Geoff Ryman - Child Garden

The bottle paused in mid-air. Again, the old woman understood: Rolfa was in danger.

‘I was hoping she was here,’ Milena said, and even to herself her voice sounded drained and hopeless.

‘Well, we’ll just have to go and look for her.’ Rolfa’s mother looked at Milena. ‘We may have to bring in the rest of the Family, though. People are going to be pretty mad.’

‘I know,’ murmured Milena, and braced herself.

Zoe was the first to come down the stairs.

‘You did what?’ Zoe demanded.

‘We gave her the viruses. It was the only way.’

‘You gave my sister your horrible Squidgey viruses?’

Milena felt herself cringe. ‘It was a pre-condition of her performing. I’m sorry. It was a mistake. It was the only way I had to get her into the Zoo.’

‘My God,’ said Zoe, pressing her hand to her forehead. ‘She could have dropped down anywhere.’ Zoe looked at her mother. ‘We’ll have to call out the dogs, Ma,’ she said. Zoe looked back at Milena with a strange, grim smile. ‘You are going to have come with us,’ she said. ‘And don’t think it’s going to be a pleasant ride.’

Two huge cattle trucks roared up outside the Polar household. They were full of excited, yelping dogs. Young Polar men stood on the rails that surrounded the flatbeds. They shouted out to the house as the engines rumbled. The engines were on display, nickel-plated and polished like mirrors. Bears swarmed out of the house, full of gleeful aggression, climbing up the slats of the trucks. One of them was blowing a hunting horn.

This, thought Milena, could be a real mess. Zoe ushered her towards the trucks, hand on the back of Milena’s neck. Was there any way she could warn the Zoo? Could she slip the human maid some money to run across London? The trucks would get there first.

Something growled at her. Between the slats of the truck, a pair of blue eyes, a husky’s eyes, were fixed on her. ‘He knows you’re a Squidge,’ chuckled a Polar teenager, astride the rails.

Milena was loaded into the cab, squeezed between massive Polar thighs. They cushioned her as the truck swooped and veered across London, beeping its horn, swerving around horse carts, making people jump out of the way. Milena was not used to moving at speed; her stomach kept plunging in different directions. She felt slightly giddy and ill. ‘Yee-ha!’ called the driver.

Suddenly the truck was bouncing up and over pavements and onto the embankment gardens. Here already? Milena had not even noticed them going over the bridge. The other truck skidded up beside them, brakes locked, sliding across the grass.

Young Bears launched themselves over the sides. The slats were raised and the dogs bounded down. The Polar huskies looked like thunderclouds, thick and white and massive. The dogs were clipped onto leashes and then led, straining against them, towards the Zoo.

The Bears filled the main lobby, laughing at the blank surprise on the faces of the Zoo administrators. The Tykes at the desks came forward to protest. ‘Aww!’ said the Bears and picked them up like the children they were. ‘Put me down! Put me down!’ the children wailed, and began to weep.

Rolfa’s old socks and shorts were pressed under the noses of the dogs. Then they were let loose.

Matinee performances were interrupted as packs of huskies surged down the aisles, sniffing. Dogs poured onto the stages, searching the corners and corridors of the backstage mazes. Zoe marched Milena through the upper floors. Broom closets and waiting rooms full of resting Postpeople were searched. In the rehearsal halls, musicians stood on chairs, holding their flutes and violins out of the reach of the playfully snapping dogs.

‘OK,’ said Zoe. ‘Where else could she have slumped off to?’

‘We’ve already looked in most other places,’ murmured Milena.

‘Well think of some more!’ demanded Zoe.

Milena took Zoe on the small round that had been her life with Rolfa. She led her down the Cut, hoping to steer the Bears towards Leake Street and the Graveyard. They threw open the doors of the shops and ran up the stairs to the rooms above. The Bears had such fun. They took boisterous revenge for years of misunderstanding. Milena stood in the street and heard them laugh, incredulous at the way Squidges had to live, their small cookers, their few possessions. She heard things fall and break in the rooms. Off in the distance, bells began to ring in the continuous series of strokes that signalled emergency. Dogs came lolloping back down the steps, their thick white coats and heavy feet looking as springy as mattresses. A Polar man reeled out after them, wearing some Squidgey woman’s sad straw hat.

The Bears rollicked their way down Leake Street. A contingent was left to scour the Graveyard. Out on the other side of the tunnel, more trucks were pulling up in the embankment gardens. ‘We haven’t done that building,’ said Zoe to the newcomers, pointing towards the Shell. ‘I’m going to check the hospital. You,’ she said to Milena, ‘you just stick around where we can find you. Zoo main hall. Go on.’

Milena spent the rest of the afternoon in the main lobby. She swayed where she stood with exhaustion, yearning to sleep, but forcing herself to watch. The Zookeeper will never forgive me, she thought.

‘Have a drink,’ said Rolfa’s mother. Milena took a swig direct from the bottle. Rolfa’s mother stood by her, balancing on crutches.

‘The Antarctic’s like this,’ said Rolfa’s mother. ‘Things go wrong, you just have to bear it. Simple things. You can’t pee. It’s so cold that when you widdle, it freezes before it hits the ground. You got to be real quick or just push it out in little jets because it freezes from the ground up. Depending on how low you crouch, you got about thirty seconds before frozen pee hits your fanny.’

Milena took another swig. ‘It’s not a problem I’ve ever had to consider.’ she said miserably.

A well known Zoo Animal ran past screaming, pursued by jolly dogs who trotted after her. The woman wore only a towel wrapped around her middle. Steam from her shower rose up behind her. It’s like a nightmare, thought Milena. It just gets worse and worse.

‘Then there’s the spit,’ said Rolfa’s mother. ‘You can’t spit anywhere near the sheds cause it freezes on the ground and won’t go away. It’s worse man concrete. You can’t chop it and it’s slipperier than a doorknob in a bucket full of snot.’

‘You have a colourful turn of phrase,’ said Milena, breathing whisky. From somewhere there was a crash and a splintering of lights. A dog lifted its leg against the corner of the main reception desk.

Raising the bottle up in a toast, Milena said, ‘To my remaining friends, wherever they might be.’

‘You’re smiling,’ said Rolfa’s mother. ‘Never saw a Squidge smile before. You got the funniest little teeth.’

She likes me, thought Milena. Her smile became a little broader. ‘Thanks,’ said Milena.

Dusk drew in again. Milena heard the dogs being loaded up into the trucks. Zoe came in and stabbed a finger in Milena’s direction. ‘You find my sister,’ Zoe said. ‘Or mere will be real trouble.’

You mean this wasn’t?

Rolfa’s mother shuffled around on her crutches. She looked back over her shoulder at Milena and winked. Milena stood where she was, still with the whisky bottle and heard the trucks pull away.

She wanted to the. She walked to the Shell by a back route, to avoid the Cut or the walkways where people might know who she was. She listened to the sound of broken glass being swept up, and people muttering under their breath. She staggered along Bayliss Road, named after the founder of the Old Vic, and down Hercules Road, past the William Blake Estate, where the poet had once lived. As far as Milena knew, Rolfa had never ventured this far.