Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors

opened his mouth to speak, the door opened again
(tinkle) and he received its handle in the small of his back. Thursday
October entered, clutching a carton of paint tins and a roll of paper.
Squeezing past the infuriated obstruction, he gave a nod to Vini, a
half-smile to me, and flitted up the stairs.
The customer rubbed his back and stared at us with distaste.
‘M r Thornton!’ said Vini.
‘Is this the mad hatter’s tea party? Ought to be, in the house of the
mad builder — now about that atlas you sold me . . . ’
I got out of the way, pausing only to slip the rent under the sugar
bowl, for safekeeping. The packet of tea was nearby and I noticed its
brand: Lipton’s.
Thursday had spread the fresh sheet of paper on the floor and was
prising the lids off the paint tins. He glanced up as I entered. ‘Do us
a favour. Can you fetch the map from the chest? I’m messy already.’
He had opened the padlock and I found the map when I lifted the
lid of the box. Underneath it was a sketch of a peculiar horned animal.
‘W hat’s this?’
‘Oh — a reo.’ He chuckled. ‘Harmless little beastie . . . now. The
original version was a nightmare monster — Strongarm was into horror movies at the time. Well, we left the draw-rings lying about and it gave the dancing class the willies. Madame complained to Vim, you
bet she did.’
‘There are reos in Lipton Village?’ I asked cautiously.
‘Yeah, settling in nicely.’
‘You’ve been there?’
‘Just for visits.’
I picked up an unopened paint tin, and rocked it in my hand,
The L ipton Village Society
23
feeling the viscous fluid swell and slurp inside.
‘I can’t decide if you’re crazy or not.’
Someone stumped up the stairs and Thursday called out, ‘That
you, Jeri?’
‘Yeah.’ The boy carried a canvas bag, from which he unloaded
books, mostly with the distinctive sticker of my old University library.
One was unadorned, in a thick leather binding.
‘T hat’s from Times Gone,’ I said,
‘S’right. Picked it up as I went through.’
‘Put it back,’ said Thursday. ‘He’ll skin ya.’
‘Will do, but take a look at this.’
It was a book of maps, their folds neatly mended with strips of white
paper. He opened one out, a hand-tinted panoram a of the West In dies. In the empty sea between islands the cartographer had inserted out-of-proportion sailing ships, giant puffing cherubs, a whale large
enough to swallow Antigua.
‘Inspiration,’ said Jeri. ‘Now I’ll take it back.’
‘Is that Thornton’s atlas?’ I asked.
‘No. Times Gone is full of map-books.’
The argument in the shop was percolating upstairs. I could distinguish words and phrases: ‘incipit missing’, ‘later edition’ and ‘cost’.
Evidently some bibliographical minutia was in dispute. The door
jangled again, then slammed shut.
‘Thorny walking out,’ commented Jeri. ‘He’ll be back . . . next
time he wants an argument.’
He and Thursday exchanged glances, as though to say: ‘all the
world’s mad, save thee and me’. Both of them looked not a little smug.
After a moment Jeri wandered off with the book, leaving Thursday
staring thoughtfully at the blank sheet of paper. He gave me no chance
to establish eye contact, to resume our interrupted conversation; I had
to wait until Jeri returned to continue my questioning.
‘Are you a student? I recognise the library.’
‘I shelve books,’ he replied.
I inspected the titles: a textbook of animal physiology, Bakunin, atmospherical dynamics, the sociology of groups.
‘Wide range.’ (Meaning, do you understand all of that?)
He picked up the zoology book. ‘This was useful with the — ’
‘Reos?’
‘And the rest. It’s difficult to make an animal up from scratch. We
had a few abortions.’
‘Who was it,’ Thursday asked suddenly, ‘who forgot the oxygen?’
24
Lucy Sussex
Jeri pointed to the book on atmosphere. ‘T hat was years ago.’ He
flicked through the pages of the book he was still holding, then put it
down. ‘We’re finished now. These are just refreshers.’ The tone of his
voice altered, as if to exclude me. ‘Eh, Tburs, they’ve been at me again.’
‘Huh?’
‘To do the Library Technician course.’
‘Well’, said Thursday, ‘you can’t.
‘Yeah, but try and think up a good excuse.’
I butted in: ‘Why can’t you do it?’
They ignored me. Thursday said: ‘Tell them you won’t be living
here anymore.’
‘Oh come on Thursday, I know you got out of a job you didn’t want,
but you can’t advise Jeri to forgo a decent opportunity . . . ’
‘You sound like a social worker,’ said Jeri, and that shut me up.
Thursday explained: ‘He can’t do it, ’cause he’ll be living in Lipton Village. We all will.’
Vini, in accordance with the trading laws and his own sloth, had shut
Times Gone for the weekend. The shop was empty except for Rover
dozing in a pool of sunlight beside the elephant folios. I tried upstairs,
avoiding the room where Thursday and Jeri had begun to paint,
working together. Vini was in his flat, eating a bachelor’s lunch:
toasted cheese.
‘Come in and collect yourself,’ he said, after a glance. ‘Care to join
me for lunch?’
Inside there were a num ber of framed maps on the walls, and my
suspicions were confirmed.
‘Can you make some Lipton’s tea?’
He scratched his sandy-grey hair.
‘Ah, you guessed. Yes, I’m responsible for the Lipton Y'illage
Society.’
‘Who else