“I’m still curious about who ‘them’ is.”
“They said life wasn’t worth living unless you lived it to the full, that it was all right to catch fire and burn for ever, and that all I had to do to be free was to light up the sky. Forget the laws, forget what people tell you you should or should not be able to achieve. They said, ‘We be light, we be life, we be fire – come be me and be free.’ You still think I’m not mad?”
“Oh.
“What are they?”
“They live in the telephone lines. Bits of life that got left behind. They’re just after kicks.”
“They said you were coming.”
“They’re good at spooking people. Don’t pay any attention.”
“What did they mean?”
“They want to know what it’s like to be human. Some people say that they’ll eat up your dying breath, your soul, gobble you up in order to find out what it is that makes you tick. Theory also goes the other way, though. If they breathed, that is. I used to… but it’s not safe.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Best not to think about it.”
“I should just ignore it?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“They’re dangerous.”
“Is this a sorcery thing?”
“What do you think?”
She grunted. We sat in silence for a while longer, the grease from the fish-and-chip paper congealing on my fingers. Finally she added, “They said they were angels.”
“They lied.”
“You’ve heard them?”
“Yes. All sorcery is, is about spotting life in unusual places. Not to wax metaphysical about things, but it’s not just the sky, sea, mountains and so on; it’s the light from the street lamps and the buzz in the telephone. You can spot these things where others don’t. The blue electric angels sing a very seductive song. ‘Forget the confines of your own world, forget your flesh, your feelings, your friends, your laws. You are a sorcerer – you could blaze so brightly if only you thought you could.’ They want that, freedom and fire and bright lives; it’s all they’re about. Keep away from them.”
“Are there more things like that?”
“Sure. Demons and monsters and all that palaver. Easy enough to avoid though, if you’re careful.”
“Right.” She let out a long, shuddering breath. “My mum’s going to do her nut over this.”
“I think she’s so chuffed that you’re not currently exhaling lead, she won’t really care.”
“But it’ll happen again, right?” I looked up to find her eyes fixed on me. “You said – all this stuff, it’ll happen again.”
I shrugged.
“Why’d you get involved?” she asked sharply.
“Happened to be passing.”
“Coincidence?”
“Dodgy word, but short of a discussion on the merits of higher powers and the uncomfortable prospect of fate, destiny and so forth, yes. Coincidence.”
“Don’t suppose the guy who taught you wants another student?”
“Maybe.”
“You got his number?”
“Sure.”
She waited. When I didn’t move she said, “Well, can I have it?”
I hesitated. “There is…”
“Yes?”
“… the way it usually works is…”
“You teach me?”
“Pretty much.”
She nodded slowly then said, “There’s no nudity or blood, right?”
“What? No!”
“Good. How about living sacrifices and ceremonial dancing?”
“I don’t know if you’re really taking this seriously enough…”
“I am,” she said quickly. “Believe me, I just want to know what it is I’m getting into.”
“You’re already there,” I pointed out.
“Yeah. I guess so.” She looked up at the sky then back down at the river. “Are you a psychopathic murdering bastard?” she asked casually, no tone of offence in her voice or on her face.
“No,” I answered with a sigh.
“Well then,” she said. “Maybe we should talk.”
I left Mrs Mikeda in Smithfield around the time that the local clubs were starting to build up their queues of barely clad trendy young things ready to dance until the buzz in their heads had worn itself away. I didn’t know what the lady made of me or my story – her face had shut down to an impassive wall almost before I’d begun. But it was something that I felt had needed to be done.
I packed my bag, paid my hotel bill and, feeling there wasn’t much else left to do, caught the first bus I could find to Willesden.
Blackjack was at home, but only at the third time of knocking on the door to his shed. He was jumpy. No lights went on, no sounds were made from inside the wobbly, lopsided stack of iron that he called home, but he opened the door with a single tug and, the instant the door was wide enough, swung a double-barrelled shotgun up into my face that would have made the Metropolitan Police swoon on the spot.
On seeing my expression, he hesitated a moment too long before swinging it down to his hip and muttering, “You any idea what time it is?”
“Witching hour of night?” I suggested.
“You alone?” he asked, peering past me into the darkened scrapyard. Even though it was late, he still wore his leather jacket and big black boots, with a red spotty scarf tied around his neck; he’d pulled a thick pair of gloves up over his hands, so that his finger barely fitted into the trigger guard of the gun.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
He indicated that I should, and turned up a paraffin lamp as I stepped into the gloom of the shed. “You want coffee?” he asked, turning towards the low stove and slotting the shotgun down by a shelf full of spray-paint.
“Thanks, that’d be good.”
He put the kettle onto the stove, turned the nozzle on a cylinder of camping gas and struck a match to the hob, which belched its way into low blue life.
“Haven’t seen you for a while, what’ve you been doing, sorcerer?” he asked in a single breath as I settled down on a pile of least suspiciously stained blankets.
“Not a great deal,” I admitted.
“Heard you got hurt at the Exchange.”
“I’m fine.”
“Shit, like you’re ever really fine.” At the humourless chuckle in his voice, we looked up. He flapped a hand. “Never mind. Times are changing, you know, like the bard said?”
“The bard?”
“Jesus Christ, you need to get a life.”
“That’s the whole point of the exercise,” we replied. “You doing anything in the next few hours?”
“You want my guide to healthy living?”
