Un Lun Dun

46. Old Friends

“Obaday!”

The needle-headed designer looked up in astonished delight.

“Deeba!”

Obaday was dressed in a natty suit of poems. He was sweeping up chunks of coal and iron into a big pile in front of his stall, which effervesced back into little threads of smog and drifted away even as he built it. He swept Deeba up in a hug. She laughed and hugged him back. “Deeba, what are you doing here?” He held her at arm’s length and looked at her.

From the rear of Obaday’s stall came an excited snuffling.

“Is that…?” Deeba said, and Curdle came bouncing out from behind the curtain. The little milk carton rolled its cardboard body at them and leapt into Deeba’s hands.

“Curdle!” she said. She tickled it and it squirmed. “What’s it doing with you, Obaday?”

He looked sheepish.

“Well,” he said. “After you left, the silly little thing was miserable. It was pining. Lectern was going to let it go back in the Backwall Maze, but I thought that maybe it would rather…live with someone who knew you and the Shwazzy…sort of thing.”

“Oh right,” she said and smiled. “You’re keeping it for its sake. You don’t care one way or the other.”

“Alright, alright,” he said. “Anyway. How on earth did you get here? Why did you come? It’s a difficult time…”

His words petered out. He stared at Hemi.

Hemi stood tense and ready to run. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t take him for part-ghost— but you’d know he wanted to be somewhere else. He looked at Obaday suspiciously.

“Obaday,” Deeba said. “Think what you say.”

“But Deeba,” he hissed. “You don’t know who that is. He’s a—”

“I know exactly who that is. His name’s Hemi, and he’s a half-ghost. He’s a pain in the arse, but he’s also who got me here, and who helped me.”

“But he’ll try to—”

“Shut up, Obaday. No he won’t. I mean it.” Deeba spoke sternly. “He helped me. And we’ve got something really important to show you. Hemi’s with me, and I don’t want to hear anything about it.”

Obaday thinned his lips.

“If you say so, Deeba,” he said. “You are of the Shwazzy’s party, after all. If you say so. Come and have a cup of tea. And…” There was a long pause. “And your guest, too.”

They sat in the sumptuous fabric-lined back room, now shot through with hundreds of holes through which the UnSun shone. The stink of the Smog’s missiles filled the air.

“You’ve chosen a pretty terrible time to come and visit us,” Obaday said. “Did you see what happened?” Deeba nodded. “Well then. You see the war’s hit…rather a complicated stage.”

“That’s what I’m here about,” Deeba started to say, but Obaday continued.

“Thank God for the unbrellas, that’s all I can say.” He tapped the one at his belt. Its fabric was torn on one section of webbing. “That little split— that’s what makes it an unbrella— doesn’t stop it protecting me. If it weren’t for Unstible’s formula— and if it weren’t for Brokkenbroll’s orders, too— none of us could face the Smog. Shame so many of us still can’t— there aren’t enough unbrellas yet. I tell you, though, they have the Smog rattled.”

“I think there’s a reason the Smog’s attacking more,” Deeba said.

“Yes, Unstible was talking about it the other day. I read it on the walls. He explained that the Smog’s getting worried. Because it can see we’ve got a new strategy.”

“Yes,” Deeba said. “But about that. About Unstible…”

“So really,” Obaday continued, “it’s actually a good sign that it’s being more aggressive. It means we can be pleased with our progress. That’s what Unstible said.”

“Obaday, will you listen?” Deeba snapped. “I’m trying to tell you something. The reason the war’s getting worse isn’t ’cause the Smog’s worried, but ’cause Unstible’s not on your side.”

She showed him the piece of paper with its official Wraithtown stamp.

“What is this…?” he said.

“Look. Unstible died. The Smog killed him. Whoever that is giving orders and making up potions, it’s not Unstible.”

“This…this doesn’t mean anything,” Fing said uncertainly. “It might not be real.”

“Obaday,” Deeba said. “Don’t be stupid. Look at it.” The paper flared with ghostliness as she spoke: around its edges a leaf even became visible, a momentary haunting by the wood that had been made into the paper. “Why d’you think I’m here? I sort of realized something weird was going on. Now I got proof, I need to show that lot at the bridge.”

“Well…” Obaday glanced at Hemi. “I’m sure your friend here wouldn’t do anything deliberately, but you can’t trust the Wraiths. Some people even say they’re in league with the Smog.”

Hemi jumped to his feet. “I knew it,” he said. “I told you, Deeba.”

“I’m not saying you, and I’m not saying I believe it,” said Obaday. “If Deeba says you’re alright, then…you’re probably alright. But maybe, I don’t know, someone in the office wants to undermine Unstible, or something.”

“I saw it in the database,” said Deeba. “On the computer.”

“Well…” Obaday turned the paper over and examined it. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe this is another Unstible. What do you think’s going on, then? It doesn’t make any sense. Unstible’s helping. He’s obviously on our side.”

Before Deeba could answer, there was a shout. “Obaday Fing!” one of his assistants yelled through the Smog-tattered cloth. “Quickly. Something’s coming.”

“What?” he said, leaping to his feet and swinging his unbrella. “Is the Smog back?”

“No. It’s a bus.”