Un Lun Dun

EPILOGUE

In the heart of Westminster, in the sumptuous, wood-paneled office of Elizabeth Rawley, secretary of state for Environment, it was an unexceptional morning. The minister worked through the pile of papers on her desk, checking reports, making notes and suggestions, preparing press releases.

There was a personal note from the prime minister. He was extremely pleased with the success of LURCH, the London-UnLondon Rerouting Carbon Hazards plan. Carcinogens and toxic pollution were down across the southeast, the ratings from environmentalists were up, and the government had established an invaluable relationship with a very powerful ally.

The prime minister was already raising the possibility of deploying their contact in various trouble spots. “A chemical weapon that can strategize like a general,” he’d said. “Hidden among oil fires! Think of it, Elizabeth!”

She did think of it. She was very proud of her initiative. She didn’t want to count her chickens, but she was hearing whispers of promotion. She eyed a door on her far wall.

Rawley only hoped the PM didn’t find out that communications had dried up since just after Murgatroyd had made his way back in a half-crippled police burrower, cursing.

Her intercom buzzed.

“Minister,” her secretary said. “There’s someone to see you.”

“There’s nothing scheduled…”

“She came in the public entrance, Minister. She won’t give her name, but she’s insisting on seeing you.”

“For heaven’s sake don’t be ridiculous.”

“She says she can tell you what’s going on in…in the other city. She said you’d know what she means.” Her secretary sounded nonplussed. “But only if you saw her now. I’m sorry, Minister, she wouldn’t be more specific. She insisted I tell you. She said something about chimneys, and a war, and—”

“That’s enough.” Rawley spoke quickly. “Send her in.” She pressed another button. “Murgatroyd, for God’s sake get in here. We’ve finally got contact.”

Murgatroyd entered from his adjoining office, accompanied by secret service men with pistols out and ready: standard procedure when dealing with the abcities.

After a moment, the main doors opened, and a short, dark, round-faced girl with an extremely determined expression entered. She was carrying a red umbrella.

Elizabeth Rawley stared at her. The girl eyed her back.

Murgatroyed emitted a strangled sound. “You!” he screamed. He pointed with crooked fingers. The girl held up a hand and looked at her watch.

“Was hoping we’d catch you,” she said. “Ten seconds.” After a moment, she said, “Five.”

It was that many seconds to nine o’clock.

An alarm bell sounded. The noise of machinery began to approach. In the corner of the room, a red light came on.

The elevator hadn’t worked for days. The noise of gears came closer.

There was a bing as the lift crossed through the membrane between worlds, and arrived. The door opened. “Hey, you lot!” the girl called happily. “You cleared the elevator shaft! I knew you could.”

Elizabeth Rawley stared.

Stepping out of the elevator came a big man in an antiquated London Transport uniform. He wore a conductor’s ticket machine and carried a copper rod. Beside him was a man wearing printed paper, with needles and pins for hair.

There was a boy with them, a pale boy in flickering clothes. And leaping out from behind them…Was that a dustbin? With arms and legs? And stern eyes glinting from under its lid?

Rawley took it all in.

Murgatroyd drew his gun and aimed it at the girl. There was a shot, and the ping of a ricochet. The girl held her umbrella before her.

The agents raised their pistols. The conductor leapt out with a flurry of fists and feet, and the sound of crackling and bursts of sparks. Bodyguards tumbled to the floor unconscious. The dustbin somersaulted and, with a frenetic succession of windmill kicks, laid out a line of men and women.

The girl spun her umbrella so fast it looked as if it were the umbrella pulling her. She smacked weapons effortlessly out of several agents’ hands.

Elizabeth Rawley stared in shock. In less than three seconds, most of her staff were incapacitated.

“I’ll kill you!” Murgatroyd spat, and fired again.

The girl spun, and blocked with the umbrella, then swung like a truncheon. It caught Murgatroyd under his chin, and sent him soaring. He sailed backwards, over Rawley’s desk, crashed into the wall behind her, and slid to the floor, groaning.

The dustbin handsprung over Rawley’s desk and stood with one foot on Murgatroyd. The conductor stood poised, ready to strike. The boy and the pin-headed man ran to the door, checked it, and wedged it closed.

The girl stepped closer and stared into the minister’s eyes. She jumped up and landed on the desk. She twirled the umbrella, stretched like a fencer with it pointed directly at Rawley’s throat.

“Minister,” said the girl. “We need to talk.”