Pasha Malla - People Park

From the HG’s. They want you to know that you can —

— call anytime.

It’s a fax machine too.

Well touch green and colour me golden, said the Mayor.

Yeah! No problem!

We’ll leave you then, said Walters.

Lots to prepare for tonight! Sure you’ve got work of your own. .

And of course, Mrs. Mayor, as always, you’ll be the guest of honour.

VIP!

Obsequious goodbyes followed (two-faced fuggers, thought the Mayor), instructions were whispered to the cripple, and the elevator took the Helpers back down to ground level. Out the window, the view was of the park.

This is their idea of a joke, isn’t it? said the Mayor, and, turning away, missed the boy’s attempt, heaped over his crutches, at a vigorous and earnest shake of his head.

Make yourself useful. By the door is a keypad, see it? Enter this passcode: forty-five, ten, twenty-two, forty-four hundred, but before you go thinking you can come up here and mess around anytime you like, it changes every day.

From behind her: the tap of crutches, a pause, a digital, affirmative-sounding chirp.

Now hit STOP, she said. Solar-powered, you know that? Another of my initiatives.

Another chirp. The viewing deck shuddered to a halt.

Look at it, she said. People Park, a park for people , is how I pitched it to council. And here we are, twenty-five years later. I bet the park’s older than you are.

The cripple made a noise: Mmm.

And you know, don’t you, I hope you know — though who knows what they’re teaching you kids in school these days — that the park was all my doing? Of course engineers designed the amusements, and the actual building was taken care of by contractors. But the concept, the layout, the landscaping — all mine. I know people just think of me as a figurehead and nothing else. Most of you have no idea what I’ve done for this place.

Mmm.

I wanted a park for everybody. Young, old, handicapped, fat, whatever. Oh, some people criticized my greying measures — but how does a greenspace stand out without a little contrast? Look at it now, how it practically glows! Or will, touch green, in the spring.

Mmm, said Diamond-Wood, nodding.

Do you know what this city was before People Park? It was nothing. It was a nothing place. It was disconnected, all these neighbourhoods flung off in all the corners of the island, and in the middle was a cancer. That’s what it was, a cancer. But think of a city as a person — what should a person have in its centre?

She swivelled atop the cart: A soul. Before it had a cancer, and then it had a soul. I put the soul in. And People Park is the soul, the Mayor said slowly, of everyone . That was its purpose and what it remains. But here we are meant to be celebrating it — twenty-five years of this soul, keep in mind — and instead your organization has brought in an outsider, a fraudulent, ridiculous conjurer intent on humiliating us and stealing our souls. Because that’s what he’s here to do, make no mistake. I mean, look at me.

Diamond-Wood’s eyes were on the floor.

I said look at me.

He glanced up, quickly, then back down.

You can’t! This is your fault. It’s all your stupid organization’s fault.

The Mayor gazed out the window. I don’t think people know what they’re celebrating this weekend. They just want to be awed. They’ve forgotten. This magician — what does he have planned? Do you know? Speak, for fug’s sake!

He pointed at the ducktape.

So take it off! Oh. I bet those appleheads have some sort of regulation — well come here then, said the Mayor, and tore the gag from his mouth.

Ow, he said.

So?

Sorry, no idea.

Ah. Good thing I ungagged you then. She rubbed a hand over her face. So you have no idea what’s going to happen tonight.

Tonight?

Tonight . With the — what’s his face. Crowboy the Illuminator.

Raven? Honestly, I’m just a Recruit, hence the ducktape, and I certainly wouldn’t —

No idea.

None. The HG’s haven’t even been told anything. I don’t even think he knows. I guess he has to explore the city to figure out what he’s going to illustrate? Honestly, we’ve been told how to arrange the stage, and we’re working with Cinecity to make sure the live feeds are running, keeping the bridge blocked. That’s it. And I’m here with you!

The Mayor turned away. In the park preparations for the evening’s show were beginning: a cube van had arrived, cartons and crates of various sizes and shapes were being unloaded into the common.

Mrs. Mayor?

What.

It’s going to be amazing, I think. Tonight. It’s going to be —

Oh would you please just shut up.

The first spectators were arriving, staking claims with towels unfurled on the muddy grass. The Mayor sighed — and looked at Diamond-Wood.

Hey, she said. Come closer.

Sorry?

You enjoy magic? She beckoned with a finger. Let me show you a trick.

Diamond-Wood leaned in, wobbling on his crutches.

Closer, the Mayor whispered, closer, and once his face was near enough to kiss, she plucked the ducktape off the dessert cart, slapped it onto his mouth, smeared it flat, and announced: Ta-da.

GENTLEMEN, said Raven from the backseat, if I could request a detour.

It’s gone eight already, said Starx, wheeling out of the Grand Saloon’s driveway and south on Orchard Parkway. We’re supposed to be at the studios at half-past —

A brief detour. If you could take me to the bridge. Just to see it.

We’re heading south, said Starx. Bridge is north. Road’s closed anyway.

Ah, but my understanding is that it’s your people who have blocked off, what is it? Raven flipped through the CityGuide in his lap. The Topside Drive? And it seems that one can turn around at the bottom of this street, and really it’s not far from here at all.

Starx’s eyes moved between the road, steady with traffic, and the rearview. Olpert, Starx’s XXL shirt billowing around his body, checked the mirror: the illustrationist reclined in a pose both sanguine and erotic, one knee up, hands behind his head, grinning.

Might no one, he said, have more authority to traverse these blockades than us?

At the bottom of Orchard Parkway Starx merged onto the roundabout at Cathedral Circus, but didn’t exit onto Lakeside Drive, just went looping back around. Another Citywagon slid in ahead of them, peeled off toward Bay Junction.

Mr. Starx? said Raven.

Fine, but let’s keep it brief, said Starx, and from the drinkholder scooped the walkie-talkie, told Griggs what was happening.

Olpert’s hangover had found its way into his temples, where it thudded and stabbed. With each surge came flashes of the previous evening, shameful razory nicks — nevermind the great gaping wound of how he’d ended his night. As Starx turned onto Topside Olpert cracked the window, pointed his face into the breeze like a pet.

At the Guardian Bridge exit the Helpers ushered them through the barricades. Starx nodded officiously, pulled onto the shoulder, and killed the engine. The bridge arced toward the mainland. Beneath it the Narrows swept briskly to the east, twinkling in the sunshine.

Well here we are, said Starx, turning to the backseat. What can we tell him, Bailie?

IFC Stadium, where the Lady Y’s play — it’s just back that way.

He’s a fan, said Starx.

Olpert shrugged shyly.

Fine, fine, said Raven. Now, gentlemen? If you’ll give me a minute.

He swung out of the car, glided up onto the bridge.

Starx watched. What do you think he’s after? Wait, why’s he lying down?