China Miéville - Un Lun Dun

“Well…we couldn’t really hear him, so we was leaning in…” Deeba said.

“ Aha. I knew it. One more minute and he’d have possessed you! That’s what they want: they’re desperate for bodies. They’ll possess you soon as look at you. Sneaky little wisper.”

“Possess me?”

“Absolutely. Or you.” He nodded at Zanna. “Why do you think he was talking to you?”

“But…he has a body,” said Zanna. “We shook his hand.”

The man looked a little put-out.

“Well, yes, technically he has a body, that one. If you want to be really precise about it, he’s a half-ghost. But don’t you be fooled by his whole ‘Flesh-and-bone, just like you’ act. He’ll steal your body just like the rest of his family.

“It’s just as well I came looking for you,” the man said kindly. “You worried me back there. I suppose I can just understand someone not wanting to benefit from the astonishing opportunity of this new form of apparel, which literally clothes you in education…” Seeing their faces he cut this patter off with visible effort. “Sorry. Anyway. The point is you both looked so scared. I wanted to check you were alright.”

Zanna stared into the crowd.

“What is this place?” she said.

“What do you mean?” the pin-haired man said. “It’s Rogueday! This is Rogueday Market, of course. You can’t seriously tell me you haven’t been here before? What’s that?” Before Zanna could stop him, he had reached out and taken the travelcard from her.

“Give that back!” she shouted. The man’s eyes were growing wider and wider, and he gaped at the piece of card, and back at Zanna.

“Oh my fizzy dog,” he said. “No wonder you’re confused. You’re not from here at all. You’re the Shwazzy !”

There was an intake of breath from the little group of market-goers around them. Zanna and Deeba looked at each other, and at the people watching.

Among the women and men in those unconvincing uniforms were odder figures still, like a woman who seemed made of metal, and someone wearing one of those old-fashioned diving suits with weighted boots and a big brass helmet, windowed with dark glass. Everyone was staring at Zanna.

“Unstible’s boots,” someone said reverently. “I can’t believe it. The Shwazzy.”

“Well,” Zanna said. “I don’t know much—”

“Wait!” the pin-headed man said, and looked around. “We have to be careful. We need to take you somewhere safe. Just in case.” Some of the onlookers were nodding and glancing around. “I can’t believe you’re here! And…you brought a friend.” He nodded politely to Deeba. “But there’ll be time for all this later. Right now let’s get you out of here.

“Skool,” he said, “you go check the schedule. You know where we’re going, and how.” The diver gave a laborious nod and headed off. “I’ll get the Shwazzy and her friend ready…if,” he added with sudden nervous politeness, “that’s alright with her. And everyone else…” He looked at the people listening. “Not a word about this. Shtum! This is our chance!” The onlookers nodded.

“If you’ll follow me, we’ll get ready. It’ll be my honor to take you.” Zanna said nothing, but he continued: “You’re willing? That’s marvelous, really. We’ve not been introduced: you are the Shwazzy, and as I say it’s an honor.” He said the last phrase so quickly it was like one word: anazahsaytsan onn a.

“I’m Obaday Fing, the couturier. Of Obaday Fing Designs. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? Not the wearable books, I know, but perhaps…the edible cravat? No? The two-person trouser? Doesn’t ring a bell? Never mind, never mind. I’m at your service.”

“This is Deeba,” said Zanna. “And I’m…”

“The Shwazzy, absolutely,” the man said. “A pleasure. Now if you please, Shwazzy…I don’t want to alarm you, but you’ve already had a run-in with an attempted flesh-theft, and I’ll feel much happier if you stick with me.”

From behind them was the clatter of the milk carton.

“Go away,” Zanna told it, and pointed. The carton retreated a few centimeters. Air whistled from its spout. It sounded like whimpering.

“Shwazzy, please!” Fing said, beckoning.

“Oh alright,” Deeba said to the carton. She nodded at Zanna. “I’ll sort it. You can come,” she said to the rubbish. “But if you gang up with your friends again, you’re gone.” Deeba jerked her head in invitation, and the milk carton scampered after her, rolling over the cobbles.

Behind them, the last of the little gathering dispersed. Several people watched Zanna go. They looked excited, and secretive, and very pleased.

One man was standing still. He was chubby and muscular, squeezed into painter’s dungarees, complete with streaks of paint. Deeba looked back, and he met her eyes for a moment, then looked back at Zanna, very thoughtfully.

He disappeared into the crowd, moving fast.

“What?” said Zanna, pulling Deeba to come.

“Nothing,” said Deeba. “I just feel like someone’s watching us.”

Watching you, she thought, and looked at her friend.

“I should’ve realized,” Obaday said, “that you’re arrivals, when I saw you talking to that ghost-boy. He hangs around, stealing, looking for strangers, but so far we’ve managed to get rid of him before he does anything terrible. You don’t want to make it into his phone book!”

“What?” said Zanna.

“In Wraithtown,” said Obaday. “They keep a list of all the dead. On both sides of the Odd!”

“Our phones don’t work,” Deeba said. “They’re bust.”

“You have phones? What in the abcity for? It’s too hard to train the insects. As far as I know there are about three working phones in UnLondon, each with a very carefully maintained hive, and all of them in Mr. Speaker’s Talklands.

“No wonder you’re confused. When did you get here? You must have been briefed? No? Not briefed? Hmmmm…” He frowned. “Maybe the Prophs are planning on explaining details later.”

“What Prophs?” Deeba said.

“And here we are!” said Obaday Fing, waving at his stall.

Obaday’s assistants looked up from their stitching. One or two had a few needles and pins wedged into their heads, in among plaits and ponytails. At the rear of the stall sat a figure writing at a huge sheet of paper. Where its head should be was a big glass jar full of black ink, into which it dipped its pen.

“Simon Atramenti,” Obaday said. The inkwell-headed person waved with stained fingers and returned to its writing. “For clients who insist on bespoke copy.”

The stall looked as if it was only about six feet deep, but when Obaday swept aside a curtain at the back there was a much larger tent-room beyond.

It was silk-lined. There was a table and chairs, a cabinet and a stove, hammocks hanging from the ceiling. Plump pillows were everywhere.

“Just my little office, just my little office,” Obaday said, sweeping off dust.

“This is amazing,” said Zanna. “You’d never know this was here.”

“How come there’s space?” said Deeba.

“I beg your pardon?” Obaday said. “Oh, well, I stitched it myself. After all my years I’d be embarrassed if I hadn’t learnt to stitch a few wrinkles in space.” He looked expectant. He waited.

Eventually Zanna said: “Um…That’s brilliant.” Obaday smiled, satisfied.

“No, it’s nothing,” he said, waving his hands. “Really you embarrass me.”

He picked things up and put them down, packing and unpacking a bag, talking all the time, a stream of odd phrases and non sequiturs so incomprehensible that they quickly stopped hearing it, except as a sort of amiable buzzing.