Child Garden Read Online Free Page A

everything was for history. People's minds were choked with it. Young people wore black and pretended to be the risen corpses of famous people. The Vampires of History they called themselves. Their virus-stuffed brains gave them the information they needed to avoid anachronisms. It was a kind of craze.
    The Vampires only came out at night, when there was no sun to sweeten their blood. They had to eat too, but they could afford meals of historic proportions. Milena could only afford a seafood pasta, cloned squid tissue on cooling noodles. The great, heaped plates of the Vampires turned her shrivelled stomach. She looked away.
    Milena saw Cilia, an actress with whom she had achieved a chilly kind of acquaintance, sitting at a freshly vacated table. Cilia had just finished kissing a number of cheeks goodbye. Cilia knew everybody, even Milena.
    'Who are you this evening?' Milena asked her, putting down her tray.
    Cilia was in black, with white pancake makeup and dark vampire shadows around her eyes. 'Just me,' answered Cilia. 'This is supposed to be me when I rise from my grave.'
    'Someone is playing themselves for a change,' said Milena.
    'At least you know you're not being cast against type,' said Cilia, lightly. She was well on her way to becoming an Animal — a well known performer.
    'You know I'm in this boring play,' said Milena. She began to wash her cutlery in a mug of hot water. 'Do you know any way I can change my costume? I hate my boots.'
    'You can't change your costume if it's part of the original production. You'd be violating history.'
    'The boots squelch. It's supposed to be funny.'
    Cilia shrugged. 'You could go to the Graveyard.'
    A Vampire joke? Milena looked at Cilia, narrow-eyed. Life had taught Milena to be wary of humour.
    'The Graveyard,' repeated Cilia, in a voice that indicated that Milena knew very little indeed. 'It's where they dump the old costumes no one wants. They're not even on record.'
    'You mean I can just take them out? No director's approval?'
    'Yup. It's in an old warehouse under a bridge.' Cilia was telling Milena how to get there, when two Vampires swept up to the table in twentieth century clothes: a black tuxedo, and a black-beaded dress.
    Party Members — Tarries. The boy wore spectacles, another affectation, and had something in his nose to make his nostrils flare. His hair was combed back and his make-up was green, to make him look ill.
    'Good evening,' he said, looking sour, his accent American. 'We've managed to escape Virginia. She is busying herself listing all the ways in which Joyce is a bad writer. Her jealousy is so nakedly evident, I was embarrassed.'
    The woman with him was trying to smile, under a low cloche hat. The smile wavered pathetically. 'Tom?' she said. His back was turned towards her. 'Speak to me. Can't you speak? Speak?'
    'T S Eliot and Vivien!' exclaimed Cilia, and complimented them. 'Instant. Complete.' The couple did not relax out of their roles. Is there so little of yourselves left? thought Milena.
    'I don't believe I've had the pleasure,' the boy said, holding out his hand towards Milena. It was Vampire sociability. He wanted to know who Milena was playing.
    'Who am I?' Milena responded with deadpan hostility. She did not take his hand. 'Oh. In life, I was a textile factory worker in nineteenth century Sheffield. I died at twelve years old. I'm a rather bad vampire because I have no teeth. But I do have eczema and rickets.'
    The Vampires made excuses and left. 'Well. That sent them packing,' said Cilia.
    'I know,' sighed Milena. Why did she find so many things unacceptable? 'Is there something wrong with me, Cilia?'
    'Yup.' said Cilia. 'You're prissy.' She mused for a moment. 'And... obsessive.' She nodded with decision. Then, to make it sweeter, she said, 'La, la la.' It was a nonsense expression. It meant that everything was the same, everything was a song.
    'Obsessive?' questioned Milena. It was a new arrow to her bow of self-recrimination.
    'You're