Cuckoo Song

Chapter 41. FIND THE LADY

No! There must be fifty Besiders here – why is he still chasing me?

With the energy of desperation Trista leaped, and landed safely on the balcony of the next trailer car. She crawled to the front, not daring to look around, then darted for the spiral stairway back down to the lower level. She half slid, half jumped down, then leaped across the shifting gap to the rear platform of the leading tram itself.

She heard a rattle of steps, and then Mr Grace came into view, slithering down the stairs she had just descended, blinking as snow buffeted his face, his teeth bared in a wince.

‘Stop it!’ she entreated him, under her breath, as he clattered his way down the steps. ‘Stop it, Mr Grace! You’ll spoil everything!’

There was a small grim pucker of humour at the corner of the tailor’s mouth.

‘That is rather the plan,’ he said, and launched himself towards the platform where Trista was standing.

An idea streaked through Trista’s mind, even as he jumped. One well-timed kick, or swipe with her claws, and he would be knocked back and fall. He would drop to the street, and lie there broken like Angelina. And nobody would know she had done it, just as they had never found out about Angelina.

But she did not let the thought lead her limbs. Instead she froze, and next moment Mr Grace was landing with a clang on the metal platform beside her. All too fast, and everything changed. He was huge now, and she was the small, frail doll.

‘Don’t!’ she squeaked and ducked his attempt to grapple her.

Shunk. The long black scissors were out and in his hands. He was the nightmare again now, the red-legged tailor from the nursery-book of horrors.

He lunged, and she dodged but too slowly. One point of his scissors pierced the cloth of her collar, pinning it to the wooden frame of the tram door. The other blade the tailor held poised, ready to cut horizontally towards her neck.

‘Listen, please!’ Once again she was the miserable child-monster begging, cobweb tears clouding her eyes. ‘I’m on your side! I’m trying to save Triss too! If you only listen, we can defeat the Architect together!’

Mr Grace looked at her carefully for a second, his eyebrows rising slightly. He was out of breath from the chase, his fingers blue with cold. His hair was thick with snow, and trickles of meltwater ran down his face like tears.

‘You creatures really will say anything to save your own twisted lives, won’t you?’ he murmured softly. His eyes were as dark as a thousand years of rain.

The death of his wife and the loss of his child. That was the crevasse of bottomless grief that stretched between them. With despair Trista realized that, for all her changeling agility, this was one abyss that she could not jump.

‘Architect!’ shouted the tailor at the top of his lungs. ‘I have your—’

Your daughter? Your servant?

Trista did not wait to discover the end of the sentence. With a strength born of panic she yanked herself to one side, rending her collar and leaving only a rag of dress fabric pinned by the scissors. Before the tailor could react she leaped upward on to the smooth, closed roof of the tram car and scrabbled away on all fours, out of sight and reach.

Behind her, she heard the tram door thrown open, perhaps by the tailor, perhaps by somebody inside. She had no idea what was happening below her. All she knew was that, for the moment, it was no longer happening to her.

The air smelt damp. Looking over the side, Trista realized with a shock that the tram was skimming over the river, above its own blotchy and surprised-looking reflection. A flock of gulls split giddily before the tram and veered away in panic, the wings of one grazing Trista’s cheek.

Buffeted by the rush of air, Trista slithered forwards along the roof, then clambered down the front of the tram, using the destination panel and trimmings for footholds. She landed softly next to the empty driver’s cab, then peered in through the window of the door, into the tram-car’s lower saloon.

The tram car was more lavish than the trailer cars, the seats covered in what looked like green velvet, the windows set in frames of golden-brown wood, the lights hooded with little green shades. It was empty, but for three figures.

At the far end of the carriage was Mr Grace the tailor, with the open door behind him. He still wore his dripping feather-coat, though it was fluttering madly as if trying to tear itself away from him. His hair was plastered to his face, which bore a look of ice-cold determination. In his hands he held the great black pair of iron scissors.

Mere yards from the dripping tailor, standing as if to confront him, was a taller figure. Even from behind, Trista recognized the smooth, honey-blond hair, the debonairly cut coat, the Oxford bags and the blinding, sunbeam aura of nonchalant panache. It was the Architect.

Far closer, seated with her back to the window, was a small girl of about eleven with light brown hair. She wore a white hat and coat, and sat with her shoulders nervously hunched, hands twisted in her lap.

With an effort of will, Trista retracted her thorn-claws and reached down her free hand to tap at the glass of the door. The girl started, turned to look around the compartment, then glanced across at the door and saw Trista’s visage.

Trista stared in at her own face, pale and miserable amid its glossy, careful curls. As she watched, the small pink mouth drooped and wavered in shock and fear, with an expression that Trista had felt on her own lips so many times.

Triss. Triss, quailing to see her own face staring in from the night.

Trista beckoned, and mouthed a desperate instruction.

Come closer!

Triss hesitated, casting a fearful glance towards the Architect.

Please! mouthed Trista. Quickly!

Triss began furtively sliding along the seat in Trista’s direction, watching the Architect all the while. Meanwhile, Trista gently eased her door open. As she did so, the conversation inside the tram became audible to her.

‘Do you know, sir,’ said the Architect, in his smooth, musical, slightly excited voice, ‘I have the funniest feeling that you do not have a ticket for this ride.’

‘I hoped these would satisfy any inspectors.’ The tailor raised the scissors, his tone steely rather than playful. ‘Do you wish to raise the matter with the Ministry of Transport?’

The Architect’s laugh was like a saw-blade drenched in honey, and halted just a little too suddenly.

‘Oh, hardly. Well, I suppose I should be flattered that you are so determined to take your place in my carriage.’ His voice was dangerously pleasant. ‘Perhaps you would like to join us and relax – take a little refreshment?’

‘I think it only polite to tell you,’ the tailor said through his teeth, ‘that your arts are wasted on me. I see you as you are, Architect.’

‘Do you?’ Again there was an uncomfortable sense of something only just under control, a teacup cracking as it tried to contain a storm. ‘Do you, scissor-man?’

Both Mr Grace and the Architect seemed too engrossed in their confrontation to glance down the carriage. Trista decided to risk a whisper.

‘Triss – I’ve come to rescue you! Take off your hat, shoes and coat! Quick! While they’re distracted!’

Triss looked perplexed, but hastened to obey, fingers fumbling with her buttons.

‘So,’ continued the Architect, ‘you think you see the world clearly?’

‘Compared to most of my fellows,’ the tailor answered drily, ‘I see it clear as crystal.’ He had moved his feet into something like a fencer’s stance, but Trista could not tell if he was planning a sudden lunge or a hasty retreat.

‘And that, I fear, is your problem,’ sighed the Architect. ‘For the world, my friend, is not clear. It is cloudy as a blood pudding. So if you see it crystal clear, there is something wrong with your eyes. Or perhaps you do not use your eyes. Perhaps you see with your scissors instead.

‘Vile things, scissors. They are only made for one purpose. To divide, cleanly and falsely. Snip, snip. Everything on one side or the other. Nothing in the middle.’

When the Architect said the word ‘scissors’, the melodiousness of his voice broke, like a needle skipping over a scratch on a record.

‘Better than hiding in a grey fog of lies,’ declared Mr Grace sharply.

‘But you are wearing our grey!’ laughed the Architect. ‘You have made yourself a bird of our feather! And,’ his voice took on a discordant edge, like a shift to a minor key, ‘I think it suits you.’

The Architect’s gesture towards Mr Grace was so slight, so casual, he might have been tossing away an invisible cigarette butt.

As he did so, however, the tailor gave a gasp as if he had been punched, and doubled over. The scissors fell from his fingers and clattered to the floor. The feathers of his coat fluttered madly, spirals ruffling and rippling through it like patterns in wind-flattened corn. He coughed, and each gasped breath filled the air with tiny dust-coloured feathers.

His dark hair was receding, receding, until it left only a greyish scalp. The panicky motions of his head became convulsive, rapid, bird-like twitches. From his collar, sleeves and the bottoms of his trousers poured ash and fine grey feathers. Then even his head was dwindling in size, shrivelling to the size of a coconut, an apple, an egg…

‘Triss!’ hissed Trista, seeing her double gaping at the transformation. ‘Come out here! Quickly!’ She held open the door, and Triss made a dart for it.

Triss gasped as she emerged into the mouth of the wind and took in the vista of the rushing river. Trista snatched the coat, shoes and hat from her unresisting hand and quickly put them on.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Triss. ‘Where do we go?’

Trista’s heart stuck in her throat as she stared around her for inspiration. Any moment now, the Architect would notice Triss was missing.

‘I’ll show you,’ she said abruptly. ‘Come – stand here with me.’ She pulled Triss away from the saloon door, towards the edge of the boarding platform.

‘What is it?’ Triss asked, eyes watering. ‘What am I looking for?’ The tram was starting to veer towards the bank, the black edge of the New Docks closing in on their right.

‘Sorry,’ murmured Trista, and as the tram skimmed over the shallows, she pushed her other self in the back with all her might. Unprepared, Triss pitched forward into space. The roar of the air swallowed her startled yelp and the soft splash that followed.

She can swim, Trista told herself as she leaned out, frantically scanning the dark water for signs of life. I know she can. I remember learning to swim. And I dropped her in the shallows…

Yes, there was splash of foam, a small head and a flailing of white limbs not far from the nearest jetty. Trista closed her eyes, as her mind flooded with relief.

A large hand was laid on Trista’s shoulder and firmly pulled her back from the edge.

‘Now what in the world were you planning?’ asked the Architect, his voice sleek with playful malice. ‘Were you thinking of jumping in the river? In your state of health? Or were you perhaps hoping to call out to someone?’

Trista said nothing, but kept her face lowered as he led her back into the saloon and guided her to sit down on the green velvet seat. She twisted her hands in her lap, the way Triss had done.

Something was flitting around the room, bumping against the lamps like a moth. It was a bird-thing, a large one, but getting smaller by the moment as it moulted feathers and ash.

‘Sciss-sciss-sciss-sciss!’ it hissed and buzzed, as it battered itself against walls and glass. Its tiny pale face was mad with hate. On the far side of the tram carriage lay a heap of Mr Grace’s clothes. There was no other sign of the tailor.

‘Look at you now, with your wet hair,’ the Architect commented, as he sat down beside Trista. ‘You could catch your death, Miss Crescent.’

Trista’s heart beat wildly inside her chest, like the Mr-Grace-bird-thing battering the walls.

I couldn’t jump out with Triss. I couldn’t. He would have noticed she was missing, and gone back to find her.

Besides, I have to get that watch.