Geoff Ryman - Child Garden

And men Milena turned right into Virgil Street.

Virgil Street ran under an old railway bridge. Railway bridges fanned out from Waterloo, like branching realities. Along the brick facade, there were windows, more windows in other bridges. My God, thought Milena, she could be anywhere.

And standing there in the gathering darkness, Milena heard Rolfa begin to sing.

The voice echoed out the twilight blue, from all around Milena, as if the bricks were ventriloquists. The voice was powerful and fluid. It pounced on a note and then held it, and then, as if in rage, tore the note apart with a kind of screech. Milena felt a shudder in her heart, and her breath go still. She tried to breathe, and couldn’t.

‘Rolfa,’ she heard herself whisper. ‘Rolfa. Where are you?’

She walked towards the tunnel. On her left was a walled courtyard. She walked through the gap in its surrounding wall, and the sound was louder, harsher. Milena saw no one. She walked around the edge of the courtyard, peering into corners, hoping to see a niche or hidden doorway. The voice seemed to lead her, hovering in the air, a few steps in front of her.

Virgil Street was lined with arched gateways. Milena walked slowly, as if on thin ice, her breath held. She found herself knocking politely on one of the gates. It slid sideways on runners. A Tyke was holding it open, a boy with his shirt off. There were other boys, swarming over the body of a coach. The coach was painted white with a red cross and the boys were working on the leather straps of its suspension. They were coachbuilders for the hospital estate, working after school.

‘That singing,’ said Milena. ‘Do you hear it? Do you know where it’s coming from?’

The boys wiped the grease from their hands onto rags. They had tough adult faces on tiny bodies, and they wanted to show how adult they were. They pulled on shirts, lifted up their alcohol lamps, and stepped out into the street. Milena walked backwards as they advanced, as if into a cloud of the singing. The sound distracted her. The notes went wild and strange and ugly. Suddenly the tunnel was full of the sound of laughter, a wild, bitter, sarcastic hooting. Milena spun on her heel, expecting to see Rolfa looming over her shoulder. There was no one.

‘Can’t tell where it’s coming from,’ said one of the boys.

‘What’s in there?’ Milena asked, pointing to the other gates.

‘Hospital gear,’ the boys shrugged. They brought their lamps and opened the doors. Milena smelled clean linen, and walked between the racks. The sound of singing dimmed as they walked further into the warehouse. Milena ducked under one arch, and saw more neat and tidy shelving. Rolfa would never be here, she thought. As if the spirit of the place were inimical, the sound of the singing seemed to fade altogether.

Milena walked back out into the street. There the sound of singing wafted around her, like mosquitoes. One of the boys was kneeling on the ground, his ear over a grate. ‘Could be coming from here,’ he said. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the drains below the street.

Another boy stepped forward from the coachworks with a crowbar. Neatly, he lifted up the grate. Milena saw metal bars down the side of the entrance forming a ladder.

‘We’ll go down,’ offered the boys. Milena shook her head. She climbed down into the drains. The boys passed her a light.

There was a sound of water, a trickle, a dripping. Did Milena hear the sound of wet footsteps running? ‘Rolfa!’ Milena called. ‘Rolfa!’ Her own voice came back to her, very close, from against the low walls. She held up the torch and saw the bricks, encrusted with salts. The singing seemed to come from both before and behind her. The notes went raw, howling, as if a dog were crying to the moon.

Milena climbed back up. The boys took the lamp and her arms and helped her.

‘It’s everywhere,’ said one of the boys, with a shivering chuckle.

‘Maybe it’s a ghost,’ said one of them.

‘Hassan!’ protested one of the Tykes, and elbowed him to be quiet. They were all slightly unnerved.

‘That’s exactly what it is,’ said Milena. ‘A ghost.’

The old Rolfa would never have sung like this. She would have had too much respect for the music. This voice was angry, angry at the whole idea of music.

‘Thanks, lads,’ she said. ‘You go on in. I’ll just wait here for a while.’

‘Need help, we’re there,’ said the one called Hassan, and the boys clustered together, and went back to their work. The gate slid shut behind them, and the golden light of the alcohol lamp was shut away.

The singing voice broke. It cheered raucously. ‘Yaaaayyyy! Whoopeee!’ Then it screamed a long, harsh howl that seemed to be the sound of flesh tearing. Sounds like that could ruin a voice for good.

Then Milena heard it, like a cough right next to her ear. ‘Tuh!’ said

the voice, the shudder-chuckle. Then it was still. Milena stood in the darkness that was now complete. ‘Rolfa?’ she

asked the darkness. ‘Rolfa. Where are you? Rolfa, it’s me. Please come

out and see me. People are worried about you. Everyone is worried

about you. Please?’ There was no answer. Milena took a swig from the whisky bottle.

Then she turned to leave. She stopped and left the whisky bottle

behind, propped up against the wall of Virgil Street. She left it behind

in case Rolfa wanted it. Finally, in her room at the Shell, she fell asleep. She woke up the next morning, late, with a hangover. The room

smelled of sunlight and whisky. I’ve got to get looking, she thought. Then she thought: no, you don’t. She’s alive, Milena, and that must

be an end to it. You can’t take care of her any more. You’ve got other

people to think of now. You’ve got the new company to get organised.

Other people than Rolfa depend on you now. Jacob came in. It was not his usual time. ‘Hello, Milena,’ he said, his voice and manner shy and gentle. ‘Hiya, Jake,’ said Milena. And he held out a card with gold edging. Milena jumped forward

from her bed and took it from him. The card said:

dear fish:

well rolfas back with us now — she came home last night — but she’s not too well — what did you people DO to her? zoe well shes hopping mad — looks like a toad in a toga — i tell her its just rolfa done herself another injury — so we all are taking care of her now and i knew you ud like to know that so i wrote this i will say that i now suppose me and her father will have another up and downer over this — i want rolfa just to rest a bit and then ask her real carefully what she wants to do now — if she says sing well let her sing — her father sees it as another chance to mould her his way — seems thats what most people try to do to young ones — treat them like clay and make them over — most of the trouble in this world comes from trying to make other people over just like you people and your viruses which have made my great big lump of daughter so sick — im going crazy with this leg of mine — just itching to get back down south and out of South Ken — all people do here is add up their money — all day long — on their little machines — you ud think they ud come to a total sooner or later at least and give their poor finger tips a rest — me i want the continent south — ice and walruses are sane at least

i dont know how bad things are for you — but listen — fifteen years from now you will still be able to tell people the story of the day of the dogs — it will be the funniest thing that ever happened to you — thats what you do with things like that — make them funny — some day i will tell you my stories about rolfas father !!!!!!!

listen you write me sometime too — i never had a squidge for a friend and it might be nice to know how you can stand it