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Lot 173T is a large, cleared field. A stage has been created from the roots of a nearby tree, and a few vines cut through the air above it, which will allow us to hang a curtain and lighting. There’s plenty of space for the caravans, and also lots of room for an audience, assuming we can attract one.
“Not bad,” Dermot admits grudgingly. “Not bad at all.”
Having sought permission from Dermot, Inez takes off not long after we arrive, telling me she has to go meet some people. She offers no more information than that, and by this stage I know better than to ask.
The rest of us spend the next few hours setting up while the actors rehearse. We unload the caravans, storing costumes, props and sets behind the stage and arranging everything so that we can access it swiftly when needed.
I pick up a typewriter – it doesn’t work, but the keys clack when you press them, which sounds good in the show – meaning to move it closer to the stage.
“What’s that?” someone asks.
I look around but can’t spot anyone. “Hello?” I call.
“What is that thing?” the voice comes again, from somewhere overhead.
I look up and spot a small, dirty boy hanging from the vine above me. He can’t be more than nine or ten years old and is dressed in rags. He has strange-looking hooks attached to his hands and feet, and has jabbed them into the vine.
“Well?” the boy snaps when I stare at him wordlessly.
“Sorry?”
“That thing,” he says impatiently. “What is it?”
“A typewriter.”
“What does it do?”
“It –” I start to answer.
“It’s a bomb,” Kamran growls, appearing beside me to scowl at the boy.
“You can’t fool me,” the boy sneers.
“No fooling,” Kamran says. “You see those buttons? If you press one, it blows up in your face. The noise would burst your eardrums.”
The boy sticks out his tongue at Kamran, then looks at me again. “I’m Pol. What’s your name?”
“Don’t tell him,” Kamran says.
“Why not?”
“He’s a rat. You can’t trust that lot with anything.”
“You’d better watch what you say,” the boy snarls. “This is my turf. If you get on my wrong side, my friends and I will pelt your thesps with mud every time they perform.”
“You don’t frighten me,” Kamran says stiffly, but slips away sharpish.
“So?” Pol says, glaring at me. “Do you have a name or not?”
“Archie,” I tell him, chancing a smile.
“Is it really a bomb?”
“No. They wrote with typewriters in the Born before they had computers.”
“How does it work?”
“You’d feed in a sheet of paper and press the keys.”
“Then what?”
“Letters would be stamped on the paper.”
“Sounds boring,” he says. “Is it valuable?”
“It would be if it was real.”
“It isn’t real?” he shouts.
“It’s just a prop for the show.”
“Then why am I wasting my time talking with you?” Pol huffs, and scampers off, tearing along the vine at a surprising speed, ripping out his hooks then sinking them in, one after another.
“Who was that?” I ask Kamran when he comes back.
“A vine rat,” he says. “They’re feral children who live inside the vines.”
“Feral?” I echo uncertainly.
“Wild,” he explains. “Most children in the Merge get taken under the wing of an adult, but the rats won’t allow grown-ups into their world, and live by their own rules. You can’t trust them, so be wary of that kid if he comes snooping round again. They’re skilled thieves who’d steal your eyelashes while you were blinking.”
I make a note to be sterner with the vine rat if he comes back, then move the typewriter and carry on helping the others set up.
An hour later, when I’m grabbing a rest, I hear Oleg roaring for the typewriter. I hurry to fetch it, only to find a bare patch of grass where I’d left it. I stare at the grass blankly, then turn my gaze up to the vine.
“Oh no,” I groan, then head for the stage to break the bad news to the actor.