Broken Homes (PC Peter Grant) (15 page)

I heard Abigail laughing somewhere out in the mist – it’s a very distinctive laugh. I wondered if I should go get her.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said a voice behind us.

‘Hi Zach,’ said Lesley. ‘I thought you were persona non grata.’

‘I was,’ said Zach. He was a skinny white boy with damp brown hair and a big mouth in a thin face. He was dressed in genuinely un-prewashed faded jeans and a grey hoodie that was going at the elbows. He bowed theatrically.

‘But this is the Spring Court,’ he said. ‘The seasons have turned and cruel winter has passed. Lambs are gambolling, birds build their nests and the hardy bankers get their bonus. It is a time of forgiveness and second chances.’

‘Yeah,’ said Lesley and fished a tenner out of her jacket and waved it at Zach. ‘Go get us some dinner then.’

Zach swiped the tenner out of her hand.

‘Your sternest command,’ he said and legged it.

‘He really does have no self-respect,’ I said.

‘None whatsoever,’ said Lesley.

While we were waiting, I suggested I do a perimeter check.

‘That way you can round up Abigail while you’re at it,’ she said.

My dad had started in on what had recently become his signature piece, an arrangement of the ‘Love Theme from Spartacus’. The rest of the band faded down to almost nothing while my dad did his best Bill Evans impression – except hopefully without the untreated hepatitis. His piano followed me into the mist, fading in and out behind the hawkers and the mechanical organ on the carousel. It was frustrating in the way my dad’s music always frustrates me – going off the melody just when I was enjoying it and going to places that I couldn’t follow.

I found Abigail standing in front of a tall thin stall shaped like an outsized Punch and Judy booth. The edges of the proscenium arch were decorated with carved owls, quarter moons and occult symbols and it must have been very fine once. Now the gold and blue paint was chipped and the yellow curtain that hid the interior was washed thin and dingy. A carved sign at the top of the arch proclaimed,
Artemis Vance: Purveyor of Genuine Charms, Cantrips, Fairy Lures and Spells
. Pinned just below were the words, written in sharpie on an index card,
No Refunds!

‘Lend us a fiver,’ said Abigail.

I was curious enough about the booth to hand over the money.

Abigail knocked on the side of the stall which shuddered alarmingly. The curtain flew open to reveal a hook-nosed young man whose hair was silver white and stuck out at all angles like punk candyfloss. He was wearing a maroon velvet jacket with a tall collar over a ruffed lilac shirt.

He peered suspiciously at me and then even more suspiciously at Abigail – at least he had his priorities right.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘I want to buy a fairy lure,’ she said.

‘Sorry,’ said the man. ‘We don’t do fairy lures any more.’

‘Why not?’ asked Abigail tilting her head to one side. ‘Because fairy hunting has been deemed unlawful under the ECHR,’ he said. ‘No fairy hunting, no fairy lures. Mind you, technically, I could sell you a fairy lure providing you didn’t actually use it to lure fairies. That’s if I could still make them.’

‘Why can’t you make them?’

‘Because you have to use real fairy,’ said the man. ‘Otherwise it won’t work.’

‘But if I’m not going to use it to hunt fairies, why can’t you make one without any fairy in it?’ asked Abigail. ‘A fake fairy lure.’

‘Don’t be absurd, young lady,’ said the man. ‘Only a mountebank would think to purvey a fairy lure that failed in its most requisite aspect. Even to suggest such a thing stretches absurdity to the point of effrontery.’

‘How about a spell then?’ I asked.

‘Alas,’ said the man. ‘I would not presume to disgrace myself by offering the pathetic outpourings of my own craft to one such as you, a gentleman if I am not mistaken, and I never am, already schooled in the high and puissant arts of the Newtonian practitioner.’

‘What about me then?’ asked Abigail.

‘Underage,’ said the man.

‘What about a cantrip?’ asked Abigail.

‘Alas cantrip is merely a synonym for spell, and thus my previous answer must suffice,’ said the man and glanced up at his sign. ‘Its inclusion is merely there to facilitate a more attractive rhythm to our advertisement and thus engage the jaded attentions of the common ruck.’

‘Do you actually sell anything at all?’ asked Abigail.

‘I can do you a charm,’ he said.

‘Can I have a charm against geography teachers?’

‘Alas, my child,’ said the man. ‘As your large and terrifying brother can no doubt explain to you, one does not choose a charm – rather the charm chooses you. It is all part of the great and wearisome cosmic cycle of the universe.’

‘All right,’ said Abigail. ‘What charm can I have?’

‘I’ll have a rummage,’ said the man and ducked down out of sight.

Me and Abigail exchanged looks. I was about to suggest we go, but before I could open my mouth the man popped up and dangled a small pendant for our inspection. A little yellow semi-precious stone, rough cut and mounted in a silver basket with a leather matinée length cord. Abigail eyed it dubiously.

‘What’s it a charm for?’ she asked.

The man thought about this for moment.

‘It’s your basic all-enveloping protection charm,’ he said, his hands describing a cupped circle in the air. ‘For protection against . . .’

‘Envelopes?’ asked Abigail.

‘The uncanny,’ he said and then in a serious tone. ‘The mysterious and the sinister.’

‘How much then?’ asked Abigail.

‘Fiver.’

‘Done,’ she said and handed over the money. When she reached for the charm I took it first. I closed it in my fist and concentrated, but could sense nothing. The stone felt chilly and inert against my skin. It seemed harmless, so I handed it over.

Abigail gave me questioning look as she slipped the charm over her head. There followed a brief undignified struggle as it caught in the huge puffball afro she wore at the back of her head before she could tuck it under her jumper. Then I waited while she pulled off her scrunchies, yanked her hair back into place and re-secured it with a couple of practised twists.

‘You’d better get back to our stall,’ I said.

Abigail nodded and trotted away.

‘And you owe me a fiver,’ I called after her.

I glanced back at the man in the booth who gave me a benign little nod.

I strolled up the line of stalls and turned right where a booth was selling traditional cheeses, beers and rat traps. Once I was out of sight I paused, counted to sixty and then quickly retraced my steps around the corner until I could see where the Artemis Vance stall had been.

It was still there and the man was still visible, elbows resting on his counter and looking right at me. He waved. I didn’t wave back. I decided that it probably wasn’t a mysterious magic booth after all and set off on the rest of my perimeter check.

Beverley was waiting for me opposite the entrance to Gabriel’s Wharf, propping up the garden wall of the imitation Regency terrace that had proved, surprisingly, to be the locals’ preferred style of house. She wore a black corduroy jacket over a denim halter that left a bare strip of skin above her red, waist-high skinny jeans. Mist had beaded her locks and the shoulders of her jacket and I wondered how long she’d been standing there.

‘You wanted a word,’ she said as I approached.

She smelt of cocoa butter and rainwater, of snogging on the sofa with
News at Ten
on mute and Tracy Chapman singing ‘Fast Car’ on your parents’ stereo. Paint-smelling DIY Sundays and sun warmed car seats, of pound parties with the furniture piled up in the bedrooms and wardrobe speakers wedged into the living room thudding in your chest cavity while somebody’s mother holds court in the kitchen dispensing rum and Coke. I wanted to snake my arm around her waist and feel the warm skin under my fingers so badly that it was like a memory of something I’d already done. My arm twitched.

I took a deep breath. ‘I need to ask you something important.’

‘Yes?’

‘While you were upriver . . .’ I said.

‘So far away,’ she said, her hand toying with the lapel of my jacket. ‘A whole hour by car – forty minutes by train. From Paddington. They leave every fifteen minutes.’

‘While you were away,’ I said, ‘Ash got himself stabbed with an iron railing.’

‘You should have heard the screams at our end,’ she said.

‘Yeah, but I got him into the river and he was healed,’ I said. ‘How did that work?’

Beverley bit her lip. The sound of my dad’s eccentric arrangement of ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ wound its way through the mist and around us.

‘Is this what you wanted to ask me about?’ asked Beverley.

‘I was thinking of Lesley’s face,’ I said. ‘Whether we could do the same thing.’

Beverley stared at me in what looked like amazement and then said she didn’t know.

‘It worked for Ash,’ I said.

‘But the Thames is his river,’ she said.

‘I thought that bit was your mum’s.’

‘Yeah,’ said Beverley. ‘But it’s also his dad’s.’

‘It can’t be both at once,’ I said.

‘Yeah, it can, Peter,’ she said crossly. ‘Things can be two things at once, in fact things can be three things at once. We’re not like you. The world works differently for us. I’m sorry about Lesley’s face, but you go ducking her in the river and all she’s going to get is blood poisoning.’ She took a step back. ‘And you shouldn’t care whether she has a face or not,’ she said.

‘She cares,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘I can’t help you, Peter,’ she said. ‘I would if I could – honest.’

My back-up phone, the one I don’t mind risking around potential magic, sounded a message alert.

‘I’ve got to get back,’ I said. ‘You coming?’

Beverley stared at me as if I was mad.

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I’m going to go flood Rotherhithe or something.’

‘See you later,’ I said.

‘Sure,’ she said. Then she turned and walked away. She didn’t look back.

I know what you’re thinking. But hindsight is a wonderful thing, it was only a little flood and the property damage was a couple of a million quid tops. And besides, the insurance companies covered most of it.

I arrived back at the jazz tent just in time to say goodbye to my parents, who were heading home now the set was finished, and Abigail who was getting a lift back with them.

There was a perceptible change after they left. And not just because the sound system near the Thames path that had been silent in deference to my dad turned on its speakers with a sound like an Airbus A380 clearing its throat. The tourist families with kids were draining away and gaps between the stalls were suddenly full of young men and women, drinking from cans and plastic glasses or openly passing joints back and forth. Me and Lesley knew this crowd of old, or at least the West End Saturday Night version of it. It was our cue to slip back to the Asbo and don the stab resistant and high-visibility raiment of the modern constable. Not to mention the knightly accoutrements of extendable baton, pepper spray and speedy cuffs. I clipped on my airwave and checked to make sure that the ruinously expensive second shift of TSG were awake and on call.

When the sound system kicked in, it was strictly BBC
IX
tra playlist. Rough enough for the upriver crowd with enough proper beats to stop the Londoners from getting restless. Lesley liked it and I could cope, but the couple of times we ran into Nightingale we could see he was suffering. We took turns to hit the improvised dance-floor at the river end of the park, although the thermal properties of the Metvest means it’s not your ideal club wear.

At one point I found myself alone by the river watching a three-quarter moon grazing the roof of Charing Cross station. There was traffic humming through the mist, the sky was clear enough that you could almost see a star and I thought I might have heard a scream of outrage coming from the direction of London Bridge. It was long, low and thin and yet shot through with a kind of mad glee, and I might have recognised it. But you know what I reckon? I think I imagined the whole thing.

The pissing contest took place at three or four in the morning. I’d lost track when even the supernatural amongst us were beginning to wilt. The first I knew of it was when Oberon grabbed my arm and started dragging me to the east side of the park.

‘It’s a contest,’ he said when I asked what was going on. ‘And we need you to step up and represent.’

‘Represent what?’ I asked.

‘The honour of the capital,’ he said.

‘Let Lady Ty do that,’ I said. ‘She’s keen enough.’

‘Not for this, she’s not,’ said Oberon.

We picked up a cheering section which included Olympia and Chelsea, goddesses of Counters Creek and the Westbourne and winners of the London-wide heats of
I’m A Posh Teenager . . . Get Me an Entitlement
five years running.

‘Do it for London,’ called Chelsea.

‘Aim straight,’ called Olympia.

‘What the fuck are we supposed to be doing?’ I asked Oberon again.

He told me, and I said he had to be fucking kidding.

So we lined up with me and Oxley in the middle, Father Thames on our right with Ash and a couple of followers beyond him. Beside me on my left was Oberon, Uncle Bailiff and some guys I didn’t recognise.

The women – thank god the girls were all tucked up asleep – lined up three or four metres behind us – thus saving our blushes.

‘All right boys, unsheathe your weapons,’ called Oxley and there was the sound of zips and unzipping and cursing as some fumbled with buttons. ‘On my mark. Wait for it. Wait for it!’ called Oxley to groans and catcalls.

‘Loose,’ shouted Oxley and we did.

I ain’t going to say where I came in the pack except to mention that it was embarrassing. But I obviously hadn’t had the chance to put away the pints like some of my competitors. Thankfully most of it was beer because a wall of steam arose in front of us and could have been a lot ranker than it was. It came down to Oxley, Oberon and the Old Man himself. The two younger men ran out at the same time with yells and groans.