Roman Road, by an off-licence advertising six pints of Polish beer for £4, and red wine at £3.99 a bottle. I checked the address scrawled on the back of my hand in fading biro, fumbled in my satchel for the A–Z, and double-checked my direction on the map. No one can know all of London, all the time.
The rain showed no sign of easing when I neared my destination, a small house with a red triangular roof and net curtains across its small square windows, nestled in between a cobbler’s shop and a Polish deli. A tiny front garden containing three flagstones leading up to the door and a tiny patch of grass with a gnome on it was the only thing to mark the house out. The gnome was making a marginally obscene gesture with his left hand, but his face remained merrily benign. There was one light on, on the upstairs floor, behind a frosted window which suggested a bathroom. I rang the buzzer and waited. The light went out upstairs. I rang again. A light came on behind the two thin frosted panels in the front door, and a figure briefly blanked them out. There was the rattling of a chain and the door opened a few inches.
A single watery grey eye pressed itself to the gap and a low, brisk voice said, “Yes?”
“Um … I’m here to see a seer?” I mumbled.
“Appointments only,” was the reply, and the door began to close again.
I planted my foot in what was left of the gap and said, “It’s very important.”
“Who are you?” demanded the voice indignantly.
“Um … Midnight Mayor?” I suggested.
“Bollocks to that, never believed in the Midnight Mayor and don’t bloody believe you’re him even if he wasn’t a bloody fairy tale, now get your foot out of my door.” He tried to push the door shut, squashing my foot.
I put my shoulder against the door and babbled, “Look, mate, but if the job came with a name badge it’d probably lose some of the mystique.”
“Piss off!”
For a brief, undignified moment we fought each other for control of the door, before I managed to push him back, driving the door open until it caught on its chain. While he was off balance I reached round inside, fumbled for the chain and managed to manoeuvre it free with only moderate loss of circulation to my wrist. I burst inside and found myself in a hall smelling heavily of cigarette smoke, painted a vibrant sunflower yellow, and lined with ancient caricatures of Indians in various unlikely and questionable poses. The man I’d pushed away was in his fifties at least, with straight, uneven grey hair going thin round the temples, a poorly shaven lumpy chin, worn hands and wearing a blue towelling dressing gown and corduroy slippers. He flapped at me as I closed the door behind me, shouting, “Get out! Get out! I’ll call the police …”
As he stormed through a door into what I guessed to be the sitting room I followed. He reached out for a phone, and I tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, hands coming up into fists. As he did, we caught him round the throat with our scarred hand. Sapphire fire flared behind our eyes, we felt the hair stand up on the back of our neck. The light flickered in the hall, electricity snapped in the sockets, blue sparks crawled around the handset of the telephone, the TV flickered on andmad static danced over its screen. He wheezed and pawed at our hands as the electrical fire built inside our soul and, for a moment, he met our eyes, and was afraid.
“Hi,” we said. “Let us make our position clear. We are the Midnight Mayor, protector of this city, carrier of its secrets and bearer of its shadows. The shadows watch us as we pass, the pigeons turn away at our passage, the rats scurry beneath our feet and shudder at the sound of our footsteps on the stones. We are the blue electric angels, the telephones sing at the passage of our voice, our blood is blue fire, our soul carries a pair of angel wings. We are the killer of Robert Bakker, sorcerer, master of the Tower; we destroyed the death of
The rain showed no sign of easing when I neared my destination, a small house with a red triangular roof and net curtains across its small square windows, nestled in between a cobbler’s shop and a Polish deli. A tiny front garden containing three flagstones leading up to the door and a tiny patch of grass with a gnome on it was the only thing to mark the house out. The gnome was making a marginally obscene gesture with his left hand, but his face remained merrily benign. There was one light on, on the upstairs floor, behind a frosted window which suggested a bathroom. I rang the buzzer and waited. The light went out upstairs. I rang again. A light came on behind the two thin frosted panels in the front door, and a figure briefly blanked them out. There was the rattling of a chain and the door opened a few inches.
A single watery grey eye pressed itself to the gap and a low, brisk voice said, “Yes?”
“Um … I’m here to see a seer?” I mumbled.
“Appointments only,” was the reply, and the door began to close again.
I planted my foot in what was left of the gap and said, “It’s very important.”
“Who are you?” demanded the voice indignantly.
“Um … Midnight Mayor?” I suggested.
“Bollocks to that, never believed in the Midnight Mayor and don’t bloody believe you’re him even if he wasn’t a bloody fairy tale, now get your foot out of my door.” He tried to push the door shut, squashing my foot.
I put my shoulder against the door and babbled, “Look, mate, but if the job came with a name badge it’d probably lose some of the mystique.”
“Piss off!”
For a brief, undignified moment we fought each other for control of the door, before I managed to push him back, driving the door open until it caught on its chain. While he was off balance I reached round inside, fumbled for the chain and managed to manoeuvre it free with only moderate loss of circulation to my wrist. I burst inside and found myself in a hall smelling heavily of cigarette smoke, painted a vibrant sunflower yellow, and lined with ancient caricatures of Indians in various unlikely and questionable poses. The man I’d pushed away was in his fifties at least, with straight, uneven grey hair going thin round the temples, a poorly shaven lumpy chin, worn hands and wearing a blue towelling dressing gown and corduroy slippers. He flapped at me as I closed the door behind me, shouting, “Get out! Get out! I’ll call the police …”
As he stormed through a door into what I guessed to be the sitting room I followed. He reached out for a phone, and I tapped him on the shoulder. He spun, hands coming up into fists. As he did, we caught him round the throat with our scarred hand. Sapphire fire flared behind our eyes, we felt the hair stand up on the back of our neck. The light flickered in the hall, electricity snapped in the sockets, blue sparks crawled around the handset of the telephone, the TV flickered on andmad static danced over its screen. He wheezed and pawed at our hands as the electrical fire built inside our soul and, for a moment, he met our eyes, and was afraid.
“Hi,” we said. “Let us make our position clear. We are the Midnight Mayor, protector of this city, carrier of its secrets and bearer of its shadows. The shadows watch us as we pass, the pigeons turn away at our passage, the rats scurry beneath our feet and shudder at the sound of our footsteps on the stones. We are the blue electric angels, the telephones sing at the passage of our voice, our blood is blue fire, our soul carries a pair of angel wings. We are the killer of Robert Bakker, sorcerer, master of the Tower; we destroyed the death of
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