The Actuality Read online

  Evie’s cheeks burn. She feels selfish and predatory – not much better than these dozens of women and men. Her own life has been so sheltered, she so protected, how could she have foreseen such a thing?

  David tells her about one of the companies involved with Realhuman – a Russian arms dealership – and the entertainment they put on for customers. How low-tech AABs (low-tech but still intelligent enough to experience fear) are released in the ruins of a town abandoned after a nuclear catastrophe of the previous century. ‘They free them from cages,’ he says, ‘and the men and women hunt them through the streets using weapons from the company catalogue, like in an arcade game.’

  He looks at her helplessly, but she does not know how to respond and grips her cardigan at the neck, covering her nakedness, which now seems to her not so much shameful as out of place.

  ‘In Japan, there is a society for military veterans which holds an event annually in the spring, at which they dress female AABs as maiko – young geisha. “The Ceremony of the Petals” they call it . . .’ David is crying now and by doing so brings on her own helpless tears. ‘They release them in this ornamental park so that these old soldiers can chase them down under the cherry trees – not much of a contest really with the girls’ legs restricted by the thick layers of their robes. Then when they catch them, they behead them with their Samurai swords . . .’

  His voice dries up and his hand loosens its grip on hers and he turns from her. Without saying anything more, he lies down facing the wall.

  Evie can hear him sobbing. She gingerly places her arm over his back but he no longer seems aware of her.

  Not in a fit state to comfort him and wanting to escape this scene of her creation, Evie picks up her scattered clothes and miserably dresses in the glow from the hotel sign outside the window, her own tears sliding down her cheeks.

  She turns in the doorway on her way out to gaze at him lying curled on the mattress, almost lost in the shadows. He is a creature even more damaged, in ways hidden from sight, than Maplin’s mutilated mannequins.

  Outside it has been raining and the temperature has fallen, creating a ground mist. Evie wanders north up steep streets into Montmartre. The grey, speckled outline of the Sacré-Coeur rises above the rooftops like one of Daniels’s more ambitious cakes, but one baked from mouldy icing sugar.

  She realises that she knows it from a collection of photographs taken by Matthew’s great-great-great-grandfather, on leave from the front during a long-ago war. She’d found it fading in a pasteboard album in the music room, attracting her attention because it had been tied with a rainbow-dyed ribbon.

  Evie climbs the cracked steps. Halfway up it seems that she hears the sharp tap of boots on the concrete behind her, but when she pauses, tucking herself into the shadows, all is quiet.

  She resumes climbing but her body is tense, on the alert. Her hearing is good enough to hear a leaf drop but an eerie silence envelops her and the loudest thing is the patter of her own shoes and, layered over that, the soft rasp of her own breath.

  She stops again, closing her eyes and focusing, but there is nothing apart from the whistle of the breeze.

  Reaching the top, Evie turns to take in the vista over the rooftops. The last of the sun gleams wetly on the tips of the dual spikes of the Tours Eiffel – old and new – wading in the swollen river on rusty legs. She’d hoped the view would lift her spirits, but the buildings, from up here, merge into a mass. Apart from the towers, she can make out only the dark river, the swollen and twisted gut of which brims with threat.

  Maybe it is just the disheartening atmosphere but the shivery sensation of being watched creeps up on her again. She glances around swiftly and, after concluding she has again been tricked by her nerves, discerns the figure of a woman in the shadow of the cathedral, her pale coat merging with the stone. The only details of note are her eyes, luminous dots in the half-light, looking straight at Evie. Her heart races, but the woman’s gaze glides on and a few moments later blinks out, and it becomes clear that she has slipped away.

  Perhaps she had been just taking in the view as Evie herself had been. She needs to relax a little, stop seeing danger where there’s none.

  The bell in the basilica strikes seven, reminding her that she had planned to catch an evening train.

  She takes the direct route back to the hotel, as far as she can deduce it, walking with care down slippery narrow back roads, lined with tall houses, their windows shuttered against intruders, adapting her course when she finds the steep cobbled streets blocked by mysterious barricades constructed from collapsing furniture, like the detritus of an abandoned revolution.

  Reaching level ground, she makes quicker progress, until, turning a corner, she is slowed by a crowd outside a theatre. Its name – The Dolls’ House – somehow familiar, is projected over the facade in scarlet letters with the slogan ‘The world famous’ revolving in italics below.

  Seated on the canopy is a ten-foot girl in a gingham pinafore dress and bobby socks. She kicks her giant sparkly shoes between the heads of the pedestrians. ‘Heh there, welcome to Kansas,’ she calls and leans over, stiffly turning left and right, straining to attract the attention of passers-by. She makes eye-contact with Evie, ‘Come on in sweetie,’ she halloos, ‘who knows what you’ll find!’

  Evie, impatient for a way to clear, pushes briskly through the crowd.

  Amidst the crush, to her surprise, she spots the child from the park – this must have been the theatre on the flyer she was handing around. The girl slips through the crowd, one moment making herself thin, the next short, her bright hair a loose thread amongst the blacks, greys and browns. The child stretches an arm in the air like a ballerina, the other she keeps by her waist, and, knowing that Evie is watching, brazenly rifles a parrot-feather handbag and removes a silk purse. As she tucks it into her skirt, she pirouettes and winks conspiratorially, the winter coats around her closing like curtains as she again disappears from sight.

  Evie finds herself drawn helplessly to follow, an emptiness nagging her on, but the child moves so quickly that she has to climb to the top of the steps to locate her in the crowd.

  She is just in time to witness the girl slip under the outstretched arm of an elderly gent in top hat and tails as he holds back the door. An indulgent smile curls his whiskers while she, as fluid as a ripple in a bolt of silk, removes opera glasses and the watch on its chain from his waistcoat pockets.

  Evie follows her into the crowded lobby. Where has she gone?

  She ascends the stairs, taking advantage of the pressure at the circle door to enter the auditorium without a ticket. The steeply shelving seats fill from both sides and she descends to the rail.

  In the stalls below, tables have been arranged around a curtained stage. The closest chairs have been quickly taken and a quite serious fight for those remaining is developing below the overhang.

  A man in the seat behind pokes her calf with the tip of his cane. ‘Mademoiselle, tu bloques ma vue,’ he complains wearily, leaning back and crossing his ankles to reveal gleaming yellow spats.

  A boy comes up on her other side and tugs at her skirt. ‘Ice-crème s’il vous plaît,’ he pipes, and she peels his grubby fingers from her waist, propelling him down the aisle.

  A figure in a silk hat emerges from between the curtains and bows. He advances to the stage edge. ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, Damen und Herren, Damer og Herrer, Ladies and Gentlemen . . . S’il vous plaît prenez vos places. Please be seated . . . Notre spectacle commencera très bientôt . . . very soon. Ce soir, nous avons le monde célèbre Hercule d’Amerique – The World’s Strongest Man . . .’

  She has never been in a theatre and is entranced. A weightless woman floats over the audience like a balloon until she becomes entangled with the chandelier and catches fire. The ‘World’s Strongest Man’ lifts a horse and then turns sheepish after he drops it with a crash. A singer with two heads – one male and one female – gets into a muddle carrying
both treble and bass with the resulting cacophony getting him/her/them booed from the stage. A woman is cut in two with a saw, the bloody lower half charging off into the wings, chased by the so-called magician, while the upper half, still stuck in the box, waves its arms and weeps hysterically. Some of the effects could have been created by mirrors or holography but there was little either magical or human about the rest. If all is really lost, there could be a job for her here in this place, submitting herself for the amusement of a human crowd.

  The compere is undeterred by the bedlam. ‘Et maintenant vos favoris,’ he announces, treading in his dazzling boots around the puddle of blood left by the last act. ‘Your very own, the ones you have been waiting for . . .’

  The curtains sweep back to reveal a stage empty apart from the solitary figure of the same girl from earlier but now wearing a faded tricolour as a shawl, swabbing the boards with a mop. Her head is bowed and her dress is tucked into her drawers exposing bare feet. As she advances, she mournfully spreads the pool of blood. Is this her role here – to clean up after accidents?

  Desiring continued quick satisfaction, the crowd is restless.

  ‘Cinderella n’est pas autorisé à aller à la ball,’ a voice recites from the wings. ‘Elle must work all nuit.’

  The child wipes her forehead with her arm, leaning on the mop and gazing out over the heads with a poor-me expression. Even from up here in the gallery, a glistening tear can be seen to glide down her cheek.

  She draws a flask from her skirt, ‘ABSINTHE’ written on an oversized label. She uncorks it and slurps and wipes her hand across her mouth, smearing a green glow into her cheeks. Her face slips into a contented grin.

  From the side of the stage bursts her fairy godmother – the tall man from the park but now in an immense dress with a towering wig. His face is painted white with pink circles below his eyes and he holds a wand throwing sparks. However, even this is not enough to retrieve the audience’s attention who continue to behave as if the interval has already started.

  The child’s acting is slapdash but she possesses charm in abundance. At the ball she yawns, falling asleep on a chair, promptly toppling off with a thud when it is dragged from under her, to land between the legs of the capering adults. Getting to her feet, she comes face to face with Prince Charming, a dwarf with a long beard. He claims her as his partner, throwing her around like a rag doll, repeatedly attempting to kiss her, despite her age. ‘Mais c’est passé mon heure du coucher,’ she screams in desperation, repeating herself in English: ‘for gawd’s sake it’s past me ruddy bedtime.’ Then, after he won’t let go, she pretends to doze while he continues to recklessly swing her about. The child breezes through the pretence like a pro. Drooping in an instant like she has been switched off and then opening her eyes and stretching in his arms as if she is waking with a drowsy sigh.

  Evie finds it hilarious, but few are concentrating enough to be entertained.

  The performance ends with a chase in and out of the wings, the child in danger of being trampled as she dodges between the legs of the adults in pursuit of a gaudy slipper.

  As soon as the actors are off the stage, Evie leaves the gallery and runs down to the stalls.

  She presses between the tables, dodging around the stiffly moving waiters. One, swivelling on his heel, strikes her on the chin with the rim of his tray, knocking her backwards onto a table, spilling the arrayed glasses into the laps of those around it. He doesn’t apologise, doesn’t even pause, just continues on his path, mechanically barging anyone out of his way. She clambers to her feet, full of contrition, but fortunately everyone seems to think it is part of the show.

  Figures she would hesitate to call women sidle through the crowd. One is dressed as Snow White with creamy cheeks and teeny feet. Another has hair so long it drags along the ground and yet another mothers a baby doll, its dented head rammed to her breast. In the corner, soldiers, chests frogged with silver braid, snigger and leer, wafting parade-ground sweat and stale parfum.

  Evie clambers onto the stage and slips through the curtains into the darkness beyond.

  Entering the wings, she squeezes between the dusty props. The departing Cinderella cast are just ahead of her, climbing a flight of steep wooden stairs.

  In the lead are the ugly sisters. During the show they had taunted the child, taking her by the arms and feet and tugging, before feigning exhaustion and dropping her from a yard up onto the wooden boards. Now, amid the bitter recriminations as to why they had bombed, they blame her loudly for her worthless performance. One reaches round with her long arm to swat her, but the child is nimble and steps to the side. Behind them, the fairy godmother drags off his wig and scratches at a scalp landscaped with craters and grey scabby stubble, and at the rear, just ahead of the child herself, Prince Charming slugs from the flask of absinthe, green fumes rising in a haze and soaking the air.

  The craziness of her pursuit of the little pickpocket-actress dawns and Evie comes to a stop, her head spinning. She sits on the ground in the shadows behind the staircase to give herself a chance to regain her composure.

  Evie is brought back to full alertness just minutes later, when the girl charges back down the same stairs and, passing where she sits, shoves open the exit door and bursts out.

  Outside, she gathers her skirts and sets off at a trot along the alley towards the light from the street.

  Only to be brought up short when the broad figure of the fairy godmother, still in the enormous dress, appears at the end. He marches angrily down on her, forcing her to retreat.

  From her hiding place, Evie watches him block her escape.

  ‘Tu!’ the girl mutters and her small dog hides behind her legs.

  ‘I’ll be having what you took from that gent,’ he says. ‘The one that’s been inside complaining his head off about you. Saying the watch is a priceless heirloom.’

  The child’s eyes narrow impishly, face momentarily sinister before reverting to syrupy sweet. ‘Pompie, je take nuffing,’ she mutters, adding viciously, as he takes another step towards her, ‘back orff,’ shifting her weight from one foot to the other like a boxer.

  Evie watches helplessly from the shadow of the doorway, astounded by the girl’s provocative attitude and courage. Her apparent lack of fear, not even an ounce of unease, acts as a thrown-down challenge.

  ‘Give it me now, no more warnings,’ Pompie growls, the last of the polite, feminine manner from the stage cast away.

  ‘What you gonna do?’ the girl counters, maintaining her crazy smug innocence. ‘Je could scream.’

  Moving far faster than his size would suggest possible, Pompie grabs the girl’s wrist, wrestling her arm behind her, and prises open her fist to expose a bone-handled knife with a silver blade.

  ‘Let go of moi,’ the girl shouts but she is reduced to attempting to kick his shins with her heels. Even so, she is slippery, an effort to restrain, and far, far stronger than her thin limbs suggest.

  He shakes the knife from her palm so that it bounces point-first on the ground, and tightens his hold. ‘Give it to me,’ he tells her.

  ‘Je ne ave it,’ the girl pants, cheeks glowing pink.

  ‘But you know what I’m referring to.’ He grips her around her arms and reaches into her skirt – like Evie herself had earlier – bringing out a handful of small coins which scatter between his feet and disappear into cracks.

  He lets go. ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘Je take nuffing.’ The girl backs away, putting what distance the alley allows between them. It is not much.

  ‘I should flip you over and shake to see what other of your muggings falls out.’ He moves in close again and, standing above her, lights a cigarette. Gripping it between his fat fingers, he drags on it and blows the smoke down around the girl’s face, making her cough.

  Evie gets to her feet and moves to the doorway. The situation outside is charged with violence and although the child seems hell-bent on making things worse for hersel
f, it can’t be right to leave it to play out.

  ‘Final warning,’ Pompie says.

  The child juts her chin.

  ‘Before I stop being all gentle.’ A flush of evening stubble glistens on his cheek.

  ‘Pompie, je ne got em pas plus.’

  Pompie reaches for her neck, his hand groping but failing to locate it. She reverses into the bins, knocking off the lids which crash to the ground like cymbals. He reaches out again, this time grabbing her by the shoulders, and pins her against the wall.

  The girl struggles, pleading, and when that doesn’t work, wails for help, until he thwacks her cheek with the back of his hand and her head topples sideways as if it has been knocked off her neck.

  Evie recoils, as if she herself had been hit. Emerging from the doorway, she crosses the alley on tiptoe towards them.

  Keeping the girl pinned with one hand and ignoring her sobs, Pompie rifles the pockets of her skirt and jacket again, chucking more of her thefts on the ground – a collection of useless frippery and magpie opportunism. A Japanese paper fan flutters down, opening for a second into paper butterfly wings, before landing flat, soaking up the ooze. More shiny coins bounce on the cobbles, rolling into dark corners.

  With a shout of triumph, he pulls out the watch by its chain and holds it up, letting it spin in front of the child’s nose, its face illuminated by the glow from the distant street.

  ‘So you did have it, you deceiving little tramp,’ he mutters.

  Evie comes up behind, entering his shadow. She thinks she’s undetected but Pompie, barely turning, swings his fist and strikes the side of her head so that her legs fold.

  Ignoring Evie on her hands behind him, he leans over the child and, sucking together a gob of phlegm, spits onto the crown of her head. ‘Don’t you ever keep stuff from me, do you understand?’ he mutters. ‘If you lie again, Pinocchio, as to what you’ve got, there’ll be worse coming than what you just had.’ And he wipes a moist curl of filth from the sole of his shoe along her shin.