Broken Homes

8

Bernie Spain Park was neatly bisected by Upper Ground Road. South of this line the showmen had placed their carousel. The mist was thick enough that you practically had to be riding on the thing to make out the expressions on the faces of the horses. But the coloured lights pulsed and illuminated the faces of the kids who waited their turn. I made a point of watching the ride for at least ten minutes, just to make sure nobody was aging backwards.

Nearby was a stall where I bought a toffee apple for Abigail in the hope it might glue her teeth together for a while, and worked our way through the narrow shadowy gaps between the stalls until we’d reached the jazz tent and the Metropolitan Police stall where Nightingale was waiting.

‘So, what was all that?’ asked Lesley.

‘That was the joint Court of the Thames in session for the first time since 1857,’ said Nightingale. ‘I fear they may have got a touch carried away in their enthusiasm.’

I looked over at the northern half of the park where the court was arrayed. In the mist it was just shadows and lights and looked exactly the same as the southern end. But I could feel it calling to me. A nagging little temptation, like a bad habit on a long dull day. I looked back at Lesley, who winked when she saw me looking.

‘We could rope ourselves together like mountaineers,’ she said.

The operational plan was that one of us would remain with Abigail at the police stall while the other two proceeded about the fair and, by dint of being clothed in the awesome majesty of the law, head off any high spirits before they got out of hand.

Me and Lesley decided to start with the jazz tent on the basis that, being jazzmen, the Irregulars might have some beer. And I had this theory that alcohol, being a depressant, might counteract all the glamour that was washing around us. And even if it didn’t, it could still get you drunk. Lesley was sceptical, but seemed open to some practical experimentation in that area. When we ducked into the tent we found that it was already half full of punters and totally full of my mother.

In honour of the fact that my dad was playing she was wearing her upmarket beatnik outfit, all skinny jeans, black roll-neck jumper and silver bling — all now back in fashion amongst the cognoscenti, much like my dear old dad. No beret, I noticed. Some things that happened in the sixties stay in the sixties — even if in my mum’s case most of them happened in the late seventies. When she saw me she bustled over and, after hugging me, greeted Lesley and asked how she was.

‘Much better,’ said Lesley.

Mum gave a dubious look and turned to me for confirmation.

‘How e day do?’ she asked in Krio.

‘E betta small small,’ I told her.

Mum nodded and looked around. ‘You girlfriend day cam?’ she asked.

It took me a moment to realise who she was talking about. Girlfriend? I’d never actually got that far with Beverley Brook before she’d moved upstream as part of a hostage swap. That had been my idea as part of, if I say so myself, a very clever way to stop the two halves of the River Thames going to war with each other. Beverley, for a lot of good reasons, had been an obvious choice for the swap although Lesley said it was down to my unconscious desire to head off a meaningful relationship before it could get started. Lesley says she could write a book about my relationship issues, only it would be long, dull and pretty similar to all the other books on the market.

‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ I said, but my mum ignored me.

‘Dis nah fambul business?’ she asked.

‘Sort of the family business,’ I said.

‘Dem people den very strange and differend,’ she said. Lesley snorted.

‘I’ve noticed that,’ I said.

‘But this one notto witch?’ asked my mum, who incidentally had attacked my last girlfriend for being same. ‘E get fine training.’

‘How’s Dad?’ I asked. Always a reliable way to sidetrack my mum.

‘He day do fine. Den day ya he do a lot of wok.’

So the Irregulars had told me, lots of gigs and rumours of an exclusive vinyl-only release carefully designed to appeal to fans of ‘proper’ jazz — whatever that was these days.

She glanced back at where my dad, properly turned out in pressed chinos and a green v-neck cashmere jumper over a white cotton shirt with button-down collar, was having a technical discussion with the rest of the band. Lots of hand gestures as he indicated where he wanted the solos to come in during the set because, as my dad always says, while improvisation and spontaneity may be the hallmarks of great jazz, the hallmark of being a great player is ensuring the rest of the band is spontaneously improvising the way you want them to.

‘Are wan talk to you in private,’ said my mum.

‘Now?’

‘Now now.’

I waved off Lesley and followed Mum out into the mist.

Are know you papa sabie play the piano,’ she said. ‘But e good more with dee trumpet. En dee trumpet nah e make am famous.’

Despite Mum’s best efforts, heroin had done for my dad’s teeth and so he ‘lost his lip’, his embouchure if you’re going to be posh about it, and unless you’re Chet Baker that’s pretty much all she wrote for a man with a horn.

‘If e bin day play the trumpet e bin for sell more records,’ said my mum in a wheedling tone of voice that suggested something expensive was about to happen to me.

‘How much are you looking for?’ I asked, because my mum will circle around a request like this for half an hour if you let her.

‘I don see one dentist way go fix you papa een teeth den,’ she said. ‘Four thousand pond.’

‘I haven’t got that,’ I said.

‘Ah feel say you bin day save you money,’ said Mum.

I had been but I’d blown it all on an artic full of booze to propitiate a certain Goddess of the River Thames — one who even at that moment was holding court less than ten metres from where we were standing. Mum frowned at me.

‘Watin you spend you money par?’ she asked.

‘You know, Mum,’ I said. ‘Wine, women and song.’

She looked like she wanted to ask me exactly which women and what songs, but while I was never going to be too big to beat, I was no longer living at home so I couldn’t be worn down.

‘Well we go raise some of de money by selling de records but you go get for fend some of de money too,’ she said.

I almost asked whether she’d tried Kickstarter but knowing mum she probably would have. Instead, I made the usual squirmy excuses and promises of the fully grown man faced with his mum’s uncanny ability to knock ten years off his age at will.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said and we returned to the tent to find that Lesley had indeed acquired a pint of beer, in a straight glass no less, and was cheerfully drinking it with the straw she carries for just such emergencies.

‘Where’d you get that?’ I asked.

Lesley gave me a sly look. ‘I seem to remember you lecturing me about the scientific method,’ she said. ‘And for this experiment to be valid one of us has to stay off the booze — as a control. Right?’

I nodded sagely. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘We need a control.’

‘Seriously?’ she asked.

‘Otherwise, how do you know the variable you’ve changed is the one having the effect?’ I said.

Lesley retrieved another pint from the top of one of the amps behind her. ‘So you don’t get this?’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘In fact you should drink both of them because we’re going to need your blood alcohol levels to be sufficiently elevated if we’re going to get a measurable result.’

Lesley stared at me. Her mask is a horrible shade of off-pink that can be barely called skin toned even by white people’s standards and it pretty much conceals Lesley’s expressions. But I’d learnt to read the shape of her eyes and the way her jaw moves under the hypoallergenic plastic. For just a moment she’d totally bought it. Then she relaxed and passed me the pint.

‘Funny,’ she said.

‘I thought so,’ I said.

‘Drink your bloody pint.’

So I did, and had a chat with my dad although this close to a gig he never takes in anything you say. But he seemed pretty pleased to see me, and asked if I was going to watch the set.

‘As much as I can,’ I said.

Beer finished, we left the tent. It was beginning to get crowded as what I took to be more tourists and curious locals wandered in. A couple of years patrolling the West End and Soho and you get used to crowds, but the mist muted the voices and made it seem unnaturally quiet. A quiet crowd is a bit of a worry to a copper, since a noisy crowd is one that’s telegraphing what it’s going to do next. A quiet crowd means that people are watching and thinking. And that’s always dangerous, on the off chance that what they’re thinking is, I wonder what would happen if I lobbed this half brick at that particularly handsome young police officer over there.

‘We might want to break that up,’ said Lesley nodding at the police booth.

There Abigail had been cornered by a slim white guy dressed in a red hunting jacket, camouflage trousers and Dr Marten boots. He was looming over her in the classic school disco manner and while she had her arms folded and her face turned away from his, Abigail’s expression was tolerant and craftily self-contained. She saw me coming before he did, and her smile became ever so smug.

‘Oi you,’ I said. ‘Sling your hook.’

The man spun around fast enough to make me take an automatic step back and check my stance. He was small, barely ten centimetres taller than Abigail but definitely at least ten years older. His face was triangular underneath a brush of rust-coloured hair, his eyes hazel flecked with gold, and when he smiled his teeth were white and sharp.

‘Oh, you startled me, Officer,’ he said in the kind of posh voice posh people use when they’re doing an impression of someone with a posh voice. ‘Is there something wrong?’

Underneath the open jacket he was wearing a white T-shirt with what looked like a medieval woodcut of a man being torn apart by hounds. Printed above the picture, in a modern font, were the words But they hardly suffer at all. I seriously doubted his name was going to be something like Mr Badger.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s called the Sexual Offences Act 2003. Which in this case would mean life imprisonment for you, but only if her father didn’t catch up with you first.’

‘I assure you, Officer,’ said the man. ‘My intentions were entirely honourable.’

‘Parked around the corner I’ve got a van full of very bored officers,’ I said. ‘Who, having spent most of their career in the morally ambiguous world of modern policing, would probably just love to be introduced to something as clear cut and despicable as an old-fashioned nonce.’

‘You wound me, Officer,’ said the man, but I noticed he was unconsciously backing away from Abigail and the booth.

‘Nothing that wouldn’t see me exonerated by the Department of Professional Standards,’ I said.

‘Okay,’ said the man uncertainly. ‘Nice meeting you, Abigail, Officers.’ He turned and scampered off.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked Lesley, who was trying not to giggle.

‘Peter,’ she said. ‘When you threaten people it’s usually more effective if they don’t have to spend five minutes working out what you just said first.’

Abigail folded her arms and gave me a bad look.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I was having a conversation there.’

‘Is that what it was?’ said Lesley.

‘You can talk to that one in five years,’ I said.

‘If you still want to,’ said Lesley.

Abigail was about to answer back when a voice called Lesley’s name. She had just enough time to turn in the right direction when a young woman with a mane of dreads came barrelling out of the mist and threw her arms around Lesley. I recognised her — it was Beverley Brook.

She pushed Lesley to arm’s length and stared at her — mask and all.

‘They said you were walking about,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t say you were fit. I was worried about you, but I was stuck upriver with the shire folk and the students.’ Lesley was too stunned to speak, which was something to see.

Beverley glanced over at me. Her eyes were as black as I remembered and shaped like those of a cat. Her nose was sleek and flat, her mouth wide, her lips full and her skin, despite the winter, smooth, flawless and dark.

‘Hi, Peter,’ she said and turned back to Lesley.

Peter Grant at the South Bank, I thought. His eyes wide, his testicles on fire.

Beverley leaned in and, much to Lesley’s discomfort, sniffed Lesley’s neck.

‘It’s true,’ said Beverley. ‘You’ve fallen into bad ways like Mister Never Texts over there.’ She glared at me. ‘Not one in nine months, no phone calls, not even an email.’ I knew better than to make excuses. ‘There are some people living by the river who are still waiting on their insurance because of you, and I ain’t joking about that.’ She turned back to Lesley. ‘You two had better make sure you pop in and pay your respects to Mum and the Old Man before they start to think you’re taking them for granted.’

A small figure in an Imperial Yellow silk jacket bounced into our midst like a little sun grenade.

‘Bev Bev Bev,’ shouted the girl. ‘You’ve got to come with me — you promised.’

‘Wait, Nicky,’ said Beverley. ‘I’m talking here.’

Nicky shortened from Neckinger, I guessed, another lost river which ran across the top part of Southwark. The girl, temporarily thwarted, turned to me and gave me a big radiant smile.

‘Wizards.’ She pointed and laughed as if this was hilarious.

A deep voice that I recognised called Nicky’s name.

‘Uh oh,’ she said and pulled a face at me.

Oberon strode out of the mist towards us. A tall man with a square handsome face, he wore an archaic military coat that had once been dyed red but had now faded to a muddy brown, black combat trousers and boots. At his waist he wore what looked to me like a genuine antique British Army sword, and not the ceremonial type either, one hand resting easily on the pommel to keep it from tangling with his coat. He nodded politely to me and Lesley.

‘Constables,’ he said. ‘I trust all is as it should be.’

‘Insofar as it can be,’ I said, but despite the temptation I didn’t add forsooth.

He held out his hand to Nicky, who sighed theatrically before skipping over to seize it.

‘You’re going to come see me,’ she said to me, even as Oberon towed her away. ‘Make sure you bring presents.’

‘Is that her dad?’ asked Lesley.

Beverley shook her head. ‘Oberon is Effra’s man, but they’ve both been roped into babysitting Nicky. Speaking of which, I have to go. But we need a girls’ night out. So text me, right?’

I coughed and asked Beverley if I could have a word later.

She gave me a sly smile. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Later.’

Lesley punched me in the upper arm.

‘Let’s go see her mum,’ she said. ‘While your brain is still engaged.’

It comes as a surprise to many that the rivers of London have their goddesses. Even people who have been officially raised to believe in such things as river spirits, and that’s about a third of the world’s population by the way, have trouble with the idea that the Thames might have a deity. The Niger, definitely. The Amazon, of course. The Mississippi, certainly. But the Thames?

Actually there are two of them. The Old Man of the River is the eldest by a couple of millennia, possibly a Romano-Brit called Tiberius Claudius Verica who ruled the Thames from source to estuary until 1858, when the mere fact that the city had reduced the river to an open sewer caused him to move upstream in a huff. So London did without his help until the late fifties when a heartbroken trainee nurse from Nigeria threw herself off London Bridge and found the position of goddess open. Well, that’s the way she tells it anyway.

The Old Man feels that as the original his dominion, however titular, should be recognised. And she in turn says that since he couldn’t be bothered to step up for the Festival of Britain, let alone the Blitz, he can’t just arrive and demand to sit at the head of the table. It’s the sort of exciting intergenerational and ethnic conflict that makes life in the big city worth living. The fact that we’re the police and it’s our job to interpose our precious bodily selves between such potential conflicts explains why me and Lesley made a point of being polite and respectful when dealing with them.

So we marched up to where they sat, resplendent in their Sunday best. Father Thames in a black pinstripe double-breasted suit, a paisley waistcoat and a matching porkpie hat that did its best to keep his tangle of white hair under control. In honour of the occasion he was clean shaven, which served to emphasise his thin lips, beaky nose and bleak grey eyes.

Next to his dull self, Mama Thames blazed in a blouse and lapa of gold, silver and black. Her face was as smooth and dark as her daughter Beverley’s but rounder, although the eyes had the same upward tilt. Her hair had been braided into an elaborate birdcage shot through with gold thread in a style that must have kept her cronies busy for hours, if not days.

Following Nightingale’s instructions we made sure that we slipped in and out as unobtrusively as possible, receiving the equivalent of, And how long have you been a police officer? Jolly good. Lady Ty standing at her mother’s right shoulder gave me a dangerously cheerful little smile which left the spot between my shoulder blades itching as I walked away.

Then it was back to the jazz tent for Dad’s set where we found Nightingale discussing the evolution of Ted Heath’s big band from the Geraldo orchestra with a guy who said he’d driven down from Nottingham especially for the gig. I stayed long enough to make sure my dad registered my presence and then headed back out. After all, we couldn’t have the entire forces of law and order stuck in one place — who knew what someone might get up to while we were all grooving on a spring evening? As I reached Abigail standing disconsolately beneath the Working Together for a Safer London banner, I heard Lord Grant’s Irregulars start into my dad’s eccentric arrangement of ‘Misty’. I said she could have a look around the fair as long as she didn’t talk to any strange people.

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Or strange things,’ I said.

‘Whatever,’ she said and skipped off.

‘Or strange things that are also people,’ I called after her.

Neither category seemed interested in stopping at the police stall for a chat, although a couple of Brazilian students wanted to know what the fair was in aid of.

‘It’s a celebration of the spring equinox,’ I said.

They looked around at the bare mist-shrouded trees and shuddered before they were sucked towards the jazz tent by the music. They passed Lesley coming the other way and stared curiously at her mask, only realising what they were doing when Lesley stopped and asked them if they needed something. They shook their heads and scuttled off.

Lesley was carrying another pint of beer which she presented to me when she reached the stall.

‘Compliments of Oberon,’ she said. ‘He says you’re going to need it before the day is done.’

‘Did he say why?’ I asked.

Lesley said no, but I drank the beer anyway. It was proper beer, I noticed, not your fizzy lager from a cask — probably off one of the stalls I thought.

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 matinee 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 IXtra 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.

Father Thames, as casual as a gentleman in a pub urinal, glanced left and right down the line to ensure he had our full attention before cutting himself off in midstream and calmly buttoning himself up.

‘Well, what did you expect, boys?’ he said into the silence. ‘I am the master of the source, after all.’

I woke up in the back seat of the Asbo and, despite that, I felt surprisingly good. Fucking wonderful in fact. I got out of the car and stepped into warm early morning sunlight. Immediately suspicious, I powered up my mobile and used to it to check the date — it showed what I expected — I hadn’t spent fifty years in enchanted faerie revelry. But in my line of work you can’t be too careful.

Still, the faerie fair had vanished with the morning sun, leaving behind drifts of rubbish and muddy rectangular footprints pressed into the lawns. Just like a big dirty river that had burst its banks and left its mark on the dry land. It was in a state, but fortunately I’m a man who has a mum who knows a woman who runs a company that specialises in cleaning up after rock festivals. The woman who ran it said that if you’ve ever done clean-up at Glastonbury then nothing short of highgrade nuclear waste will ever scare you again.

Her people arrived and parked in the areas recently vacated by the TSG. Most of them were young Somalis, Central Africans, Albanians and Romanians with a smattering of Poles, Turks and Kurds. They were dressed in boiler suits, steel toecapped boots and carried shovels and rakes and implements of destruction.

Lesley looked cheerfully oblivious, curled up in the front seat, so I left her to it and went in search of coffee and bacon sandwiches. When I got back she was up and waving at me from the eastern edge of the park where we’d held the pissing contest.

‘What the fuck happened here?’ she asked.

In front of where the Old Man of the River had stood flowers had bloomed. Nightingale named them when he rolled up to join us, Wild Angelica, Red Clover, Yellow Melilot, Wild Mignonette, Garlic Mustard, Scabious, blue spherical Devil’s-bit and tall stands of Red Valerian. He seemed delighted and said he would return to pick a bouquet for Molly.

‘But first we need to deal with those railings,’ he said.

Despite the sunshine the wind coming up the river from the east was brisk. Uncle Bailiff had at least left the cut sections of the handrails in a neat stack and secured them with plastic ties. Me and Nightingale each took an end of the first section and lifted it into the gap. Nightingale put his hand around the join and spoke quite a long spell, fifth or sixth order I guessed. I felt a vibration like a tubular bell being struck neatly with a hammer and a tingle in my hands where I held my end of the rail and then a warmth.

‘I haven’t done this in a long time,’ he said.

‘Is this part of the weird way of the Weylands?’ I asked. It wasn’t exactly fashioning a wizard’s staff, but it was the same line of work. The metal was getting warmer and I was just wishing that I had a pair of proper workman’s gloves when Nightingale released his end. I slid my grip over so that he could take hold of my end and watched closely as he repeated the spell. Lux was in there but also formae and modifiers that I didn’t recognise.

‘Which reminds me,’ said Nightingale. ‘We must continue with our own blacksmithing.’ He released his grip, leaving an orange glow in the rough shape of his fingers on the metal which faded to leave no sign of a join.

‘Do we have time?’ I asked as we moved on to the next railing. ‘What with the Mulkern case and the Faceless Man?’

‘I’ve spent too long in the land of the lotus-eaters,’ he said. ‘It won’t profit me to find that faceless bastard.’ The railing shone white under his hands then faded. ‘Not if you and Lesley aren’t ready to take up your duties.’

A gust of wind chilled me as I realised that Nightingale was planning against the possibility that he wouldn’t survive that encounter.

‘And the exercise will do me good,’ he said.

When we were finished we walked up to join Lesley, who was packing up our stall. The last, I noted, to be taken down.

‘Notice anything odd?’ she said.

I looked around. The cleaners had nearly finished and clear plastic bin bags stuffed with rubbish awaited collection along the paths. A man was walking his dog and a couple of curious teenagers in hoodies were watching us in the hope that we did something interesting enough to post on YouTube.

‘Not really,’ I said.

Lesley tapped me on the shoulder and pointed up at our official Metropolitan Police crest with the reassuring slogan in script. Only someone had altered it while we slept. Someone with some proper skills, because if I hadn’t known it had changed I would have assumed it had always read — Metropolitan Police: Working Together For A Stranger London.