So, he was luckier choosing asylums than he was at choosing photographs. He slowed, crossing the cobbled standing yard, taking in this scene of great industry. Traffic directors waved yellow batons to signal traffic out of the surrounding sheds onto a central turntable, where the long trains of teams and wagons got swung to face the main gate—then off they went on their journey. Wagons and teams queued, creeping up the line. The turntable was so constantly busy that the team pushing it worked in shifts of only a few minutes before being rested.
After this frenetic scene, the Goods Inwards hall seemed almost hushed. Donald paused, conscious of scathing eyes resting on him. He was the only person in the hall not in the smart black uniform of the ultramarines. To avoid dithering, he joined a queue near the middle of the hall only to find that this time, his choice was not lucky. The impatient clerk who finally served him scowled at his enquiry to see one Sarah-Kelly Newman.
“I’ve no bloomin’ idea!” he exploded. “Twenty-five thousand folk works here. It’s not as if they can just drop their tools for you, even if I could find your bint.”
A white one slid across the counter under Donald’s palm.
“Would that make a difference?”
“It might if it was yellow.”
The greedy bastard wanted a gold ounce. Donald slid over a Manx angel. The clerk eased it off the counter into his pocket. He wrote down Sarah-Kelly’s name and glided away down the counter and through a doorway into the depths of ZEEBRI. Minutes turned into fives of minutes and then tens of minutes. Most likely the sleazebag had buzzed off with his trophy and would not be back. Donald was on the verge of giving up when the skinny man returned.
“That was a flippin’ wild goose chase and no mistake. I’d have wanted two yellows had I known what a palaver that would be,” he groused. “Finally got hold of her in upholstery shop. Her shift finishes at half twelve. You wait at the back there and she’ll be right out then.” As Donald thanked him, the clerk winked and added: “Nice looker, I must say.”
It was only a half-hour wait. The asylum siren went off and the whole place erupted into rumbles and shouts, torrents of clogs clattered across the turning yard and out the gate. Donald watched through the dusty windows, growing astonished by the unending river of humanity, all wearing the same dark red overalls and caps, from kids of about ten up to old crones hobbling out last, stooped over walking sticks. Not much retirement out here, it would seem.
Fingers tapped his shoulder. He turned to face Sarah-Kelly. Her hair was tied up in a pony-tail, which was tucked inside the back of her overalls. She smelled of turpentine and looked tired and irritable.
“Can I get you lunch?” he asked.
“I’ll sign you in as a guest,” she said. “We’ll eat for free up in the canteen.”
“It’s no bother—on me.”
“This is Brent Cross, Donald, we don’t have sweet little tea rooms. It’s boozers for the men and tarts, and sod-all for the rest.”
“Some other time, then. Lead on.”
At one end of the Goods Inwards hall was a visitors’ gate. Donald showed his messenger’s passport, Sarah-Kelly showed her works ID and the gatekeeper wrote it all down in the visitors’ log.
“Make sure you sign out afterwards,” Sarah-Kelly said as she led him up a gloomy, rather ominous corridor into the body of ZEEBRI. “If you don’t, I’ll get charged with aiding and abetting a breach of Frite and you’ll be a hunted man.”
Donald was looking about at the walls, which had the texture of wooden planks but were hard as stone. The roof was the same texture. The floor was smooth, with two shallow channels worn by decades of clogs. They passed arches leading into galleries where horned metal animals rested silent, jaws still matted with swirls of steel cuttings. He was particularly impressed by the sense of being in an underground complex cut through rock. Everything was massively solid as if built to withstand medieval warfare. The lighting was electric and very bright—brighter than the overcast November afternoon outside.
“What’s this building made from?” Donald asked.
“Reinforced concrete. It’s an heirloom of the Public Era. Believe it or not, this was once a multi-storey car park.”
Donald lifted his eyebrows in askance. Sarah-Kelly smirked. He liked that smirk of hers. She had double dimples in each cheek.
“Here’s a bit of economic history for you,” she said. “As you know, the Fatted Masses went everywhere in those funny little bug-like motor cars. Well—you won’t believe this, because no one would believe anything so ridiculous—but when they went to get food or whatever, the Fatted Masses had to store their bugs somewhere. So, they put them in these places. The Fatted Masses would drive up this corridor and park in these galleries. There’s five levels, including this amazing open-air top deck where we’re going. These things were all over Public Era cities. They’ve survived because they were built solid like glory forts to carry all the weight of the bugs.”
“I think that requires more imagination than I can muster,” Donald said. He assumed she was pulling his leg.
The corridor curved upwards and around back on itself to open into another low gallery. It was clearly a furniture shop, with wood steaming cabinets, carving tables, turning machines, polishing wheels, stacks of complete frames and leather patterns being marked out on hides for cutting.
“I work in here. They’ve got me on marking out and cutting, which is nerve-wracking because if you make a mistake and waste a hide, it comes off your wages. They don’t pay much in the first place.”
“What do you get?”
“Sixty-three white ones for a fifty-five hour week.”
“What’s that in gold?”
“About one and a half
