Un Lun Dun

“You surprise me,” Unstible said. “Why would you come back? Thought we could forget about you…and the other one. Where’s she?”

For a moment Deeba didn’t understand. Then her eyes widened.

“Nowhere,” she said. “She don’t remember nothing.”

“Was more worried about her,” Unstible said. “Wasn’t expecting you at all. But Brokk persuaded me it would work, and when I came to fetch what she breathed, it did seem to be the end of it. But now…” He smiled at Deeba and widened his mad-looking eyes. “Seems it wasn’t. Perhaps she’ll remember. If you got back, I certainly better go back and take care of her. Can’t have the Shwazzy coming back here.”

“She’s not!” Deeba shouted. “Leave her alone! You took all the memories out with your smoke! She don’t know nothing!”

“Safety first, safety first. Make sure. Seeing you here, I think I’d better sort her out. Just as soon as we’ve taken care of you.”

“No…!” Deeba gasped in horror.

“Oh yes. Not easy to stretch all the way…but I can. And do. A few favors for a few Londonsiders, here and there. Best to make the effort with your friend, as soon as it’s less…busy here. Soon as I have a moment. I’ll be sure. Anyway the practice’ll be good for me. There’ll be other, bigger reasons to go back to London, soon, I think. Best get good at the journey.

“But that’ll be nothing for you to worry about. Soon, everything’ll be nothing for you to worry about.”

The smoglodytes crawled, flopped, and scuttled into Unstible’s company, cooing and slobbering with interest as the Smog grew closer.

“Now,” the man-shaped thing said, and unfolded the Wraithtown printout that proved that Unstible— the real Unstible— had died. He sniffed it, licked it like a co

The paper combusted with a flare of phosphorescence, and a swirl of released spirits. The heat pushed one little piece in an updraft, wafted it over the edge and onto the ground.

The thing in Unstible’s shape exhaled, then breathed in hard, and a stream of smoke gushed up from the fire and into him through his mouth, and into each nostril. He breathed in the paper’s smoke.

“Aaaaah,” he exhaled, smacking his lips appreciatively. “Never eaten ghost-paper before. Unstible’s death certificate. Clever to get it. Clever girl. It’s gone now, though.” He waved his empty hands. “Nothing to show.”

He tipped a spadeful of rubbish into the fire, and sucked at the resulting burp of stink. He poked around in the garbage, looking for something, sighed ostentatiously. The smoglodytes whickered.

“No books,” he said. He looked at Deeba. “I love books.”

“They’ll stop you,” Deeba said, trying to sound brave. “We’ll stop you. You won’t win. They’ll get rid of you just like we did before, in London.”

There was a pause. Unstible stared. Then he screamed with laughter. He opened his mouth so wide its sides split a little, and wisps of smoke exhaled with each guffaw, and curled up out of the corners of his eyes till he dabbed them with a handkerchief.

“Got rid? Ha. ‘Rid.’ Yes. Of course, there was no arrangement then. Oh no. Just like there’s none now. Of course.

“But…you’re wrong, Deeba Resham.” He stalked closer, his whisper crawling into her skull. “They will not win, here. They have already lost. I will rule. And everything will burn, and burn, and burn, and smoke.

“I will print blueprints for smokeless chimneys, and build modern factories with filters to keep the air pure, and then I will burn them in old old furnaces and I will drink the smoke and grow strong. I will go to the galleries and burn the pictures and have them in me. Because I like art, you see.”

His face was inches from Deeba’s, and she almost choked on the reek of burnt plastic. The smoglodytes jabbered.

“And books,” he whispered. “Lovely lovely books, all burning. Fires of paper and print. I will breathe in histories and stories, learn it all in the smoke. I learn and learn all the books you burn. But soon I’ll choose what goes up. No more breathing leftovers then. I’ll burn them all.

“My partner wants to run things, and make you burn things for me, so I grow.

“In my UnLondon you will print books over a furnace, so I can breathe them while the ink’s still wet. You will fire the libraries. Light the shelves of the Wordhoard Pit, and fire will take them all, and the bookcliff below, and spread out and take all the libraries in all the worlds. And I will wait at the top and breathe the smoke of them all, and I will know everything.”

“It won’t fit in your lungs,” Deeba said desperately.

“Not this I,” he said, prodding his chest carelessly. “The other I…” He breathed the word out, lengthily, until he wheezed smoke.

“And there’s no reason to stop there.” It spoke almost as if to itself, now. “All the books in the London libraries too. No act to stop me this time. No weapon, no truce, no deals, nothing. Not when I’m finished here, not with the strength I’ll have…But I’m getting ahead of myself.” Unstible smiled in a ghastly way.

“Now,” he said. “Time to make sure. Time to find out what you know.”

“So you’re a torturer too?” Deeba said, and felt Hemi shake. She tried to keep her voice from trembling. “Going to hurt us till we talk? I already told you everything.”

“Torture?” the Smog-Unstible said. “Silly. Silly girl. I don’t have to make you tell the truth. I know everything in all the smoke I breathe into me.” He looked at the brazier, and back at Deeba. “So to find out what’s in your head?

“All I have to do is burn you.”

51. Out of the Fire

“Jones!” Deeba yelled. “Mortar! Obaday! Help!” The knots that held her were very tight. “Hemi, he’s going to put us in the fire!” Hemi strained.

“Hush now,” the man said. “No one to hear.” He walked towards them, his arms outstretched. “It won’t take long,” he whispered. “It’ll be over quickly. And then your memories live on as smoke in me.”

Deeba began to scream.

As the Unstible-thing leaned close, his eyes gaping wide, and Deeba’s voice choked in her throat, Hemi moved. He strained against the ropes, and feeling the peculiar motion, Deeba realized what he was doing.

Not being pure-blood ghost, it was harder for Hemi than for his mother’s side of the family, but with effort, he could pass through solid matter. That was what he was doing. The flesh of his arms was oozing through the sleeves of his jacket and the cords that held them.

The rope passed sluggishly through him. He was not transparent like his ghostly relatives, and the bonds disappeared completely within his skin, until they emerged reluctantly out the other side.

Unstible lunged. Hemi yanked off his blindfold and whacked Unstible in the face, grabbed his leg, and tugged. Unstible roared and fell, and the smoglodytes scattered in confusion. Hemi grunted and pulled himself free of his bonds— and of his clothes, which, not being ghost-clothes, had stayed where they were, like the clothes on the bus. Only his shoes and socks remained on him. Without him there, the ropes around Deeba went slack.