Un Lun Dun

99. Memory

Deeba walked slowly through the living room. She was trembling. She heard voices from the kitchen.

She paused a moment, and looked at a photo on the mantel.

It was of her whole family. Deeba stared at it in horror. There was her mother, her father, her brother, smiling out…and there was she, but it was as if the film was underexposed in that corner of the picture. Or as if she stood in shadow. Or in fact, as if it was just hard to notice her there, smiling, her arms around her parents.

The picture was of four people, but it looked as if it was of three.

Her family were at the table eating supper. Deeba almost sobbed to see only three places set.

She walked in, looked at her parents and Hass, and brimmed with tears of relief, and nervousness. She wanted nothing more than to just run across the room to them, but she held back in fear, seeing their faces.

All three of them were staring at her blankly.

Her father had a fork halfway to his mouth. Food was dripping slowly off the metal tines. Her mother held a glass. Their faces were almost like voids. They looked slack, completely uncomprehending. Deeba saw a struggle deep inside each of them.

I was gone too long! she thought desperately. The phlegm effect’s gone permanent!

“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 fu

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 Za

“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 Za

It was Za

For an instant, a cloud of confusion passed over Za

“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 fu

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.