The Minority Council by Kate Griffin

however, want you to let me in, since if you keep me standing outside for more than a few more seconds, it will be considered evidence enough for the men presently watching this door to move into the house in an aggressive and unpleasant way.”
    “You…”
    “I’ll wait inside the hall. Scout’s honour.”
    She hesitated, then closed the door enough to take the chain off, and let me in.
    The hall was a mixture of old and new. A passage that had once let in muddy servants to below stairs in their master’s mansion had been converted into a shiny entrance with new oak floorboards and cream-silk-covered walls, off which hung the kind of Impressionist painting that put the mind-altering powers of LSD to shame. They weren’t there to be regarded, but rather noted out of the corner of your eye. The maid said, “Wait here, please.” There was achair for this purpose, and a coffee table laden with magazines about fast cars and holidays in Dubai. It felt like going to an expensive dentist.
    When the maid returned, she wasn’t alone. A man in a black leather jacket, with the look of someone who’d never owned anything that wasn’t black leather, walked right up close, and looked down at me.
    He said, “No one here knows you. So who are you?”
    “What a great logical progression,” I said. “Clearly your boss is a man for whom if the thing is not perceived and understood, it cannot be real. Unfortunate, considering your present situation.”
    He moved an inch closer, which was enough to block out what little light remained to me in the room.
    “Who are you?” he repeated. His voice was a low rumble that had been a long way to get from belly to lips and hadn’t enjoyed the journey.
    “Sinclair,” I replied. “Dudley Sinclair. I’m… how shall we say… I’m an interested party. Now, I’m on something of a schedule here so, if we could just hurry things up, I need to talk to Mr Prince.”
    “Mr Prince doesn’t talk to you.”
    “Mr Prince would rather not talk to me,” I replied, my smile locked in place. “He would prefer not to talk to me; he would, if he could choose, not wish to talk to me. Regrettably, though, he shall talk to me. As, if he does not talk to me, then in…”—I glanced at my watch, fifty pence from a lucky-dip machine and complete with Bugs Bunny ears for handles; should probably find something better—“… about twelve minutes the Midnight Mayor, protector of the city, defender of the walls, guardian of the lonely nights et cetera et cetera, is going to come in here andburn the building down. Which would be unfortunate for us all. Did I say twelve minutes? I meant eleven.”
    Suspicion met caution and fought for control of each face muscle.
    To everyone’s relief, caution won out.
    He said, “Stay here.”
    “Don’t take your time,” I sang out.
    He went.
    A couple of minutes after that, he came back. This time, there were two other men with him, also in black leather and, behind them, in a smart grey suit complete with lime green tie, the bulked-up hairless figure, stinking of internal transformative magics, that could only be Mr Morris Prince.
    He said, “Search him.”
    I stood as they turned out my pockets—empty—and rummaged through my bag. My small collection of loose change, spray paint and blank keys were tossed out onto the floor. They didn’t impress. Two of the lackeys held my arms as if expecting a bunch of flowers to suddenly spring up between my palms as Prince advanced closer, looked me up and down and told them, “Out.”
    “Your loss.”
    They had the door open, one gave a shove and I fell out into the street. Picking myself up, I turned and said, “Eight minutes, Mr Prince, and I’d say the buzzards are already circling.”
    He didn’t raise his voice, but said, cold and quiet, “You come back here again, and I’ll see you torn to pieces.”
    The door began to close. For a moment we wondered if they were too dumb to have noticed. Then someone