“Mum?” she whispered. “Dad? Hass?” They stared.
It’s only been eight days! she thought. Since I spoke to Dad, in the Talklands! But… A coldness hit her stomach. But it’s been more than nine since I left. Maybe it doesn’t do it, to phone. The time counts from when you’re gone. It’s too late…
“Mum? Dad? Hass?”
The Reshams quivered, and very slowly winced and blinked, and stared at Deeba, and something seemed to shudder and run through the room. One by one her family shivered as if at a chill, and they stretched their faces as if yawning, or shrugging something off.
“Can’t you sit down like a civilized person?” Mr. Resham said. It took several seconds before Deeba was sure he was speaking to her.
“What are you wearing?” Mrs. Resham said. “You funny girl.”
Deeba let out a little sob of relief and grabbed them both, and hugged them harder than she ever had before.
“Mad girl!” her father said. “You’re spilling my rice!” He laughed.
Deeba hugged Hass, too. He looked at her suspiciously.
“What?” he said. “I drew a picture.”
It took Deeba a few moments to convince her mum and dad that though, yes, she was crying, she was very happy.
“I’m just going over to Zanna’s for a minute,” Deeba said as the Reshams picked at the last of their dinner. Deeba did so too, her father having wordlessly got her a plate and cutlery, a faint quizzical look on his face when she sat down.
“You…” her mother said. “You think I can’t see through this shameless attempt to get out of clearing up dishes?”
“Oh, please. Just for a second. I need to…give her something for school.”
Deeba grew more and more nervous the whole short distance to Zanna’s. She had to clench and unclench her hand to stop it shaking before she rang the doorbell.
It was Zanna herself who opened the door. Deeba stared at her, dumb, her mouth open. It felt like years since she had seen that familiar blond-fringed face.
For an instant, a cloud of confusion passed over Zanna’s expression. Then she smiled and stood up straighter, looking fresher and better than anytime since she had returned from her own, unremembered, trip to the abcity.
“Hey Deebs,” she said. There was no trace of debilitating breathlessness left in her voice— her lungs sounded completely clear. “Man,” she said, “you look happy. So…you been doing anything interesting? What? What’s so funny? Why you laughing?”
Much later, when Deeba crept out of bed and looked at the photograph of her family again, while everyone else was asleep and she was basking in having her house around her, the light in the picture had altered. Deeba’s image was properly visible, and there were four Reshams again.
It was beyond extraordinary that she had only a few hours previously been in UnLondon, a place so far away from her bedroom that conventional measures of distance were meaningless. She thought, carefully and precisely, of all her friends in turn: Obaday, Jones, the book, the utterlings, Hemi the half-ghost.
She missed it already, she realized. It’ll always be me got rid of the Smog, she thought. She felt the lack of UnLondon like a loss.
But at the same time, she couldn’t remember being so happy as she was then, at that moment, luxuriating under her duvet, in her room, with her family close, and her image back and visible on the photos in the living room. She felt as if she glowed with contentment.
Deeba whispered to Curdle, which was making a nest under her bed. Before she turned out her light, Deeba checked her diary. She had an appointment coming up.
EPILOGUE
In the heart of Westminster, in the sumptuous, wood-paneled office of Elizabeth Rawley, secretary of state for Environment, it was an unexceptional morning. The minister worked through the pile of papers on her desk, checking reports, making notes and suggestions, preparing press releases.
There was a personal note from the prime minister. He was extremely pleased with the success of LURCH, the London-UnLondon Rerouting Carbon Hazards plan. Carcinogens and toxic pollution were down across the southeast, the ratings from environmentalists were up, and the government had established an invaluable relationship with a very powerful ally.
The prime minister was already raising the possibility of deploying their contact in various trouble spots. “A chemical weapon that can strategize like a general,” he’d said. “Hidden among oil fires! Think of it, Elizabeth!”
She did think of it. She was very proud of her initiative. She didn’t want to count her chickens, but she was hearing whispers of promotion. She eyed a door on her far wall.
Rawley only hoped the PM didn’t find out that communications had dried up since just after Murgatroyd had made his way back in a half-crippled police burrower, cursing.
Her intercom buzzed.
“Minister,” her secretary said. “There’s someone to see you.”
“There’s nothing scheduled…”
“She came in the public entrance, Minister. She won’t give her name, but she’s insisting on seeing you.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t be ridiculous.”
“She says she can tell you what’s going on in…in the other city. She said you’d know what she means.” Her secretary sounded nonplussed. “But only if you saw her now. I’m sorry, Minister, she wouldn’t be more specific. She insisted I tell you. She said something about chimneys, and a war, and—”
“That’s enough.” Rawley spoke quickly. “Send her in.” She pressed another button. “Murgatroyd, for God’s sake get in here. We’ve finally got contact.”
Murgatroyd entered from his adjoining office, accompanied by secret service men with pistols out and ready: standard procedure when dealing with the abcities.
After a moment, the main doors opened, and a short, dark, round-faced girl with an extremely determined expression entered. She was carrying a red umbrella.
Elizabeth Rawley stared at her. The girl eyed her back.
Murgatroyed emitted a strangled sound. “You!” he screamed. He pointed with crooked fingers. The girl held up a hand and looked at her watch.
“Was hoping we’d catch you,” she said. “Ten seconds.” After a moment, she said, “Five.”
It was that many seconds to nine o’clock.
An alarm bell sounded. The noise of machinery began to approach. In the corner of the room, a red light came on.
The elevator hadn’t worked for days. The noise of gears came closer.
There was a bing as the lift crossed through the membrane between worlds, and arrived. The door opened. “Hey, you lot!” the girl called happily. “You cleared the elevator shaft! I knew you could.”
Elizabeth Rawley stared.
Stepping out of the elevator came a big man in an antiquated London Transport uniform. He wore a conductor’s ticket machine and carried a copper rod. Beside him was a man wearing printed paper, with needles and pins for hair.
There was a boy with them, a pale boy in flickering clothes. And leaping out from behind them…Was that a dustbin? With arms and legs? And stern eyes glinting from under its lid?