nothing scary about it; here was an item you could lean on in a crisis, an old friend that would always see you through.He’d seldom felt emotional detail like that with the Sight.Maybe that was because of the shop environment.If someone Sighted had stocked this place – and that was a conclusion he felt he could safely come to – they wouldn’t put out anything that made their customers feel like shit.That’d be in the back, the higher slopes that he felt continued past this end wall, the special stuff for special people.
Sefton had picked the bloke he’d followed in here because he looked young and was in modern dress, unlike the serious practitioners they’d encountered at the New Age fair.Today was just about making sure that the guy saw him here, so that by the third or fourth encounter he’d think of him as a regular, and then maybe start talking to him.Sefton wasn’t planning to begin a conversation himself.You didn’t initiate contact.Doing this in a subcultural context couldn’t help but remind Sefton of something he’d never done himself: cottaging.What would be just a small indicator that he and the man shared common predilections?There might well be a secret language here, but if there was an occult underworld in London, the sort of community that knew itself as a community, it stayed off the internet.With what Ross had reported about her fortune-teller’s embrace of all that was old, maybe that wasn’t surprising.What would be the obvious thing to do here?
He let himself smile at the warm feeling coming from the artefact, then glanced sidelong and saw that the young man was surely feeling the same way.But then he actually made eye contact with Sefton, and instead of any shared sentiment, as if they were both in an art gallery, the look on his face was grim.To Sefton’s surprise, the man spoke.He kept his voice low and urgent.He had a slight stammer and an upper-class accent.‘Does you being here mean what I think it does?’
Sefton turned slowly to look at him, sizing him up.
‘Does someone like you being here mean that the Keel brothers are about to make their move?’
Someone like him?In what sense?Sefton chose his West Indian gang accent.‘I don’t feel you.’Suggesting that he really did know what was going on.
The man looked suddenly shocked.He lowered his voice even further.‘You’re prepared to go that far?In the presence of all this?’
Sefton was now completely lost.But he didn’t let his expression show it.It was vital that he continue to feed this man’s assumption that he knew as much about what was going on as the man did.That was his way in.He smiled a very deliberate smile, and straightened his back from his gang slump, squared his shoulders, emanating basic dominance.Whatever this was, yeah, he was prepared to go that far.Feigning confidence had saved him in the past.Sometimes he thought that was all there was to life.He wished he found it as easy to do in the real world as when he was undercover.
The man seemed not to know what to do.He looked exasperated for a moment, then turned and walked quickly away.He looked back to Sefton from the end of the aisle, then he was off.
Well, that had been a come-hither look.So, here we go; the way in was opening up.Sefton gave it a moment of further window shopping, then went past the oblivious staff again, down something that was trying to slope both ways and out into the sunshine and onto the normal pavement.The man was loitering on the corner beside an ancient-looking cafe; when he saw that Sefton was following, he went inside.So Sefton did too.
* * *
The cafe was one of those you got on the corners of central London, unchanged in design and function since the fifties, apart from a microwave and a smoking ban.There were, now Sefton thought about it, quite a few businesses like this near the occult shop.The pub he’d been in hadn’t even had a telly.Were the proprietors aware that some of their clientele were
Sefton had picked the bloke he’d followed in here because he looked young and was in modern dress, unlike the serious practitioners they’d encountered at the New Age fair.Today was just about making sure that the guy saw him here, so that by the third or fourth encounter he’d think of him as a regular, and then maybe start talking to him.Sefton wasn’t planning to begin a conversation himself.You didn’t initiate contact.Doing this in a subcultural context couldn’t help but remind Sefton of something he’d never done himself: cottaging.What would be just a small indicator that he and the man shared common predilections?There might well be a secret language here, but if there was an occult underworld in London, the sort of community that knew itself as a community, it stayed off the internet.With what Ross had reported about her fortune-teller’s embrace of all that was old, maybe that wasn’t surprising.What would be the obvious thing to do here?
He let himself smile at the warm feeling coming from the artefact, then glanced sidelong and saw that the young man was surely feeling the same way.But then he actually made eye contact with Sefton, and instead of any shared sentiment, as if they were both in an art gallery, the look on his face was grim.To Sefton’s surprise, the man spoke.He kept his voice low and urgent.He had a slight stammer and an upper-class accent.‘Does you being here mean what I think it does?’
Sefton turned slowly to look at him, sizing him up.
‘Does someone like you being here mean that the Keel brothers are about to make their move?’
Someone like him?In what sense?Sefton chose his West Indian gang accent.‘I don’t feel you.’Suggesting that he really did know what was going on.
The man looked suddenly shocked.He lowered his voice even further.‘You’re prepared to go that far?In the presence of all this?’
Sefton was now completely lost.But he didn’t let his expression show it.It was vital that he continue to feed this man’s assumption that he knew as much about what was going on as the man did.That was his way in.He smiled a very deliberate smile, and straightened his back from his gang slump, squared his shoulders, emanating basic dominance.Whatever this was, yeah, he was prepared to go that far.Feigning confidence had saved him in the past.Sometimes he thought that was all there was to life.He wished he found it as easy to do in the real world as when he was undercover.
The man seemed not to know what to do.He looked exasperated for a moment, then turned and walked quickly away.He looked back to Sefton from the end of the aisle, then he was off.
Well, that had been a come-hither look.So, here we go; the way in was opening up.Sefton gave it a moment of further window shopping, then went past the oblivious staff again, down something that was trying to slope both ways and out into the sunshine and onto the normal pavement.The man was loitering on the corner beside an ancient-looking cafe; when he saw that Sefton was following, he went inside.So Sefton did too.
* * *
The cafe was one of those you got on the corners of central London, unchanged in design and function since the fifties, apart from a microwave and a smoking ban.There were, now Sefton thought about it, quite a few businesses like this near the occult shop.The pub he’d been in hadn’t even had a telly.Were the proprietors aware that some of their clientele were
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