Cloud Cuckoo Land Read online

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  The streetlight lit up her face and her eyes glittered like crushed and flattened foil. She pulled him hard into the wall and stuck her tongue into his mouth. He could do nothing but let himself be kissed. He hadn’t worked out if this was OK and he was so taken by surprise, he didn’t think to kiss her back. Her skin was hot and perfumed, her lips and cheeks made of soft membrane, cold drips of minted water fell from her wet hair, ran down her face and onto her collarbones. When she broke away, he had an overwhelming urge to close with her again. But she pushed him back and stood there, reading the aftershock in his facial muscles. She smiled, as if she had just added an important column of figures and got the sum she expected.

  ‘There you go, swashbuckler, that should give you something to think about.’

  She smiled again, longer this time, and then she closed the window. She knew the image she would leave him with, she wanted to burn it into his retina, she wanted it to go deep into his long-term memory, it was an image of her brightest, most beautiful youth. She needed this because sometimes she felt as if she was already old. She wanted to know that such beauty, her own fragile beauty, had heated another’s blood and had not gone unnoticed.

  Leonard watched her blurred outline move away into the bathroom and then the light switched off.

  Leonard jumped down awkwardly, stinging the tendon beneath his left foot. He felt numb, heckled and somehow robbed of his own free will. He started off uphill without a backward glance. The walk was doing him good, moonlight was silvering the black roofs, and the look of it seemed to calm him down, defuse the booby-trapped bomb ticking in his chest.

  Ian’s house was too close though, he was there too soon and his heart was still revving. The row of houses on the hill was well placed in amongst tall trees, there was no through traffic and the houses had that gloss of accommodating the people who were doing better than most. The buildings were elegant; long windows from floor to ceiling, with some carved stonework details on the façades.

  The main door was painted a glossy red and it was unlocked, so Leonard stepped inside. Flat A was on the ground floor so he took the stairs up to B. He knocked and something seemed to fall over inside, then it sounded as if shoe-boxes were being closed in a hurry. The door opened an inch until the security chain tightened. Ian’s right eye appeared and did the investigating; the door closed, then opened and Ian stood there looking guilty, red in the face and wearing a paisley print dressing gown. In the pause before he spoke, Leonard studied the scar along Ian’s breastbone, a thin line of pale skin with looping stitch marks.

  Ian drew his dressing gown together, covering his bare chest.

  ‘Ah, hello Leo, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Leonard told him how he’d been locked out of the guest-house and had nowhere to sleep.

  ‘Come in, then. How did you find me?’

  Leonard sat down into a padded leather sofa.

  ‘The girl at the tavern.’

  ‘Adeline?’

  ‘Is that her name?’

  ‘That was stupid of her, you might be anyone.’

  ‘I still might be.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I can see who you are, and I don’t think you are very dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s good or bad.’

  ‘How did you get locked out?’

  ‘I tried to help this girl. She climbed a lamppost and tried to get over the border.’

  ‘Ah yes, that happens every now and then. You must learn to keep yourself to yourself, Leonard. The woman is obviously not very clued up; residents have border passes and it’s simple enough to beg, borrow or buy one on the black market.’

  ‘But I thought people were trying to get into the city?’

  ‘Yes, but there are the odd few who have this urge to go the other way.’

  ‘And what happens if they’re caught?’

  ‘That depends. All strange behaviour is punishable by imprisonment. She’ll be dumped into a cell, out of the running. Just like you if you get too interested in Adeline.’

  ‘She likes me.’

  ‘She’s way too good to be true, Leo, you must have realised that. She’s actually quite dangerous, likes to bring men in close enough to rile her husband. She likes to be fought over. Wants her old bastard of a husband to become so angry that he bludgeons her suitors to death. And the husband, Tony, there’s an idiot for you. Likes the cuckold pain, I’ve seen him thrive on it. So Leo, do you want to be the next plaything, the next amusement?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, not really. But then again she is as horny as hell.’

  ‘Then maybe I should tell you something. People here like to kill each other; it passes the time and, as you might guess, it shortens the odds. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Have you killed anyone?’

  Ian’s eyebrows hurdled.

  ‘How dare you!’

  But his tone was playful.

  Ian filled his kettle and took some mugs out of a cupboard.

  ‘Can you tell me something, Ian?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Why are the policemen here children?’

  Ian shrugged his shoulders and held his open hands out, palms upwards.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, but they might as well be, mightn’t they? None of the adults are to be trusted, are they?’

  He spooned coffee granules into the mugs.

  ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, Leonard. You’d better get up to speed or you’ll be going back over the border, in need of remedial treatment.’

  Leonard was hot under the collar. He got up and paced around the room. He noticed a pile of boxes stacked up behind the door, one had the cuff of a checked shirt poking out.

  ‘What’s in the boxes, Ian?’

  ‘My shirts. I told you I made shirts, yes?

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Ian lifted one out of its box.

  ‘Feel the quality. I sell them on the black market. Do you like them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Ian handed Leonard his coffee, then he showed him some work in progress; a white shirt was laid out on the ironing board with red stripes down one arm. Ian picked up a ruler and a felt pen, and drew a series of blue intersecting lines across the arm and on to the shoulder. Leonard didn’t know what to make of all this; Ian’s work was a pure madness and watching him work those indelible pens made Leonard wonder how long it would be before he too found his own particular form of underlying insanity.

  ‘Would you like a shirt, then?’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘Here.’

  Ian pulled an intricate blue and black one from stock and passed it over.

  ‘I’ll take a blank docket, say half a day?’

  ‘Ah, I don’t understand.’

  ‘The price, credit me half a day’s labour and the shirt’s yours.’

  ‘But I thought…?’

  Ian handed Leonard a pad and paper.

  ‘Write this down. I promise to pay the bearer, half a day’s labour. Then sign!’

  Leonard wrote the credit note and handed it over.

  ‘There, now you understand the economy. And you’ve got yourself a handmade bargain in the process.’

  Ian handed Leonard an inflatable bed.

  ‘If you blow this thing up, you can sleep here quite comfortably. I’m turning in now. Good night.’

  ‘Can you tell me what to expect, Ian?’

  ‘I told you she likes toys, life sized toys, action men with moving parts.’

  ‘Not Adeline, I meant with the other thing, with the Warden?’

  Ian stopped grinning.

  ‘Why don’t you start blowing that thing up?’

  Ian left the room, so Leonard unrolled the mattress, squeezed the teat and blew into it. Ian came back a minute later with a bottle of whisky in his hand. He poured a measure into both their mugs.

  ‘You know that I can’t say much, see my hands are tied, but I’ve hea
rd you did quite well in front of Warden. I am not supposed to tell you, but there you go, you asked.’

  ‘Really? I thought I was useless.’

  ‘You can feel reasonably pleased with yourself, he’ll give you a recall I’m sure. There are all kinds of tests to follow you know, medical tests, cognitive tests.’

  ‘But how do you know all this, and aren’t you trying to be chosen too?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s been so long since I thought I might have a chance that I don’t think I care anymore. See, my health sort of ruined it for me and now? Well, I just do some security work, I make ends meet, that’s all.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your health?’

  ‘I’m just not A1 that’s all.’

  ‘What do you know about Warden? I mean, who is he?’

  ‘He’s connected to the Americans. His funding comes from a Californian charity.’

  ‘But what made him do this? What made him decide?’

  ‘Well, he’s a scientist.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that, but do you believe in him? Do you believe the survival project stands a chance?’

  ‘I’ve seen the vessel!’

  ‘I thought that was prohibited.’

  ‘I’ve just told you that I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Do you know how it will be done, then? How it will happen and when?’

  ‘Of course not, no one knows. Anyway, I’ve had it for today. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Goodnight.’

  ‘Wait, can’t you fill me in on a few details. What’s the latest on the impact?’

  ‘I can tell you right here and now, in short-hand - that the future is fucked. But if you really want to bask in it. Here…’

  Ian picked up the remote control and switched on the TV. He backed out of the door, mumbling something beneath his breath.

  Leonard blew some more air into the mattress and focused on the screen. Computer generated images of what was going to happen played and replayed. A massive asteroid was bearing down on the earth from deep in space. Lines of trajectory marked the most probable point of impact. The screen cut to documentary shots of mass refugee movement and United Nations conferences. A graphic appeared on the screen which read ‘TEN WEEKS TO IMPACT’

  CHAPTER TWO

  You feel like a stranger for less than a day here, because everybody’s a stranger and nobody gives a shit whether you live or die; it’s all the same. There’s a mean population level, a kind of aggregate or net number that stays roughly the same, apart from some minor seasonal differences. There are exits and entrances, the people come and go, they’re rejected or just disillusioned, then they head back to the midlands or down south to the capital. They are home before their ‘had enough’ postcards arrive, and they will not come again.

  You are not welcomed and you are not told to go away either, the place reluctantly tolerates your passing through, that’s all. What you face when you get here is that old favourite: indifference, professional indifference. That’s what it is and the only way to get yourself a foothold is to do well in front of the Warden and become a ‘contender’, a ‘maybe’. This is not so great either because being a maybe, being in the running, might just get you killed. The happiest medium you can hope for is to doubt if you’ve been successful, not have any hope and consequently not have any fear. If you have no hope, that is if you are just waiting for your notice of rejection, then you are in the position where you offend the others the least, and you can socialise, you can even relax a little. You don’t matter any more, so you are acceptable and this is when you may go into the public gallery and watch the new arrivals present themselves.

  ◊

  Leonard shortened his steps on the approach to the Administration Building, timing his entry so he could walk through the revolving door without stopping. He followed the arrows to the left this time, up to a sweeping, panelled staircase which curved upward to the public gallery. The steps were awkward, though. The rise was set to a municipal distance; it’s a shorter rise but a longer step than domestic treads. So Leonard watched his scuffed shoes as he climbed the red carpet, pock-marked by cigarette burns. Funny how all this wood gave the building a legitimacy, like it was a legally binding material, seasoned with age, absorbing the evidence.

  Leonard was one of the first into the gallery. He took a front row seat, a well-padded seat with those awkward, shared armrests. The mezzanine was at the same level as the dust-coated lights which dangled above the chamber. The acoustic was good because a woman down on the ground floor was Sellotaping something together and Leonard could hear everything; the end-finding, the tearing, teeth ripping and sticking, all clearly defined. His seat was comfortable; there was plenty of legroom and a good raking angle to the seat backs. The capping rail, which ran along the top of the balcony, had been carved into, whittled out by knives, which must mean that the public had knives on them all the time.

  People started to file in; ten, fifteen then twenty people took seats in the gallery on steeply banked seats that made you feel like you might fall forward.

  The door into the chamber was knocked upon, knuckled three times, loud to quiet with decreasing confidence. There was no one to say ‘come in’, but after a pause the door opened and a woman appeared below. She looked ahead at the chairs and then straight up at the public gallery. She was dressed very badly; thinking about her clothes had obviously never been an issue, they were there to stop her being naked, that’s all. She wore a green, ankle-length, pleated skirt and a black woolly jumper; it really didn’t matter. Same with the hair: cut short because it was naturally curly and would not hold a stylist’s instruction. You had the idea that with this woman, the charm must all be on the inside. Maybe she kept someone up nights saying how beauty was only skin-deep and in the eye of the beholder.

  She was carrying a black, arrow-headed section of iron railing, which was about waist high and approximately two metres long. She moved forward a couple of paces then planted the railings upright and stood still. A man followed her in, a husband-type character, and as he walked in with her he ran a stick along the railings. When he reached the end, she lifted the metal and walked it forward so that he could move further into the room accompanied by the comforting rattle of wood against steel. Very odd, but that is how it was. There were murmurings coming from the seats behind, and one high-pressure guffaw leaked out of someone’s mouth. All eyes were on the chamber though, as Mr and Mrs Burton moved in short stages to the seats and sat down. Mr Burton tucked his stick, drill-sergeant style, underneath his arm, crossed his legs and grabbed his kneecap. He sat there quite stony-faced and hook-nosed, turning slowly to listen to Mrs Burton’s whispers.

  The Warden entered, limped to the centre of the room and then he saw his problem: both seats were taken. Mrs Burton saw the problem, too, and stood, but Warden gestured that she should stay put.

  ‘That’s all right, we’ll get another.’

  Another chair was brought in and he sat down heavily into it.

  ‘Now then, there are two of you. Why the hell’s that?’

  ‘We’re together. One won’t go without the other.’

  The Warden left it at that; it didn’t seem likely that logic would carry any weight here.

  ‘And so what do you have to say then, the two of you, to back up your application?’

  She looked across at Mr Burton; it was his cue to stand, so he stood. He tapped his nose with his stick and dragged it along the railings until he was as close as possible to the ear he wanted.

  ‘We are good people, we mean well and want the best for all concerned.’

  A silence then grew, with the Warden seeming quite comfortable to let the quiet become deafening. Mr Burton showed signs of doubting; he retreated back along the railing and sort of looked up at Mrs.

  She stood up and took the floor.

  ‘We do have a plan, based on experience gained working for the voluntary services overseas. We’ve worked on this plan, so that we will know how to go about the reinsertion of
the population. We have drawn up proposals but the gist of it is that we have researched similar scenarios, made projections, looked into the why’s and wherefores, the pro’s and con’s, and we have the overview now. We know how to proceed and given the chance, we would, if we only could, we surely would!’

  ‘That’s it exactly, it’s exactly as she says. Do you see?’

  Leonard was thinking how it wasn’t a bad end to a poor start.

  The Warden wrote something down.

  ‘Thank you for coming. Please see the receptionist on the way out.’

  He stood and shook their hands then sat down as they left. He glanced up at in the gallery, expressionless. He had a mannequin face, a sunken, male model’s bone structure but he was too old to model anymore. If he had an opinion of Mr and Mrs Burton, it would be easy enough to see it, but there was nothing, not a tick, not even the slightest twist of the lip.

  ‘Leonard.’

  She whispered close up to his ear.

  ‘It’s lunch time, do you want to get something to eat?’

  It was Adeline, wearing black and in glorious close up, and unmoved by the coincidence of them both being there. She did not believe in synchronicity, she just wanted to know: did he want to go to lunch or not?

  They bought sandwiches from a van and ate them sitting on an outside wall. Her bare knees bothered him, he kept seeing his own hands on them, saw her dress riding higher, her legs parting. He had to stop this, because with some women, it was already too late; as soon as you meet them it’s too late, you know already that it will happen. Sooner or later it was bound to. It’s a foregone conclusion, regardless of the hurdles they will have to jump over and drag themselves across. Two bodies with a kind of parallel static charge, opposite and equal, that can only be earthed through sexual contact. Some spark of nuclear energy is to blame, some fundamental wires that the almighty intends to cross, will be made to cross.

  ‘How did you get on with Ian the other night?’

  ‘OK, he was good enough to put me up for the night.’

  Adeline smiled.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know that he’s a secret policeman?’

  ‘What? Why didn’t you tell me?’