How does it know?”
She didn’t answer that question. She was searching through her photographs for another one.
“Come on. You have fifteen more minutes in here with me at most.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “No one will think it odd if Captain Jim Wedderburn spends an extra hour in a brothel.”
“You seem proud of the fact.”
“It’s a different world, Bill.”
“Do you want to stay part of it? Now, look at this picture.”
Another satellite photograph.
“A park,” I said.
“Green Park.”
Alan had shown me a picture of Green Park last night. It had been one of the smaller London parks, squeezed in between Hyde Park and St James’s. Never quite as busy as the others, it had been a pleasant pool of calm in the midst of the city. Not that I had visited it for some time now as I had been unable to find my way there through the ever changing streets.
What I now saw in the photographs, however, bore no resemblance to the past. It bore little resemblance to Alan’s picture. The park had grown enormously in the past five months. Lush green lawns had expanded so they must be at least a mile wide. Trees marched in neat lines either side of wide roads that strapped the place together.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to a glorious gold and white building that looked like a cross between a fairy tale castle and a casino. It had spires, turrets, towers, windows... the lot.
“That was Buckingham Palace,” said Bill. “It’s grown much larger now, and it’s still changing. That shape in front of it was the Victoria Memorial.”
I remembered the memorial: a white sculpture of Queen Victoria and various angels, the whole surmounted by a golden sculpture of Victory.
“What is it now?” I asked.
“We don’t know. Yet. The figures are changing, growing. Look at the whole picture, James. What can you see?”
I looked, and it all became obvious.
“There are roads leading to the palace. Lots of them. But that’s not the biggest concentration of roads...”
The biggest concentration was just to the side of the palace, near the centre of the picture. Many roads, all converging on a point. They made me think of crop circles, of Celtic knots, pale green on green.
She was gazing at me, keenly.
“All those roads, leading to the middle of the park. What do you think it is?”
“It’s an entrance,” I croaked. “Everyone says that someone is preparing a way into the city. But from where?”
“We don’t know. Perhaps you can find out.”
Something moved in the corner of the room and Bill was suddenly in motion. The photos she had held fell spinning to the floor as she sprang from the chair, swooping down on the source of the movement, reaching out and snatching at something. She
She lowered her voice, remembering. “Two days ago I was in Manchester Piccadilly. You stand there on the platform in the twenty-first century. There are people there using mobile phones, drinking Starbucks coffee, and then you hear a shrieking whine and you see this train gliding into the station, sliding in between the normal trains. Something shaped like a dark green crocodile. All brass and sparks. There are two little round portholes at the front for the driver to look out of. All around you the station descends into silence. Everyone is looking, despite the fact this must happen every hour on the hour. The atmosphere there! Half terror, half fascination.”
“Every hour on the hour,” I said, a terrible longing creeping over me. Oh, to ride that train, out of this place! A question occurred to me. “But who would want to come here?”
“You’d be surprised,” said Bill. “Me for one. But don’t forget what I said. Dream London isn’t totally isolated. There are traders, ambassadors, people doing business. The city holds loved ones hostage to ensure that traveller’s return. They can ride the train because Dream London knows they will be coming back.”
“How does it know?”
She didn’t answer that question. She was searching through her photographs for another one.
“Come on. You have fifteen more minutes in here with me at most.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “No one will think it odd if Captain Jim Wedderburn spends an extra hour in a brothel.”
“You seem proud of the fact.”
“It’s a different world, Bill.”
“Do you want to stay part of it? Now, look at this picture.”
Another satellite photograph.
“A park,” I said.
“Green Park.”
Alan had shown me a picture of Green Park last night. It had been one of the smaller London parks, squeezed in between Hyde Park and St James’s. Never quite as busy as the others, it had been a pleasant pool of calm in the midst of the city. Not that I had visited it for some time now as I had been unable to find my way there through the ever changing streets.
What I now saw in the photographs, however, bore no resemblance to the past. It bore little resemblance to Alan’s picture. The park had grown enormously in the past five months. Lush green lawns had expanded so they must be at least a mile wide. Trees marched in neat lines either side of wide roads that strapped the place together.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to a glorious gold and white building that looked like a cross between a fairy tale castle and a casino. It had spires, turrets, towers, windows... the lot.
“That was Buckingham Palace,” said Bill. “It’s grown much larger now, and it’s still changing. That shape in front of it was the Victoria Memorial.”
I remembered the memorial: a white sculpture of Queen Victoria and various angels, the whole surmounted by a golden sculpture of Victory.
“What is it now?” I asked.
“We don’t know. Yet. The figures are changing, growing. Look at the whole picture, James. What can you see?”
I looked, and it all became obvious.
“There are roads leading to the palace. Lots of them. But that’s not the biggest concentration of roads...”
The biggest concentration was just to the side of the palace, near the centre of the picture. Many roads, all converging on a point. They made me think of crop circles, of Celtic knots, pale green on green.
She was gazing at me, keenly.
“All those roads, leading to the middle of the park. What do you think it is?”
“It’s an entrance,” I croaked. “Everyone says that someone is preparing a way into the city. But from where?”
“We don’t know. Perhaps you can find out.”
Something moved in the corner of the room and Bill was suddenly in motion. The photos she had held fell spinning to the floor as she sprang from the chair, swooping down on the source of the movement, reaching out and snatching at something. She
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