Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [66]
A little crowd had gathered.
“Hi Jones!” Deeba shouted. “Who is it?”
Another man appeared on the platform at Jones’s side. He was thin and fidgety, carrying a briefcase.
“Ah, Miss Resham?” he said nervously. She could only just hear him. “I’m from Minister Rawley’s office. The minister was very intrigued by your letter.”
“What?” she said. “She got it? How…how did you get here? And how did you know it was from me?”
“Who is that?” Hemi whispered to her.
“Well now.” The man smiled briefly. “We, ah, have our ways. Reconstruct a letter’s journey, check video footage, that sort of thing. We were able to work out that you must have sent it. We tried to contact you at home, Miss Resham, but we realized you must’ve come here. We’re very keen to, um, speak to you, please, as soon as possible.”
“What did I tell you?” Deeba said to Obaday. He was staring foolishly at the bus, his mouth open. “D’you think they’d have sent him all the way from London if there weren’t something going on?”
“I…but…” Obaday could only stammer. “There must be a mistake…”
“Nuh-uh,” Deeba said. “I think things are kicking off. Watch yourself. I think things aren’t what you reckon. Hold on, Jones!” she shouted up. “I’m coming. Do you want to come?” she said to Hemi. “You don’t have to.”
“I said I’d get you to the bridge,” he said carelessly. “Might as well do that.”
“And I’m bringing a friend.” Hemi raised an eyebrow. Curdle refused to leave her grasp. “Two friends,” Deeba said.
The basket spun, but Deeba had lost any fear she might have had of heights. She leaned over and waved good-bye to a still slack-faced Obaday Fing. Curdle bounced in her hands and looked down, too.
Hemi clung to the sides of the basket. His eyes were firmly shut.
“You’re half-ghost,” said Deeba. “How can you be scared?”
“Just because half my family are unquiet dead,” he hissed, “why should I like this sort of thing?”
He didn’t open his eyes until the conductor pulled him into the bus.
“Hello Jones,” said Deeba, and hugged him. “You’re not going to start insulting Hemi, are you?”
“Your friend’s got ghost in him.” Jones eyed Hemi judiciously. “Not my business. He’s my passenger now, and that means he’s under my protection. Although that does mean, young man, no more climbing the outside of the bus, no more dropping through floors, no more leaving clothes in dirty piles. Are we clear?”
Hemi didn’t look at him, but his pale face darkened, just slightly.
“Dunno what you mean, Conductor,” he muttered.
“How come you came here?” she said. “I thought you didn’t like going off your route.”
“There’s always exceptions. When Mr. Murgatroyd here came and explained the situation, we didn’t hesitate. He needed some help to find you, said they’d had a message from you, back in the old city, and could someone help him track you down. Well, the Propheseers knew I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to see you again, was I? I knew if I were you I’d head back here, where you’ve got friends. But I didn’t really believe you’d be here!”
“I had to come,” Deeba said.
“Miss Resham.” The nervous man stepped forward, interrupting. He looked quite gray. He carefully did not get close to the edge of the platform. “I’m Murgatroyd, of the Ministry of the Environment. I’m Rawley’s man.” He shook her hand. He did not even look at Hemi.
“What do you do?” Deeba said. “For Rawley.”
“The lurch…” he said, then stuttered. “Th-that is to say, I, ah…I lurch. Minister Rawley’s brainchild. It’s, ah, a kind of experimental Odd-crossing technique. I ‘lurched’ here. I’m trying to perfect it.”
“I can’t believe you found me,” Deeba said. Murgatroyd inclined his head modestly.
“We have certain methods,” he said.
“What’s this about, Deeba?” Jones said. He kept an eye on the sky, in case the Smog returned. The bus rose and set off over the city. Deeba watched the fabric of the market, and the ghost-slates of Wraithtown lapping like froth.
“This is what I’m telling you,” she said, and reached for the paper. “I found