Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [3]
They sat without speaking for a while. Deeba put on lip gloss. Zanna just sat.
“What we going to do, Zanna?” said Deeba at last. “Something’s going on.”
“I know,” said Zanna. “It’s getting worse.”
It was hard to say exactly when it had all started. Things had been getting strange for at least a month.
“Remember when I saw that cloud?” said Deeba. “That looked like you?”
“That was weeks ago, and it didn’t look anything like anything,” Zanna said. “Let’s stick to real stuff. The fox today. And that woman. What was on the wall. And the letter. That sort of thing.”
It had been early autumn when the odd events had started to occur. They had been in the Rose Café.
None of them had paid any attention when the door opened, until they’d realized that the woman who’d come in was standing quietly by their table. One by one they looked at her.
She’d been wearing a bus driver’s uniform, the cap at a perky angle. She was grinning.
“Sorry to butt in,” the woman said. “I hope you don’t…Just very exciting to meet you.” She smiled at all of them but addressed Zanna. “Just wanted to say that.”
The girls stared in dumb astonishment for several seconds. Zanna had tried to stutter some reply, Kath had burst out with “What…?” and Deeba had started laughing. None of this fazed the woman. She said a nonsense word.
“Shwazzy!” she said. “I heard you’d be here, but I wouldn’t have believed it.” With one more smile, she left, leaving the girls laughing nervously and loudly, until the waitress had asked them to calm down.
“Nutter!”
“Nutter!”
“Bloody nutter!”
If that had been all, it would have just been one of those stories about someone a bit loopy on London streets. But that had not been all.
Some days later Deeba had been with Zanna, walking under the old bridge over Iverson Road. She’d looked up, reading some of the cruder graffiti. There behind the pigeon net, far higher than anyone could have reached, was painted in vivid yellow: ZANNA FOR EVER!
“Cor. Someone else called Zanna,” Deeba said. “Or you’ve got long arms. Or someone massive loves you, Zan.”
“Shut up,” Zanna said.
“It’s true, though,” Deeba said. “No one else’s called Zanna, you’re always saying. Now you’ve made your mark.”
A little while after that, the day after Guy Fawkes Night, when London was full of bonfires and fireworks, Zanna had come to school upset.
At last, when she was alone with Deeba, Zanna had pulled a piece of paper and a card out of her bag.
A postman had been waiting outside her front door. He had given her a letter with no name on the envelope, just handed it straight to her as soon as she had emerged, and disappeared. She hesitated before showing it to Deeba.
“Don’t tell any of the others,” she had said. “Swear?”
We look forward to meeting you, Deeba read, when the wheel turns.
“Who’s it from?” Deeba said.
“If I knew that I wouldn’t be freaked out. And there’s no stamp.”
“Is there a mark?” Deeba said. “To say where it came from? Is that a U? An L? And that says…on, I think.” They couldn’t read any more.
“He said something to me,” Zanna said. “The same thing that woman did. ‘Shwazzy,’ he said. I was like, ‘What?’ I tried to follow him, but he was gone.”
“What does it mean?” Deeba said.
“That’s not all,” said Zanna. “This was in there too.”
It was a little square of card, some strange design, a beautiful, intricate thing of multicolored swirling lines. It was, Deeba had realized, some mad version of a London travelcard. It said it was good for zones one to six, buses and trains, all across the city.
On the dotted line across its center was carefully printed: ZANNA MOON SHWAZZY.
That was when Deeba had told Zanna that she had to tell her parents. She herself had kept her promise, and never told anyone.
“Did you tell them?” said Deeba.
“How can I?” said Zanna. “What am I going to say about the animals?”
For the last few weeks, dogs would often stop as Zanna walked by, and stare at her. Once a little conga line of three squirrels had come down from a tree as Zanna sat in Queen’s Park,