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Eight

Normally, Robin would never have gone anywhere near Bharcharia Anh. Her little beat was confined to Shaopeng and Battery Road, with occasional trips out to the countryside along the delta to visit her grandparents, who were proud of their made-good granddaughter. Robin had never been this far up into the heights. The car avoided the congested town center, sweeping out beyond the city limits and then rumbling back onto the fast arterial road. It reached Bharcharia Anh close to three o'clock.

The white turret where the Sardai family lived looked wet, as though dew had gathered on the pallid surface, and the grounds were green and lush, dense with imported hibiscus and oleander. The hallmark of the homes of the rich, Robin understood, was not their opulence but their silence. From up here, the rest of the city, the whole squalid, roaring mass, may just as well not exist.

Inside the tower, it was utterly still. A doorman showed Robin to the elevator and left her there. The elevator glided upward and then opened out into the wide atrium of the Sardais' apartment.

To Robin's left, a water sculpture gushed into a pool filled with carp. Before the pool something was being created, molding and shaping itself on a plinth. Robin watched, fascinated, as it became a running horse, a rose, and at last settled into the figure of a shark-monkey, flat face astounded, thin little hands waving and the long tail beating and twisting against the surface of the plinth. Nanotech art, anything you wanted, moment by moment. The monkey melted down into a nebulous mass, and out of the writhing substance Robin's own suspicious face emerged. Robin watched in fascinated revulsion.

"It's a mischievous toy," Sardai said, stepping into the atrium. He was very much like his daughter: the same harsh, aquiline face, but with an ascetic cast which Deveth, the puritanical hedonist, had never possessed. He was dressed in a white Mao jacket and loose dhoti, and leaned on a cane. "Come forward."

Obediently, Robin walked through into the main lounge. Far away on the horizon, the gibbous moon was visible, floating about the hazy curve of the world. The tower blocks of Tevereya rose up to the left, the buildings glinting in the sunlight. Beneath the moon, a smudge of peaked land arose, tiny in the expanse of sunlit water: Lantern Island. Such were the lives of the wealthy, Robin thought again: silent and high.

"This is my wife, Malian." Sardai made punctilious introductions. Deveth's mother was a big woman, but her face was sunken and hollow-cheeked. She did not look well. Neither of them did, come to that. Without really thinking about it, Robin had assumed that when you were that rich you could afford all the health that money could buy, but evidently this was not so.

"Come and sit by me," Deveth's mother suggested. She patted the cushioned chair by the side of the couch. Robin sank into it and thought she might never rise again. Giris Sardai unobtrusively disappeared. Malian dabbed her broad face with a handkerchief. Robin wanted to say: I'm so sorry. I don't know where Deveth is. She was still convinced that, somewhere down the line, they would have her arrested, or thrown out. Something bad, anyway. She did not belong here.

"Tell me about my daughter," Malian said. "You probably know her better than I do." She gave Robin a mock humorous look to take the bitterness out of her words.

"I've been wondering whether I know her at all." Robin said. With a vague sense of dismay, she found herself telling Malian Sardai everything: about the embarrassing parties, the way Deveth always promised to phone and never did, how they used to go round the market together. She felt her nose start to itch and tingle with imminent tears, and thought furiously, I'm not, I'm not going to cry. She was saved by the arrival of a quiet drone, a slender young man dressed in a green dhoti, with perfect Dravidian features except for his lack of a mouth. Robin tried not to stare. He put a tray down before her: tea and fruit, cut into elegantly carved pieces.

"Thank you," Robin said. Her nose was about to run. "May I visit your bathroom?" She followed the drone down a twisting corridor. Movement, almost imperceptible, kept catching the corner of her eye. The bathroom, containing a mercifully copious amount of tissues, was larger than her flat. If Deveth had given up all this to go and live in artistic squalor on Mherei Street, she was a fool, Robin thought, impatient with the indulgences of the rich. The poor couldn't afford to experience ennui. Deveth had talked a lot about how important it was to follow your creative instincts, whatever the cost, and Robin had sat silently among her lover's admiring friends and thought what it must be like to have such a choice. And she was one of the lucky ones: with her own place, no need to live with her four brothers and two sisters, and her good job at Paugeng.

Robin wiped her eyes and nose in front of the wall-sized mirror and repaired what remained of her minimal make-up. Her eyes looked frightened and vast in the small paleness of her face. She wanted to hide in the luxurious bathroom in this enclosed silent place and never go back to her cramped flat or that good job which involved feeding a supernatural captive experimental drugs every day. The wish was so strong that it was a moment before she realized its impossibility. This scared her: Starting to crack and go paranoid, Robin? In the mirror, her eyes were rimmed with crimson. On impulse, she rummaged in the tidy medicine cabinet and found a familiar blue phial with the red Jaruda bird on the label and a list of instructions. Paugeng should dole them out free to employees. Robin wasn't going to spend good money on headache pills otherwise. She swallowed two of the flat, white painkillers ("suitable for headaches, toothache and muscular disorders") with a handful of water scooped from the tap. Surely the water would be all right up here, she thought, surely there was no need for filtering and boiling in this part of town? Hastily, and somewhat guiltily, she slipped some of the pills into her bag in case the headache started up again, then put the phial back in the cabinet and slid the door shut. She should go back to Malian. She stepped out of the safety of the bathroom into a wide, bulb-shaped hallway. What had happened to the corridor? Robin, disoriented, stood quite still and watched the floor crawl slowly away. It moved like a slow wave, a thick liquid, ebbing toward the steps. Beside Robin's ear, the wall bulged outward and rumpled back. Robin thought: Oh god, those weren't headache tabs. I've taken something else. I'm tripping. Her head felt muzzy and her vision swam. She took a step forward. An opening appeared in the wall and, like a child, Robin went through. She was in an unfamiliar small room, yet there was again the statue on the plinth. The drone appeared in the melting doorway behind her and placed a tactful hand on her shoulder. She let him lead her out, and back to the lounge. Malian Sardai was all apologies.

"I'm terribly sorry. The nano-decorator's set on a cycle; it just comes on and we're so used to it . . ."

Once she knew that she wasn't hallucinating, Robin felt better.

"The whole apartment's like that?"

"So clever." Malian gave her a smug too-much-for-little-me-to-understand look. Robin had not realized how wealthy they must be: the entire apartment was nanoed up. You wouldn't ever have to move, you could do your own interior decoration just by reprogramming the setting. She also realized, without a word being said, that Malian Sardai had become bored with her. Malian didn't really believe that anything could happen to her weird daughter: they were too rich, whatever lifestyle Deveth had chosen to adopt. Malian didn't think anything could really befall people like herself, she truly could not countenance it, and so nothing did. They remained in their secure, fashionable lives up here in Meriden, quite safe, entertaining the most delightful lifestyle options, while the rest of the world battled and struggled below. Except that Deveth was still missing. Robin gave Malian an artificial smile.

"Thank you so much for seeing me. I feel better, somehow, getting it all off my chest." She felt like an artless little liar, but Malian gave her a sad, brave smile in return and clasped her hands.

"Thank you, Robin. It makes me feel better, too, knowing Deveth's got such loyal friends."

She called the drone, who took Robin down in the elevator and showed her the very obvious way out through the garden. Making sure I leave the premises, Robin thought. She thanked the drone, who, mouthless, could not smile, and made her way to the waiting car. At least she got a lift back into town. But if Deveth's parents didn't care what had happened to their daughter, then Robin did.

 

Later that evening, the downtown tram dropped Robin at the foot of the ruined temple of Shai. She glanced up at its squat, forbidding walls, its huge dome, wondering whose temple it had once been. It rose up like a fortress, made of dark gray stone shot with odd black streaks. She knew little about Shai, only that it was old, much older than the surrounding city, and rumored to be haunted. This evening, with the temple looming above the buildings around, Robin had no problem in believing in those rumors. She could almost hear the place whispering to itself. Resolutely, Robin turned her back on its dark bulk and made her way along the litter-strewn downtown platform.

At the bottom of the platform steps, a snick of an alleyway led into Mherei Street. She hurried through, and found herself in the forbidding confines of the old town. They had been here how long, these houses, that temple?—the remnants of the little settlement that had made way for Singapore Three. The narrow streets rambled about the central spine of Mherei, black glass and dark wood, imported or grown in the southern plantations, angled, charmed roofs to fend away bad luck. Since these early glorious days, Mherei was rather low on luck, however, getting seedy despite the solid old houses. It was very much the bohemian quarter now, the haunt of artists, creatrixes, writers and the pharmo-technicians who bracketed themselves alongside, fellow creators of the mind's visions. Deveth had loved it here, though she complained incessantly about the infighting and spite. It was a community, despite its closed, cold appearance now and the dark temple squatting at its heart.

Robin did not belong here, and she knew it. She had visited parties once or twice, with Deveth, and had made herself unpopular. These were the spoiled children of the wealthy, Deveth's friends, the ones who didn't need to work, who could afford to play out their fantasies of Paris or Vienna. Robin had worked since she was fifteen, down in the mining labs in Bharulay and then scoring, making it into Paugeng. She could never afford to live here. Deveth, sardonic, had watched her make a fool of herself arguing with a neosocialist at the last party they had attended together.

"It's all very well for your friends," Robin had said later, in frustration. "They're living in a—a cushion."

"This isn't an affluent neighborhood, Robin. None of them are very rich."

Deveth lit a cigarette as she spoke and the brief light flared up around her face, the harsh cheekbones and hawk nose illuminated and then gone, back into the dim, comfortable light of her apartment. She sounded loftily understanding, as though Robin couldn't really be expected to comprehend these sophisticated ideas.

"Don't be stupid," Robin said with contempt, forgetting now how eager she had been to impress this glamorous woman. "Your families are."

She saw the expression on Deveth's face change from languid amusement to wariness: mustn't wind the peasant up too far. Robin had never criticized her before. Until that night, she had behaved as though Deveth were quite perfect.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," she'd told Robin, neutrally. "Maybe, it isn't meant. Maybe we should end it here." And then off-course, Robin, stricken, had stammered apologies while Deveth, sad-eyed, watched.

And now, Robin thought, in a fury, she's probably just dumped me in favor of some little sweetheart whose dad lives in Meriden, no doubt, who stays up all night and talks about her art. She stormed along, realizing suddenly that she had gone past Deveth's house. She retraced her steps and made her way into the entrance hallway. Deveth had given her the code to the main door, but not the apartment itself: not the key to her heart.

The hall opened out into a wide atrium, once the fashionable home of palms and a carp pool, but now full of old divans arranged in a rough square. The air was musty, stained with old incense and the breath of dampness. The pool had been drained, and now featured as a sort of conversation pit, studded with candle ends. Robin eyed it with distaste. They had held the party here. Ghosts of the young and pretty stared at her from the rotting divans, mocking, smiling at Deveth Sardai's bit of rough.

"Are you looking for something?" An uncertain voice came out of the gloom.

Robin jumped.

"I'm a friend of Deveth Sardai's . . . I came to see if she was in."

"Oh, it's you," the voice said, without enthusiasm. She came further into the wan light from the street and Robin recognized her: Tarai Alba, who lived on the floor above Deveth. She had been at the party, too; Robin remembered her in a steely sheath gown, blonde hair on a lattice of struts and pins. Every time she met Robin's eyes, she had given her a thin, little smile. She had once, Robin knew, been Deveth's lover, and probably still was. Robin said, "Is Dev here?"

"I don't know," Alba replied. She looked smaller and thinner than Robin remembered her. The sheath had been replaced by a ripped silk dressing gown; she was barefoot.

"I'm sorry," Robin said automatically. "Did I wake you up?"

"It doesn't matter. Deveth's not here. The last time I saw her was several days ago, I can't remember exactly. I don't know where she's gone. And her phone keeps going and going—I can hear it."

Her small voice was lost.

"Have you been in her apartment?"

"No, she wouldn't—she didn't give me the code." You, too, thought Robin with a breath of satisfaction. She led the way up the stairs to Deveth's apartment. The door was firmly shut. Even out here, it felt empty.

"She might be in there." Alba whispered. There was no way they could force the door. Reinforced steel does not give way easily to a kick.

"What about the windows?" But the side of the building was sheer, and the double windows wouldn't open from the outside. They went out with a torch to have a look, but there was no sign of a forced entry. The lights were off.

"There must be some way in," Robin said. "What about the waste disposal?" She and Alba, shivering, went down to the basement and investigated. The base of the disposal unit was a narrow, snaking pipe that entered the main collection unit. With difficulty, they detached it.

"I'm not going up there," Alba said firmly.

It was not pleasant. The pipe stank, and its serpentine sides were slimed with refuse. Like going into someone's intestines, Robin thought. She could climb by gripping the latches; fortunately, the house was too old for a modern chemical valve system. She counted as she climbed. At the second floor, a voice, echoing loud and sharp in her ear, said, "What's that?"

Light seeped around the edges of the disposal hatch.

"Rat, or something."

"That's revolting. You mean they live in the system?"

"You're never less than twelve feet away from one, they say," the voice floated away as Robin climbed on. When she reached the third floor, she located the back of the hatch in Deveth's kitchen, praying that she'd got the right apartment. She did not find the idea of tumbling, covered in filth, onto the floor of some sneering neobohemian's kitchen, an appealing one. She had to force the hatch. An unpleasant ten minutes ensued. She couldn't dislodge the hatch, and she could feel the struts beneath her heels starting to give; they were never meant to bear so much weight. Robin pushed and tugged, certain that at any moment the struts would give way and she'd fall down the pipe, only to get stuck fifteen feet down where it narrowed. Then, the hatch gave way with a crack and she fell headfirst into the kitchen.

It was Deveth's. There was a terrible smell of rotten meat and old cigarette smoke. Robin retched over the sink. Clutching a washcloth, now dried and stiff, to her face, she made a quick tour of the apartment. She knew what she'd find: Deveth's murdered body, cold and rotting, flung against the wall. But the apartment was dark and quiet. The dreadful smell lessened as she entered the bedroom. Deveth was not at home, alive or dead. Robin found the main switch and turned all the lights on, discovering the culprit in the kitchen: a large and ancient steak sitting on the worktop. Robin picked it up with a fork and flung it down the waste disposal, unfortunately forgetting that they had disconnected it at the bottom. Someone hammered at the front door. Robin opened it to see Tarai Alba's white face floating like a balloon in the dim hallway.

"Is she—"

"No, no," Robin said, to stave off what might turn into hysteria. "She's not here."

"What's that smell?"

"She left a steak out in the kitchen. It rotted, what with the heat. Or," Robin said suddenly, "it might be me." Her vest top and canvas jeans were covered in the mold from the pipe. Filth nested in her hair. Alba regarded her with horror.

"Look," Robin said patiently, "I'm going to find something else to wear."

She went back into the bedroom. Deveth was several inches taller, but Robin found a pair of clean trousers that she could roll up at the cuffs, and a baggy shirt. Inside the wardrobe, she found a whole collection of little packets of pills and herbs. She recognized none of the herbs: strands of crimson and black, as though the contents of the packet had rotted and then dried; a musty yellow substance that smelled of old fish. The herbs were somehow sinister. Going back into the kitchen, Robin stuffed the dirty clothes in the washing machine and padded into the bathroom in her underwear.

"What are you doing?" Alba called.

"Having a shower!" At least the water was on. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror as she dressed, a short, pale-faced person under a wet bob of dark hair, wearing huge clothes. Where are you, Deveth?

Alba was hunched on the sofa, smoking sourly. Deprived of her audience, Robin thought.

"What are we going to do?"

"Well, I don't know." She wondered if Paugeng security, Tserai's private troops, could be roped in. An ice-cold thought made her shiver: What if Deveth was dead? What if the Sardai family thought she'd killed Deveth? She wasn't the same class . . .you didn't know how these people might behave. Robin had been brought up to consider that the rich were all mad.

"Could you call her parents?" Tarai said, doubtful.

"I don't think they'd trust me," Robin replied. She didn't want to talk about the earlier visit. "I'm not good enough for Deveth."

Underneath the posturing, Alba had a kind-enough heart. She protested. "I'm sure they wouldn't think that! I mean—Dev and I were never real lovers, we had a thing sometimes but it wasn't—we were friends."

She stubbed the cigarette out, and Robin, relieved to be leaving this sad, empty place, followed her down the stairs.

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Framed