Evie’s cheeks burn. She feels selfish and predatory – not much better than these dozens of women and men. Her own life has been so sheltered, she so protected, how could she have foreseen such a thing?
David tells her about one of the companies involved with Realhuman – a Russian arms dealership – and the entertainment they put on for customers. How low-tech AABs (low-tech but still intelligent enough to experience fear) are released in the ruins of a town abandoned after a nuclear catastrophe of the previous century. ‘They free them from cages,’ he says, ‘and the men and women hunt them through the streets using weapons from the company catalogue, like in an arcade game.’
He looks at her helplessly, but she does not know how to respond and grips her cardigan at the neck, covering her nakedness, which now seems to her not so much shameful as out of place.
‘In Japan, there is a society for military veterans which holds an event annually in the spring, at which they dress female AABs as maiko – young geisha. “The Ceremony of the Petals” they call it…’ David is crying now and by doing so brings on her own helpless tears. ‘They release them in this ornamental park so that these old soldiers can chase them down under the cherry trees – not much of a contest really with the girls’ legs restricted by the thick layers of their robes. Then when they catch them, they behead them with their Samurai swords…’
His voice dries up and his hand loosens its grip on hers and he turns from her. Without saying anything more, he lies down facing the wall.
Evie can hear him sobbing. She gingerly places her arm over his back but he no longer seems aware of her.
Not in a fit state to comfort him and wanting to escape this scene of her creation, Evie picks up her scattered clothes and miserably dresses in the glow from the hotel sign outside the window, her own tears sliding down her cheeks.
She turns in the doorway on her way out to gaze at him lying curled on the mattress, almost lost in the shadows. He is a creature even more damaged, in ways hidden from sight, than Maplin’s mutilated mannequins.
Outside it has been raining and the temperature has fallen, creating a ground mist. Evie wanders north up steep streets into Montmartre. The grey, speckled outline of the Sacré-Coeur rises above the rooftops like one of Daniels’s more ambitious cakes, but one baked from mouldy icing sugar.
She realises that she knows it from a collection of photographs taken by Matthew’s great-great-great-grandfather, on leave from the front during a long-ago war. She’d found it fading in a pasteboard album in the music room, attracting her attention because it had been tied with a rainbow-dyed ribbon.
Evie climbs the cracked steps. Halfway up it seems that she hears the sharp tap of boots on the concrete behind her, but when she pauses, tucking herself into the shadows, all is quiet.
She resumes climbing but her body is tense, on the alert. Her hearing is good enough to hear a leaf drop but an eerie silence envelops her and the loudest thing is the patter of her own shoes and, layered over that, the soft rasp of her own breath.
She stops again, closing her eyes and focusing, but there is nothing apart from the whistle of the breeze.
Reaching the top, Evie turns to take in the vista over the rooftops. The last of the sun gleams wetly on the tips of the dual spikes of the Tours Eiffel – old and new – wading in the swollen river on rusty legs. She’d hoped the view would lift her spirits, but the buildings, from up here, merge into a mass. Apart from the towers, she can make out only the dark river, the swollen and twisted gut of which brims with threat.
Maybe it is just the disheartening atmosphere but the shivery sensation of being watched creeps up on her again. She glances around swiftly and, after concluding she has again been tricked by her nerves, discerns the figure of a woman in the shadow of the cathedral, her pale coat merging with the stone. The only details of note are her eyes, luminous dots in the half-light, looking straight at Evie. Her heart races, but the woman’s gaze glides on and a few moments later blinks out, and it becomes clear that she has slipped away.
Perhaps she had been just taking in the view as Evie herself had been. She needs to relax a little, stop seeing danger where there’s none.
The bell in the basilica strikes seven, reminding her that she had planned to catch an evening train.
She takes the direct route back to the hotel, as far as she can deduce it, walking with care down slippery narrow back roads, lined with tall houses, their windows shuttered against intruders, adapting her course when she finds the steep cobbled streets blocked by mysterious barricades constructed from collapsing furniture, like the detritus of an abandoned revolution.
Reaching level ground, she makes quicker progress, until, turning a corner, she is slowed by a crowd outside a theatre. Its name – The Dolls’ House – somehow familiar, is projected over the facade in scarlet letters with the slogan ‘The world famous’ revolving in italics below.
Seated on the canopy is a ten-foot girl in a gingham pinafore dress and bobby socks. She kicks her giant sparkly shoes between the heads of the pedestrians. ‘Heh there, welcome to Kansas,’ she calls and leans over, stiffly turning left and right, straining to attract the attention of passers-by. She makes eye-contact with Evie, ‘Come on in sweetie,’ she halloos, ‘who knows what you’ll find!’
Evie, impatient for a way to clear, pushes briskly through the crowd.
Amidst the crush, to her surprise, she spots the child from the park – this must have been the theatre on the flyer she was handing around. The girl slips through the crowd, one moment making herself thin, the next short, her bright hair a loose thread amongst the blacks, greys and browns. The child stretches an arm in the air like a ballerina, the other she keeps by her waist, and, knowing that Evie is watching, brazenly rifles a parrot-feather handbag and removes a silk purse. As she tucks it into her skirt, she pirouettes and winks conspiratorially, the winter coats around her closing like curtains as she again disappears from sight.
Evie finds herself drawn helplessly to follow, an emptiness nagging her on, but the child moves so quickly that she has to climb to the top of the steps to locate her in the crowd.
She is just in time to witness the girl slip under the outstretched arm of an elderly gent in top hat and tails as he holds back the door. An indulgent smile curls his whiskers while she, as fluid as a ripple in a bolt of silk, removes opera glasses and the watch on its chain from his waistcoat pockets.
Evie follows her into the crowded lobby. Where has she gone?
She ascends the stairs, taking advantage of the pressure at the circle door to enter the auditorium without a ticket. The steeply shelving seats fill from both sides and she descends to the rail.
In the stalls below, tables have been arranged around a curtained stage. The closest chairs have been quickly taken and a quite serious fight for those remaining is developing below the overhang.
A man in the seat behind pokes her calf with the tip of his cane. ‘Mademoiselle, tu bloques ma vue,’ he complains wearily, leaning back and crossing his ankles to reveal gleaming yellow spats.
A boy comes up on her other side and tugs at her skirt. ‘Ice-crème s’il vous plaît,’ he pipes, and she peels his grubby fingers from her waist, propelling him down the aisle.
A figure in a silk hat emerges from between the curtains and bows. He advances to the stage edge. ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, Damen und Herren, Damer og Herrer, Ladies and Gentlemen… S’il vous plaît prenez vos places. Please be seated… Notre spectacle commencera très bientôt… very soon. Ce soir, nous avons le monde célèbre Hercule d’Amerique – The World’s Strongest Man…’