The Glass God (22 page)

It was an apartment, because it was on the fourth floor of a building that was full of apartments.

It was a studio because there was only four foot between the bed, the desk and the stove. Light found its way in through a skylight above the bed. Downstairs, his neighbour was practising for
The
X Factor
– or so Rhys assumed, because he only sang one song, on a theme of acoustic pop, rendered loudly, flat, and with added choruses of “aaaaahhhi!”.

Rhys’s phone beeped: a text message.

Goin 2 Archway. U awake yet? Bring thermos flask and tea. Sharon xx

It had disconcerted him the first few times Sharon had signed her text messages with a pair of kisses; he’d had nightmares on the theme, nearly all of which had ended with a three-foot dash to the kitchen cupboard and a squirt of nasal spray. However, as acquaintance between them had bloomed to association, he’d come to realise that ‘xx’ at the end of a text message meant absolutely nothing. Memos on the topic of office utilities had been signed “lots of love”, while the worst he’d seen was an email to a minotaur who’d demanded a throne of gold to sit on, should he deign to attend the meetings, but who had received for his pains a note from Sharon informing him that his needs would be considered, but unless he could provide a medical or chemical reason why his chair had to be specifically gold, budget restraints would limit the office’s willingness to comply. That email had been signed “yours sincerely”; and the sight of those two words had made Rhys shudder. The minotaur had not contested the point.

Rhys wasn’t a morning – or even much of an afternoon – person but, seeing Sharon’s email, he still made it from unconscious to out of the door in seven and a half minutes.

Archway was not an inspiring place to meet: a great roundabout where glum Upper Holloway met the steep ascent towards elegant Highgate, it was cursed with thunderous roads, dubiously phased traffic lights, a maze of obscurely labelled bus stops and architecture described at best as accidental. No one, surely, had
intended
for Archway to be so ugly?

“Morning – or maybe afternoon.”

Sharon Li didn’t so much appear in the air beside Rhys as manifest the obvious fact that she’d been present all along. She held a cup of hot coffee in one hand, and a Cornish pasty in the other; and the realisation struck Rhys that his life was not complete without coffee, scalding hot and rich in caffeine, never mind concerns of flavour and price. “Or,” she said, seeing him enraptured with this notion, “maybe it’s still last night?”

She fixed him with the frowning stare he associated with her perceiving the mystic void, or the hidden truth, or whatever it was shamans were seeing whenever they looked like that; then held out the coffee cup.

“Miles is running round lotsa hospitals trying to see if anyone died of Black Death recently,” she said. “Last night he sat up trying to find if anyone had been drowned in the river during the last few days, and today it’s plague all the way. You and me, though, we’re just going to pop down to a newsagent and see if anyone saw Swift before he went all explosive and that. But if you want,” her eyes gleamed maliciously, “you and Miles could totally swap?”

His fingers closed round the hot cardboard cup. “Thank you, Ms Li,” he said, inhaling the smell of coffee before savouring the big event. “I’m not sure I’m very good with Black Death.”

“This is why Miles is doing it,” she replied. “You know, while this whole deputy Midnight Mayor thing sucks, I kinda like having a minion?”

Rhys nearly choked out hot coffee across the pavement, but Sharon had already turned away. Trying not to blow caffeine out of his nostrils, he scurried after her as, jauntily swinging the umbrella, she began to march uphill, away from the Underground station.

“Get home safe last night?” she asked.

“Yes, Ms Li, although the bus driver was very rude about how I smelt.”

“No mystic encounters? No gibbering monsters come crawling out of the night at you?”

“No.” He tried not to sound relieved about this. As an afterthought: “There weren’t any after you, were there? Only I do think that would be unfair, not that the rest of us want to have monsters come after us. I’m just saying…⁠”

“I got home fine. Had a bath, went to bed, got woken up immediately, but I figure…⁠” She grabbed the coffee cup out of his hand before he could squeak in protest and took a slurp. “I’m sure union regulations have something to say about working conditions and that.”

“Are you a member of a union?”

“No…⁠”

“Are there any unions for mages, magicians and associated professions?” mused Rhys.

Even before he realised he’d spoken out loud, he noticed Sharon growing intense.

“You mean… magicians could be being
exploited
? Casting spells for less than the minimum wage, working in unacceptable conditions, no health and safety, no national insurance… oh, my God.” She stopped and turned so suddenly that Rhys nearly bumped into her. “What about gender equality? What if you have to be male to be a warlock?”

“But… you’re not a warlock, Ms Li…⁠”

“Not the point!”

“No, no,” he conceded. “I see that, but I think what I mean is, uh, that legislating for something which isn’t there, as it were, I mean that when you are part of a secret, hidden society…⁠”

“Just because it’s secret doesn’t mean it mustn’t respect modern social realities!” declared Sharon. “I mean, magic moved from the countryside to the cities, yeah, because that’s where the life went. Life makes magic and life went urban and so magic went urban but life – life…⁠” She waggled the umbrella for emphasis. “Life has got to wear appropriate protective footwear!” Seeing Rhys’s look of bafflement, Sharon awkwardly concluded, “Anyway, that’s what I think.” She started walking again, faster. “Look,” she blurted, “I don’t want you to think I’m a scary feminist or that, because I know that’s the fear some people have when they see a woman get worked up about gender equality and that; I’m not scary, it’s just that I think there’s this problem of people going ‘she’s a girl and she’s trying to do that’ like somehow it’s surprising or a bit radical when really… I guess what I’m saying is… I’m not a scary feminist person, I’m just a scary people person. What do you think?”

Posterity was not to know Rhys’s response, as Sharon stopped again, at that moment, looked up, and exclaimed, “This must be it!”

Rhys followed her gaze. In white letters on a blue background, a lit-up sign above a doorway proclaimed:

Archway News and Films
 

A bright blue-painted door jangled as Sharon pushed it open, pausing to let three schoolgirls in brown uniforms make their way out past a notice board offering singing lessons to locals and French translation on a freelance basis, and warning that only two schoolchildren and one dog would be permitted inside the shop at any time. The “films” section of the store was, in fact, a small stand offering a mixture of kung fu action movies, and last year’s straight-to-DVD thrillers starring actors who you’d almost heard of but who’d never quite made it off daytime TV. The news section was wider – great shelves of it, from concerned headlines about the breakdown of climate change talks, through to trumpeted tales of
Jilted Ex’s Anger At Celebrity Scandal!
A cheerful collection of cheap stationery ranged from biros of the kind that got chewed, to Christmas wrapping paper depicting reindeers in silly hats. Two glowing fridge compartments offered chilled drinks, and a tiny freezer held lollipops and ice creams, positioned just too high for thieving children to reach.

At the back was a counter, guarded by two men with identical haircuts, coffee-brown skin, almond eyes and a pet dog. The dog, fat, black, with a great wet nose in a squashed little face, lay with its head on its paws, and looked about as vicious as a gerbil. The two men were clearly brothers. The elder sat behind the counter reading a magazine; the younger was sticking yellow price tags on huge suspicious jars of chilli pickle. Sharon looked at the brothers, then at the chilli, then at the shop itself; and for a moment she observed as only a shaman can, and saw…

               children thieving children nabbing the chocolate bars

dog grows teeth when the robber comes, gentle in rest, furious when roused

               ghost of our father standing behind the counter, his face sad, his back bent, he leans in over the till, barely human, as the infant brothers look on

     pages turn and fly in the news racks

boxes line the walls

                         count every penny

                                   count every copper

     Good morning sir!

     Good morning ma’am

father sinking into the counter, eaten alive by it, swallowed whole…

She looked away.

Rhys had found a small box of children’s modelling clay, for sale above the glitter pens and fairy dust, and was twisting a sample piece between his fingers uncertainly, trying to work out what he’d use it for. Sharon walked up to the counter, laid her umbrella on the top and said, “Hello, I’m looking for…⁠”

“You found it!” exclaimed the younger brother, looking up from his jar of chillis.

“I… did?”

“Where was it?”

Sharon followed his exultant gaze down to the blue umbrella, lying on the counter. “Um… I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to answer that one. Is it yours?”

The elder brother’s gaze flickered from the magazine to Sharon, then back again. Clearly, customer service was left to the junior of the two.

“Oh no, no – Mr Crompton’s, he lost it last week, very distressing.” The younger brother spoke with a faint Indian accent, but years of north London living had eroded it away to the odd lilt at the beginning and end of sentences. “He left a sign up – in the window.”

In the window at the front of the store, amid the notices from women who sought men who sought women, there was a small, neatly inscribed piece of card. It read:

LOST
 

BLUE UMBRELLA, GOLF-STYLE, WOODEN HANDLE, RUSTED POINT.NO MATERIAL VALUE, OF GREAT SENTIMENTAL VALUE TO OWNER.REWARD FOR RETURN: £250
 

Beneath, the same immaculate hand had written out a contact number and address, then signed itself,

T.J.CROMPTON
 

Rhys detached the notice from the wall and took it over to Sharon, who scanned it quickly, then turned it over in her hand to check the back, just in case someone had written something mystic, or possibly enlightening, on the reverse. No such luck.

“Who’s Crompton?” she asked.

“Mr Crompton? Nice man, very nice man, always says hello.”

“And this is his umbrella?”

“Yes – definitely. He never went anywhere without it, though…⁠” the younger brother’s face fell a little, “it seems to be missing its point.”

Sharon swallowed, and kept her fingers as far as she could from the rusted hollow where the point should have been. “Has… someone else come in here recently, asking about the umbrella?” she asked, trying to radiate innocence. When the brothers didn’t answer, she added, “A man, for example? Dark hair, blue eyes, maybe bought some tobacco, renewed a travel card…⁠”

“We get a lot of customers…⁠”

“Yes.” The elder brother cut in before the younger could finish. “There was a man like that. He came in here a few days ago. Bought tobacco but was surprised at how much it cost – I remember that. Also blue eyes. Very blue. Noticed that too.”

Sharon smiled at him, but he’d already gone back to his magazine. Flustered to find her charms so ineffectual, she turned to the younger brother, who returned her smile with a dazzling one of his own, causing Rhys to snuffle even more snottily than usual. “My brother has a better memory for faces,” he explained. “Is this man a friend? Boyfriend?”

This time, Rhys sneezed profoundly.

“Nah,” said Sharon. “Mind if we take this…⁠?” she asked, waggling the card.

“Of course! Mr Crompton will be pleased.”

“I’m sure he will.”

Chapter 37

Don’t Judge People Until You Know Them

Mr T. J. Crompton lived up the nearby hill, in one of the side streets between Archway and Highgate, ordinary in themselves but which, here and there, enjoyed a far from ordinary view across the city. Victorian red brick featured throughout, with most terraces never more than two floors high, plus a hint of back garden and a polite little patch at the front where the inhabitants grew defensive hedges and passing teenagers threw their litter. The further up the hill, the more expensive the parked cars became in their designated bays; but a few of the larger buildings still had a dozen buzzers on the front door, and a tangle of bicycles inside the hall.

There were two buzzers on Crompton’s house; and above the small letterbox, a sign proclaiming NO JUNK MAIL. Wedged casually in the letterbox was the menu for a local pizza house. Sharon buzzed on the intercom and waited.

Then she buzzed again.

“Maybe he’s not home?” suggested Rhys, and immediately regretted his words, as Sharon reached out, grabbed him by the sleeve and, before he could offer even a sniffle of protest, dragged him bodily through the front door.

A cool hall, painted baby-blue, thinning grey carpet on the floor. The house had been divided into one flat below, one above. The stairs were narrow and a little too steep, high enough to trick homeowners into thinking they could fit a sofa up them, but tight enough to guarantee entrapment on the bends.

The door to flat A was white, old, locked. This time Rhys managed a cry of, “Oh, but, should…⁠” before Sharon dragged him through that, too.

The smell of tobacco struck even before the colours of reality had reasserted themselves on the druid’s senses. Thick, chest-tightening tobacco. It had embedded itself in the walls, spread over the floor, formed black tar drops along the ceiling, stained the windows grey. Some effort had been made to disguise the full effect of this, by painting the walls themselves a smudgy brown and the ceiling a thick, eggshell orange, and by laying beige lino on the floor. Even so, the effect was overwhelming. Small watercolour paintings lined the wall, nearly all of men in cricket whites, and executed in a photographic style. The narrow hall received little natural light, except indirectly, from a single bedroom, a mouldering bathroom where the damp was almost as thick as the smell of smoke, a larger living room lined with more cricketing prints, and a kitchen, where the owner had decided that the theme of brown was getting a little tedious, and opted instead for thick, dark puke-yellow on the walls, ceiling and floor.