Rainbow Bridge Read Free Page A

Amazon, in the capital of the most romantic country in the world; which he had recently conquered. Sometimes the moment is enough. But when she was sleeping he put on a robe, and sat looking out between the golden curtains (the bedroom had the same décor as the living room) into the quiet of Chelsea. He had visited London before the Crash: a sad disappointment, all bling and guns and the most repellent spiritual poverty. He preferred Ax Preston’s version, albeit ravaged by grandiose ‘Green’ redevelopment; and Hu’s somewhat careless treatment. He liked the darkness of these English cities. The frugality of street lighting that mapped human movement, little networks of fire, ever-changing—
    The courtesan slept like a baby in the haunted shrine; which allayed his own nagging disquiet. Disquiet? Call it fear and dread, if you must… But fear made this distasteful address worthwhile.
    She would be his litmus paper; her responses would be his test-bed.
    ‘And if there’s any secret gold in these clouded hills,’ he murmured, with bravado to match Dian’s, ‘it’s Chinese gold now.’

Ashdown
    Ashdown
     
I
    One Rainy Wish
    The festival stages were going up, in the midst of a picturesque heathland known as the Ashdown Forest, some forty kilometres south of the 18 th October Line. Scaffolders mounted the mainstage towers with a merry clangour and hammering that sang of better days; of the Reich in its glory. Around the margins of the broad hollow that formed the arena, rolls of doubled baling plastic were being stapled down for flooring, in the shelters for tentless campers. The big tents for smaller stages had been raised, the designated campground was filling up. Word had gone out and the faithful had made their way to Sussex, from raw battlefields and freshly occupied cities; some with Chinese permissions, some travelling on the underground; some from as far away as Yorkshire. They drifted, watching the crews, buying hot drinks and pies from concession stands, clotting into groups; meeting the locals.
    No motor vehicles. True to its code, the Reich wouldn’t have sullied the protected heath with chicken-wire track, also they had very little fuel to spare. A line of roustabouts, backs bent like Egyptian slaves, laden like donkeys or hauling great obelisks on handcarts, stretched from mainstage away out of sight, towards the road. Dogs and lost children fretted; ancient shopping trolleys ran aground. An enterprising local could be heard roaring out his wares, ‘ Skids! Get yer skids here! ’
    Up on the stage a team of sound and light engineers were taking stock, reading the prospective ’scapes on gadget-belt screens, discussing their difficulties in a private world, oblivious of the scaffolders’ row. A lanky individual in scarecrow jeans stared out at the arena from under the hood of a shabby grey fleece. He was looking, without much hope, for a man called Doug Hutton—last seen several months ago, on the night Ax Preston and his partners had been arrested as they tried to leave the country. But the crowd itself caught his attention. They had finally lost it, the indefatigable ravers. They had lost control, they were falling-down helpless, not a leg to stand on. They’d come here to be found, uprooted children clinging to the familiar “traveller’s joy” logo on battered marquees. To the shards of the Reich’s life raft, flotsam and jetsam on the grey waves of the heath—
    ‘Was’ that rubbidge Caro?’
    ‘Appropriate, healthy, social and political comment.’
    ‘Sounds like arsing culture ter me,’ complained a hefty fellow with a mane of curly black hair. The tall engineer in the grey hoodie shivered and gobbed into a nasty-looking rag, causing the team to yelp and gag, clasping their ears.
    ‘SAGE! Don’t fucking DO THAT! That’s DISGUSTING.’
    ‘Carn’ help having a cold, can I?’
    ‘It’s the “Slaves’ Chorus” from Aida ,’ admitted Caro Letwynd, a pigtailed woman with a