Chapter Seven

 

 

‘GIVEN THE NATURE of my existence,’ said God as they stood on the other side of the door taking in their first glimpse of the place Coney Island had become, ‘it is very hard to surprise me. I mean, omniscience can really take the joy out of things. Still, if I wasn’t omniscient I’d be having a nervous breakdown around now. If you want to throw up or anything I’ll quite understand but try and avoid the robes. And the sandals.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Grace. And she was; she had begun to worry over the last couple of weeks that something inside her had permanently snapped. Her ability to feel fear, wonder, sympathy for the dead... every emotion felt dialled right back to the point of barely existing. She knew that a therapist would tell her she was still in shock, that there was only so much tragedy someone could experience before their mind just went quiet, shut itself away and refused to engage. Maybe that was true. If so, in absolute honesty, it had happened long before The Change, but she supposed it was a possible explanation for the empty feelings inside her.

That aside, looking out on the streets around them, she did feel a distant, familiar sensation that might well have been awe.

The lavishly painted sign she’d seen on the barricade was a drab precursor to the world it promised. Everything was painted, the buildings, the sidewalk, the road; an alternating fairground-bright mix of reds, blues, yellows and greens. Doors clashed with brickwork which clashed with fairy lights strung around the windows. Banners and balloons were strung from the roofs and streetlights, some advertising shows and performers; others just offering paintings of happy faces, clowns, leaping dolphins and motorbikes hurtling through fiery hoops.

The air was filled with conflicting smells, a sideshow perfume of fried food, ozone, sweat, petrol, sawdust and manure. Even the steady breeze coming in off the sea couldn’t dispel it.

The noise was just as chaotic, shouting, revving engines, blaring klaxons. Countless pieces of music fought one another for attention, booming classical horns butted against thrash guitars with pounding dance basslines thudding between the two.

It was enough to make your brain creep down your throat and try to hide in your stomach.

None of which took into account the actual people that called Coney Island home. At first glance, many of them seemed perfectly normal but for their outlandish clothes (everything from ballgowns to space suits) but closer inspection revealed the more unconventional genes that surrounded them. The creatures in the aquarium had contained some human DNA but, for the most part, had still been fish; here the distinction was far less obvious. A man in a purple bowler hat and a black and white check leotard walked by swishing a lion’s tail behind him, the furry tip bobbing along in time with the music he was listening to through a large pair of headphones.

A pair of conjoined twins danced past, their cheerleader outfits enhanced by flashing lights from a Christmas tree.

A man with a long beard of frilly skin skied through the crowd on a pair of skateboards. Every now and then he poked those he passed with the tip of his ski poles, shouting instructions for people to clear out of his way.

Grace felt someone tug at the leg of her jeans and she saw a small child whose body turned into that of a spaniel below the waist. The child scratched behind her ear with a hairy back leg and looked up at Grace with an exaggerated look of sadness.

‘Got any smokes?’ she asked.

‘I don’t,’ Grace replied.

‘To hell with you then,’ the girl replied, trotting off in search of someone else to ask, her palms slapping on the road.

‘This,’ said God, ‘is a ridiculous place. On reflection I rather like it.’

‘It could be worse,’ Grace admitted, ‘at least nobody seems very interested in us.’

They walked through the crowds, taking in sight after sight.

There was a roar of approval as the air filled with a loud twang and a man with paper wings was catapulted high into the sky, landing some seconds later in the distant ocean. No doubt he was quite dead by the time he hit the water but he had seemed quite happy with his fate, his laughter trailing behind him along with his false wings.

‘If I’d meant man to fly...’ God muttered but didn’t comment further.

‘Where do you think the Queen is?’ Grace asked.

‘I can’t interfere, remember,’ he replied, ‘though if I were you I’d be aiming towards that castle.’

Grace could see the brown and yellow towers poking up in the distance. They were painted as if from a cartoon, the sort of castle talking animals frequented.

As they drew closer they realised it wasn’t painted, it was plastic. An inflatable, bouncy castle the size of a small building. Thick chains held it in place, though the towers swayed from side to side, the guards that stood atop of each hanging on for dear life as their vantage point shifted back and forth with every step.

At the main entrance a ticket booth had been erected with a handprinted sign saying ‘Appointments to see the Queen’. Below it, a blackboard featured hand-written times of day, like announcements for an animal show at the zoo.

Grace looked at her watch. ‘First appointment time isn’t until two o’clock,’ she said, ‘that’s hours away.’

God walked up to the booth which was inhabited by a pair of albino girls in chainmail.

‘We’d like to see the Queen,’ he said.

The girls were reading an old copy of the National Enquirer, cooing over claims and stories that now seemed tame in a world post-Change.

One of them extended a pointed finger towards the blackboard as they continued to read in silence.

‘Yes,’ said God, ‘I saw that. Are there no exceptions?’

‘No exceptions. No minors. No-one below the legal height will be admitted,’ said the girl who had pointed, her extended finger now veering over towards a wooden cut-out of a pirate that stood to the right of the booth. ‘Measure up against Black Roger to see if you make the grade.’

‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Are you sure we couldn’t get in sooner?’ The girl who was speaking now stared at him in silence. ‘Fine. No exceptions. Do we need to book?’

‘First come first served,’ she replied. ‘Get here early to beat the lines.’

‘It’s popular then?’

‘Not very,’ she admitted, ‘just a few weirdoes and loons. Get here fifteen minutes before we open and you’ll be golden. Though not literally. If you want miracles she only performs those at weekends.’

‘Part timer,’ he muttered, returning to Grace. ‘We need to kill time for a few hours, they’re not letting us in.’

Grace looked around. ‘I suppose there’s plenty to see.’

God straightened his beard and brushed imaginary dust from his robes. ‘Well, stick close, who knows what sort of maniacs we might bump into.’

Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I was about to say the same thing to you,’ she replied, walking off ahead.