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Authors: Tony Ballantyne
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paused, and then slowly began to unwind something from a hole in the floorboards.
“What is it?” I asked. I was impressed by her speed, doubly so given the long skirts she wore.
She straightened up and I saw she was holding a peach and lemon snake, just below the head. The snake’s emerald green tongue flickered out, tasting the stale sweat of the room.
“Is this native to England?” she asked, and I laughed out loud. The snake was almost as long as she was tall; its back was decorated in concentric circles of colour.
“No,” I said. “I think it safe to say it arrived with Dream London.”
“I think it must have a nest beneath the floorboards here. I wonder what it’s seen in this room?”
“I can imagine,” I said, looking at the excess of pink paint on the pictures that hung on the walls.
“No need to be crude,” said Bill, and with a swift movement, she broke its neck. Carefully, she began to feed the snake’s body back through the crack in the floorboards.
“You could have got a good price for that, live.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said, pushing at the snake. “It could have been spying on us.”
“A snake? I don’t think so.”
And I paused. Why not? How was I to judge what was possible in Dream London?
Something shifted inside me. For over a year now I had looked at the changes with a cynical eye. Even in the middle of my angriest moments over Christine and her leaving me, I had managed to feel a little pity for her, I had felt a little superiority that Dream London hadn’t ensnared me like everyone else.
I had walked through the twisting, changing streets, I had eaten the smoky, spicy new food, I had listened to the overly sentimental music, and I thought how little it had touched me.
Now, seeing myself through an outsider’s eyes, I realised how wrong I was. Dream London had been working its insidious way on me all along. Snakes couldn’t talk. Was that true? What else was I taking for granted?
Looking at Bill, looking at her pretty face, set hard with determination, I also had my first inkling of her bravery in coming here. I had had no choice. Here she was, acting as a prostitute, in the full knowledge that in three weeks’ time that might no longer be an act.
“Who do you work for?” I asked. “CIA?”
“You know I won’t answer that,” she said, and she straightened up, the snake disposed of.
“Okay,” I said, “I guess our time is almost up...” I got up and began to gather the photos she had scattered from the floor. I saw more scenes of Dream London, taken by satellite. A railway station, passengers and porters in uniform swarming across platforms; golden sands by blue waters, holidaymakers in striped bathing costumes eating ice creams by the Thames, the flower markets, scarlet and golden blossoms and the pollen hanging heavy in the air. A street scene...
“Hey,” I said. “That’s where I live!” I flicked through the pictures. “And here! And here. That’s Belltower End! You’ve been spying on me!”
“Of course we have,” said Bill, taking the photographs from me and replacing them in the leather folder. “Now, I’ve got something for you.”
She handed me a thick cream envelope.
“This is for you,” she said. “Don’t open it.”
I took the envelope. I could feel several thick pieces of paper inside.
“Those are your references and letters of recommendation.”
“For what?”
“Your new job. Tomorrow morning you begin your new job as junior clerk at Davies-Innocent. You’re going up to the Writing Floor of Angel Tower. That’s where the answers lie, we think.”
“What answers?”
“The contracts that signed the old London over to whoever it is that runs things now. We want you to see if you can find those contracts.”
“That’s if I decide to go,” I said. Nobody orders Captain Jim Wedderburn around.
Bill remained calm.
“Grow up, James,” she said. “Do you really think you’ll walk out of this
“What is it?” I asked. I was impressed by her speed, doubly so given the long skirts she wore.
She straightened up and I saw she was holding a peach and lemon snake, just below the head. The snake’s emerald green tongue flickered out, tasting the stale sweat of the room.
“Is this native to England?” she asked, and I laughed out loud. The snake was almost as long as she was tall; its back was decorated in concentric circles of colour.
“No,” I said. “I think it safe to say it arrived with Dream London.”
“I think it must have a nest beneath the floorboards here. I wonder what it’s seen in this room?”
“I can imagine,” I said, looking at the excess of pink paint on the pictures that hung on the walls.
“No need to be crude,” said Bill, and with a swift movement, she broke its neck. Carefully, she began to feed the snake’s body back through the crack in the floorboards.
“You could have got a good price for that, live.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said, pushing at the snake. “It could have been spying on us.”
“A snake? I don’t think so.”
And I paused. Why not? How was I to judge what was possible in Dream London?
Something shifted inside me. For over a year now I had looked at the changes with a cynical eye. Even in the middle of my angriest moments over Christine and her leaving me, I had managed to feel a little pity for her, I had felt a little superiority that Dream London hadn’t ensnared me like everyone else.
I had walked through the twisting, changing streets, I had eaten the smoky, spicy new food, I had listened to the overly sentimental music, and I thought how little it had touched me.
Now, seeing myself through an outsider’s eyes, I realised how wrong I was. Dream London had been working its insidious way on me all along. Snakes couldn’t talk. Was that true? What else was I taking for granted?
Looking at Bill, looking at her pretty face, set hard with determination, I also had my first inkling of her bravery in coming here. I had had no choice. Here she was, acting as a prostitute, in the full knowledge that in three weeks’ time that might no longer be an act.
“Who do you work for?” I asked. “CIA?”
“You know I won’t answer that,” she said, and she straightened up, the snake disposed of.
“Okay,” I said, “I guess our time is almost up...” I got up and began to gather the photos she had scattered from the floor. I saw more scenes of Dream London, taken by satellite. A railway station, passengers and porters in uniform swarming across platforms; golden sands by blue waters, holidaymakers in striped bathing costumes eating ice creams by the Thames, the flower markets, scarlet and golden blossoms and the pollen hanging heavy in the air. A street scene...
“Hey,” I said. “That’s where I live!” I flicked through the pictures. “And here! And here. That’s Belltower End! You’ve been spying on me!”
“Of course we have,” said Bill, taking the photographs from me and replacing them in the leather folder. “Now, I’ve got something for you.”
She handed me a thick cream envelope.
“This is for you,” she said. “Don’t open it.”
I took the envelope. I could feel several thick pieces of paper inside.
“Those are your references and letters of recommendation.”
“For what?”
“Your new job. Tomorrow morning you begin your new job as junior clerk at Davies-Innocent. You’re going up to the Writing Floor of Angel Tower. That’s where the answers lie, we think.”
“What answers?”
“The contracts that signed the old London over to whoever it is that runs things now. We want you to see if you can find those contracts.”
“That’s if I decide to go,” I said. Nobody orders Captain Jim Wedderburn around.
Bill remained calm.
“Grow up, James,” she said. “Do you really think you’ll walk out of this
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