A Madness of Angels

inch of will and magic I had available, and half-thought that they weren’t going to come – until the vibration of the train passing over my head became too long, rattling on and on and on so that I thought perhaps the train wasn’t one, but a whole herd of the things, all going home for the evening, rushing along the same track.

It took a while to equate that pounding noise, the regular cuthunkcut-hunkcuthunk of the wheels over the joins in the silvery track, to the cold breeze growing on the back of my neck, and the way my breath condensed in the air, even though it was not so cold outside. When the spirit of that place began to appear, it did so gradually, a shimmer of navy blue that flickered in and out of existence – flash and then gone – bringing with it the distant mournful whistle of a train heard in the night through a locked bedroom window. I kept on with the summoning, feeling at my side for the copy of The Train Journey’s Companion to reassure myself, the only warm thing in the place, while I waited for the spirit of that place to come fully into being.

It appeared on the other side of the circle a bit at a time, like the Cheshire Cat, not entirely sure if it was coming or it was going, and when it was definitely there, even then bits of it kept focusing in and out with the faint rushing of wheels that defined it, its left arm suddenly snatched away by a cold breeze, only to be replaced a moment later by another copy, its face suddenly twisted into a fading patch of dark brown fog before it snapped back into place, its hat fading on and off its head, sometimes changing styles, at one moment big and broad and dark blue, the next tight and black, the next with a silver badge on the front, quaint and old-fashioned. Around its neck hung a small grey plastic machine with a slot for a credit card, in its hand was a book of pinkish paper tickets, in its breast pocket a multiplicity of pens and pencils, on its feet, the only thing that seemed constant about its shifting form, a pair of black leather loafers.

It was, in short, the spirit of the railway conductor, guardian of that place, and its expression, as it looked at me, was decidedly unimpressed. When it spoke, its voice was like the rushing of wind through a dark tunnel, and it said,

“All tickets, all tickets please!”

I held up The Train Journey’s Companion and said respectfully, “Sir, I have a gift?”

The book opened itself in my hands, the pages rustling like leaves on the line, blurring the words and pictures. Then, as ethereal as the creature standing in the garage in front of me, it too began to shift, move, fade away, leaving just a cold breeze on my fingertips.

“So much is changing,” the figure whispered sadly. “We are not what we were. All change, please, all change.”

“Martin Mill, Hither Green, Three Bridges, Woolwich Arsenal, Mudchute, Bounds Green, Gospel Oak…” I replied, rattling off the names of the train stations as they came to mind.

Its form shifted, a hint of a big leather belt, seen and then gone, the flash of brass buttons, the gleam of a corporate badge. It seemed to smile. “They would rather just leave and arrive, leave and arrive, than take a journey. This place will fade with the rattling of the train.”

“In the names of Thameslink, First Capital Connect, Southern Railway, South Western, GNER, National Express, Great Western, Chiltern Railways…”

It raised its head and said, “It is always nice to be remembered, even by little sorcerers who would rather fly. Where do you want to go today?”

“I need to keep someone here. I need to make sure they are safe and well, but cannot leave, and cannot be found by others who may come looking. Will you help me?”

“It is nice to be remembered,” the figure repeated. “We will keep your magic circle, and think of you, when we pass by.”

With that, it started to fade, taking with it the touch of the cold breeze from a train rushing by the platform edge, and the taste of mechanical steam.

I stayed a while longer, until the next train passed overhead, and stood up, my place now secure, my magic circle now guaranteed, and went to find San Khay.

Say what you will for San, even in times of crisis his routine was fixed. I found him on the roof of a building on the edge of the City of London, where its boundary merged with that of the City of Westminster. He was sipping champagne. The roof comprised a wide balcony, warmed by tall heaters with hatlike tops, which blasted away with the intensity of gas cookers, and a large glass conservatory. All this had been added as an afterthought onto a grand 1930s art deco building whose clean lines and simple silver curves housed grand offices beneath its exclusive roof garden. The conservatory was full of trickling fountains, ornamental trees, floodlighting and, this evening, women in little black dresses, and the hubbub of tipsy chatter. I watched it through the eyes of a pigeon circling overhead, the patterns of people’s movement as they bounced from group to group; the more wealthy and senior members of the club seated at tables where their drinks were brought to them along with small dishes of olives and oil, while the aspirant and younger members circulated from table to table, easing themselves in, networking, and moving on.

San sat at his own table, flanked by two bodyguards, and politely, as always, talked to those who came to see him, and was reasonable and calm with them all. He was also shrewd; and as the evening wore on, his eyes would dart more and more to my pigeons circling above his table until at last, at 11.30 p.m., as the gossip was hotting up and the champagne was flowing yet more freely, he looked up, straight at the creatures in whose brains I was nestled, and raised one hand, as if in invitation, or as a toast. Then he leant over to one of his bodyguards, who nodded and left.

I withdrew my mind from the pigeons’ and abandoned the bench on the street corner where I had been sitting while my mind drifted in their thoughts. Putting down the handful of feathers I’d collected from the street, which had given me the connection, I turned towards the doors of the building in which San waited.

In due course, the bodyguard San had spoken to appeared in the doorway. I walked up to him. He wasn’t actively waving the gun wedged under his right armpit, and didn’t seem up to throwing much magic, so I said, “Are you looking for me?”

“Mr Khay would like to know if you would join him,” he replied politely.

“Guns such as yours make me nervous.”

“He was most insistent that I didn’t use it, despite, naturally, my skill in such matters,” said the bodyguard smoothly. His smile dazzled.

“Was he?”

“Indeed, sir. He said, sir, that should I attempt in any way to threaten you, you would most likely explode my heart in my chest before I had a chance to remove the safety; and that, therefore, he would deal with you in person, if sir would be willing to settle this matter that way.”

I thought about this, shifting the hefty weight of my satchel on my shoulder. “You hold that thought,” I said. “And I’ll have a drink with Mr Khay.”

In real life, San Khay was taller than I expected, but that might have been the good posture with which he sat, even at eleven thirty at night, on a low bench that wasn’t comfortable, but was probably art. He nodded courteously at me as I sat down opposite him on the balcony. “Drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I hope my assistant was tactful.”

“Very. Didn’t start shooting or anything.”

“I explained to him the likely consequences. You are, after all, a man of significant power, yes?”

I hesitated. The question in his voice threw me – not necessarily in an egotistical way, since the definition of “power” was one that had been up for debate ever since my unlikely return to the waking world over a week before. It did suggest, however, that he didn’t know the extent of what I could do, beyond the proof he’d seen on his walls.

I said, “You’ve seen what I do.”

“Of course. I am, naturally, curious as to why you do it and to what end – and would be happy to hear your views on both.”

He spoke in neat, clipped tones and the hint of an American accent, probably from too many years getting an expensive education. His only motion was the tiniest tapping of his little finger against the stem of his champagne