An Other Place Page 5

  “I do my best,” she grins, then calls after me as I head for the door. “Have an enjoyable stay, Mr Riplan.”

  I pause with my hand on the knob. “What about leaving?” I ask. “Do I have to come back here to get out of this place?”

  She shakes her head sombrely. “Nobody leaves, certainly not through here. This port is for incoming drones only, and an occasional surprise visitor like yourself. Our off-loaders have orders to deal brusquely with anyone trying to make trouble.”

  On that ominous note I take my leave of Jess, the off-loaders and their damn port. Turning the knob, I push open the door and find myself facing a long, dark corridor. Hesitating only the briefest of moments, I let the door close behind me and thrust ever deeper into the heart of the bewildering mystery.

  FIVE

  The tunnel’s longer than I thought it would be. I’ve been walking a good ten minutes or more, no end in sight. It’s lit by thick candles which hang from the ceiling, one every ten metres or so. Plain concrete walls. No markings. The echoes of my footsteps make it sound like the tunnel is full of people, but it isn’t. I’m alone.

  Still walking. How long’s it been now? An hour? More? No way to tell. I stop and glance back but it’s the same featureless tunnel whichever way I look. At least it’s straight, with no junctions. All I have to do is walk. No choices to make. The state I’m in at the moment, I can do without distractions.

  At last — a door. I stand with my hand on the knob for a few minutes, ear pressed to the wood, hearing nothing. I’m nervous. I know I have to leave but I don’t want to. I’ve acclimatised to the dimly lit tunnel. There’s no telling what lies beyond. Maybe I should turn and go for another stroll. Work up my courage. Wait until…

  No. The longer I put it off, the harder it’ll be. To hell with fear. I open the door and step through. I’m moving on.

  As the door closes behind me, I find myself in a large, derelict building, maybe an abandoned factory or warehouse. I spot daylight ahead, through a gaping doorway, and inch towards it. My eyes adjust as I move nearer the light, so by the time I get there I can step out into it without hesitation.

  I’m on a quiet city street. The question is, which city? I look round in hope of an immediate answer but there’s no Eifel Tower, Burj Khalifa or Big Ben, just moderately tall brick buildings that could belong almost anywhere on the face of the earth.

  A smartly dressed man is walking towards me. I step into his path and clear my throat. “Excuse me.”

  He stops and smiles helpfully. “Yes?”

  I laugh uneasily. “This is going to sound like a weird question, but would you mind telling me where I am?”

  “You’re on a street,” he says, not even a flicker of sarcasm in his tone.

  “I know that,” I sigh. “I mean, what city is this?”

  “What city do you think it is?” he replies with mild curiosity.

  I shake my head, disgusted, and step aside. Nodding at me amiably, he proceeds as before.

  I take a good look at the outside of the building that houses the entrance to the tunnel – in case I have to retreat this way in the future – then turn my back on it and set off to explore.

  This is one weird, messed-up excuse for a city. Superficially there’s nothing strange about it – wide streets, not much garbage, people who look the same as people anywhere, cars carving up the peace and quiet – but it doesn’t take long to confirm I’ve wandered far from Normalville.

  The lack of glass is the most obvious anomaly. I haven’t spotted a single pane. The windows of buildings are mere holes in the walls. No windscreens on any of the cars. Nobody wearing glasses. The street-lamps – not lit yet – are just candles mounted on poles. No traffic lights.

  I’ve stopped several people to ask where I am. All have answered the same — “Where do you think you are?” I’ve asked about the absence of glass but nobody knows what I mean. Most think I’m trying to say grass and point towards parks, of which there are many. I even flagged down a driver at one point, an elderly man with a warm smile, but he knew no more than the pedestrians. It was interesting to see inside the car though. No mirrors. I asked how he kept an eye on the traffic to his rear. “Why should that worry me?” he wanted to know. I noted that, without a mirror, he could be rammed from behind. “Why would anybody want to ram me?” was his honest, puzzled response.

  There are no street signs either. I thought, if I couldn’t prise the name of the city out of its inhabitants, at least they’d be able to tell me what street I was on, but no. Most folk stared at me oddly when I asked. “Names for streets?” one laughed. “Who’d bother naming a street? Might as well name clouds or drones.”

  The anonymous streets look pretty much the same. Whoever designed this city hadn’t much of an imagination. Some buildings are bigger than others but none is painted or fancily decorated. No structure glitters with coloured lights or banners. Some have names – shops which go by simple titles such as Clothes, Nourishment, Candles – but most don’t. I consider checking out one of the shops but I’m not ready yet. Later, when my brain’s stopped making dull, grinding noises.

  There are strange nooses hanging everywhere. Long thin bars jut out of holders on the walls, with wire loops dangling from the ends. I ask a passerby what they’re for. “Protection,” the lady says.

  “Against what?” I ask.

  “Whatever happens to attack you,” she says with a shrug.

  “Is it OK for me to examine one of them?”

  “Sure,” she says, so I ease a pole down from its holder. It’s lighter than it looks. The wire runs down the side of the pole to a small spindle, making it possible to tighten or loosen the noose with a few turns of your hand. I think about taking it with me, but there are so many of them about, I figure it’d be needless, so I hang it back on the wall and return to my explorative meandering.

  I find a phone box. I’ve passed several without realising what they were, because they’re not like any phone boxes I’ve ever seen, just small wooden shacks attached to the sides of bigger buildings, no signs to explain what they’re for. It’s only now that I stop to examine one up close that I spot an old-fashioned, clunky phone inside and figure out their purpose.

  I enter quickly, heart beating hopefully. I shut the sliding wooden door and study the phone by the light of a candle burning overhead. The phone is a thick, black model, the like of which I’ve only ever seen in movies or antique stores. No dial or buttons. No slots for coins or cards. Not even a number printed on it.

  I pick up the receiver and hold it to my right ear. “Operator Lewgan,” a bright voice chirrups over the line. “How may I help you?”

  My mouth is too dry to form an answer.

  “Hello,” the operator says. “This is Operator Lewgan. How may I help you?”

  I gulp and lick my lips. “I’m… my name is… Newman Riplan,” I gasp. “I don’t know where I am. I started to choke on a plane and the next thing I knew, everybody had turned to wax and –”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Riplan,” Operator Lewgan says, “but could you get to the point? Public contact boxes are provided for those who can’t afford contact boxes of their own. They’re not here for your amusement. If you wish to be put in contact with somebody, please say so and I’ll do my best to connect you. If, however, you’re merely taking advantage of our service to waste my time…”

  “No!” I howl. “Don’t hang up. I want to be connected.”

  “You wish to make a call?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I moan.

  “Very well. With whom do you wish to be connected?”

  “I’m not sure.” I lick my lips again and brace myself for disappointment. “Can you tell me where I am?”

  “Where do you think you are?” comes the answer I expected.

  I grit my teeth and bang my head against the wall of the box but don’t express my anger verbally. “I’m new here,” I say as calmly as possible. “I’m not sure how things work. Do I have to pay
for this call or is it free?”

  “It’s free,” Lewgan assures me. “A public service brought to the people of the city courtesy of the Alchemist.”

  “OK,” I mutter. “Can you put me through to a number in London?”

  “Where, sir?”

  I close my eyes and count to five. “How about Amsterdam?”

  “Sir?”

  “Can I get any kind of outside line?”

  “An outside line, sir?” She’s bewildered.

  “A line out of this city. I want to –”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Lewgan interrupts, “but I don’t know what you mean by out of this city.”

  I frown and slowly say, “I want an outside line.”

  “You mean you want to make your call from outside your contact box?”

  “No,” I snap. “I want to talk to someone in another city, London or Amsterdam, anywhere outside this godforsaken place, I don’t care, just somewhere with glass and street names and –”

  “An other city, sir?” Lewgan sounds confused. “There are no other cities.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I growl.

  “I assure you, sir, I’m not the one being stupid.” She sounds snappish now.

  “Look, just put me through to one of your superiors, someone who doesn’t have shit for brains, and I’ll discuss it with –”

  The line goes dead. I curse and slam the receiver down, then pick it up and listen. Silence on the other end. “Hello?” I mutter. “Anybody there?” No answer. Sighing, I lay it down more gently this time, then slide back the door and let myself out. So much for the age of unlimited global communication.

  Back on the streets, I go looking for the honest and respectable upholders of the law. Even a city this offbeat has to be policed. It’s just a matter of time before I spot an officer plodding his beat or chance upon a station. I’ll get a few answers then, I’m sure. They won’t be long putting me straight.

  I’ve come a long way from the tunnel exit. I can’t tell if I’m moving further into the city or out towards the suburbs, but I’m taking notice of more and more details as I go. Like the cars — they have no number plates. And buses don’t have the name of their destination on the front. The scraps of writing that I see – on shop fronts mostly – are in English. No brand names on anybody’s clothes. No planes overhead. I don’t come across many children and those that I see are by themselves or with other youngsters.

  I try asking some of the children where I am – kids are usually more responsive and less secretive than adults – but even the ones barely out of nappies simply stare at me curiously and reply, “Where do you think you are?”

  No sign of the police yet, so I stop a man and woman and ask where I could find them.

  “Police?” the man says, scratching the side of his jaw.

  “What are those?” the woman asks.

  “You know.” I smile edgily. “Police. The coppers. Law enforcement officers.”

  The couple stare at me blankly.

  “Who’s in charge of this place?” I ask. “Who locks up the criminals?”

  “Criminals?” the pair ask simultaneously.

  “Robbers, rapists, muggers, joyriders. Who do you turn to for help if you’re attacked?”

  “We use the nooses,” the man says.

  “Choke the bastards to death,” the woman agrees.

  “That’s OK?” I gasp. “You’re allowed to murder people if you think they’re in the wrong?”

  “People?” The man frowns. “We don’t use the nooses on people. People never attack us.”

  “So what do you use them on?” I ask, confused.

  “Animals,” he answers.

  I stare at him oddly, then decide to try again. “But what if someone steals from you? What if someone grabs your girl and starts using her against her will? Who sorts things out then?”

  The man shakes his head. “Nobody would do a thing like that.”

  “You mean there’s no crime in this city?” I press.

  “Not as you’ve described it,” he says and the two take their leave.

  So, no crime, no cops. Maybe there’s an army or some kind of civil defence unit, or maybe this Alchemist I’ve heard a few people mention is responsible for law and order. But how to contact him? How to…

  Contact. I spot another contact box at the corner of the street. I probably won’t find help there but where else can I turn? Besides, the sun’s starting to drop. If I don’t root out some answers soon, I’ll have to wait until morning to go looking again, and I don’t like the idea of spending the night here in ignorance. So I head for the booth.

  “Operator Lewgan. How may I help you?”

  Damn. The same one. I grimace, then put on my sweetest voice. “Hi, my name’s Newman Riplan, I was talking to you earlier. Sorry to bother you again but I –”

  “Oh yes, I remember you, sir.” She doesn’t sound too happy to hear from me. “Have you rung to apologise or do you want to call me more names?”

  I chuckle sickly. “Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me. It’s been a crazy day and I let things get out of hand.”

  “Hmm,” she grunts, considering my apology.

  “I didn’t mean to get shirty,” I tell her. “I was bang out of order and I won’t let it happen again.”

  “Very well,” she thaws. “Apology accepted. What may I do for you Mr Riplan?”

  I ask her if she knows what a policeman is. She doesn’t. The army? Never heard of them. Civil defence? Clueless.

  “But there must be some kind of law and order,” I plead. “Who breaks up fights and arrests robbers? Who escorts little old ladies across the road to their Bingo halls?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir,” Lewgan says. “Robbers? Bingo halls? What are they?”

  “Never mind,” I sigh. “What about the Alchemist? Where can I find him?”

  “Nobody finds the Alchemist,” she sniggers. “He comes and goes as he pleases, working from the shadows. I’ve only seen him a handful of times myself.”

  “But he’s the main man?” I ask. “He runs things?”

  She hesitates. “I wouldn’t say that. The Alchemist is community-conscious. He sponsors public contact boxes, certain rest homes and nourishment establishments, but as for running things…” I sense her shaking her head.

  “Where’s the nearest airport with outbound flights?” I ask, changing tack.

  “I’m sorry,” she replies, “but I don’t understand that question.”

  “I’m looking for airports, you know, where planes land and take-off.”

  “Planes?” she echoes.

  “Drone holds,” I correct myself, but even then she doesn’t comprehend what I’m talking about. “What about train stations? Bus depots? I want out, lady, out.” I have to struggle to stop myself from screaming.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Lewgan says. “I can’t help you. I know of no such things as stations and depots.”

  “But you know what trains and buses are, right?” I groan.

  “I know what a bus is,” she admits.

  “Where can I find one?” I ask.

  “On the streets,” she answers. “They pass quite regularly.”

  “I know,” I growl, “but where do they originate? Where’s the bus terminal?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I honestly don’t –”

  I hang up, exasperated, before I explode at her. I lean my head on the bulky phone for a couple of minutes, then pick up the receiver again.

  “Operator Lewgan here. How may I help you?”

  “I want the talking clock,” I say dully.

  “You again, Mr Riplan,” she says with a small laugh. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what –”

  Click.

  It’s getting darker by the minute and I’m relieved to see a moon and stars in the sky, not the distressingly pitch black maw that hung heavily over the airport.

  Gangs of workers dressed in red robes are taking to the stree
ts and lighting the candles which line every route. They use step-ladders and matches but in spite of their clumsy apparatus they work swiftly and soon the streets are aglow with flickering flames. As lost and dazed as I am, I have to admit the city looks picturesque in this light.

  I ask the candle-lighters some questions but they know no more than anybody else. “Is this your full-time job?” I ask one.

  “Sure,” he says. “Not as easy as it looks, you know, especially when the wind is blowing. We have to replace the candles if they blow out. Sometimes we can be up the whole of the night.”

  “Why don’t you use shutters?” I ask. “They’d block out the wind.”

  He laughs. “They’d also keep in most of the light.”

  “Not if they were made of glass,” I note.

  “What’s glass?” He snorts when I explain. “A shutter you can see through? Get the snuff out of here. Do you think I have the brain of a drone?”

  I ask another how long she’s been working at this. She doesn’t understand the question. “It’s my job,” she says. “It’s what I do.”

  “Yes,” I nod, “but how long have you been doing it?”

  She shrugs and moves on, unable to answer.

  That’s something else I’ve noticed — there are no clocks or watches in this city. I’ll investigate the matter further another time but not tonight. The streets are starting to empty and I’m beginning to feel uneasy, remembering what that person said about animals that attack. Hardly any cars are out now – with no lights, they rely on the glow of the candles, so most drivers wisely choose to get around on foot at night – and the place is disturbingly quiet. I’ve never known a city of this size to fall so silent.

  I recall what Jess said about two drone teeth being good for a room in a low-grade boarding house. I’ve spotted a few of them in the course of my travels – they have no hotels or motels here, only boarding houses that are distinguishable by hand-written signs over the front doors – and decide it’s time to book into one. I find a place that looks fairly shabby, pause by the door, pull out the bag of teeth, then enter.