The Midnight Mayor

“You expect other people to do your washing-up?”

“What? No!”

“Secretly married with two kids you beat up whenever you go home?”

“No!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Well, for a start . . . I’m the Midnight Mayor!”

“Which means?”

I hesitated. “I’m still not entirely clear on that,” I said. “Protector of the city is a vague job description at the best of times, but that’s not the point. We are not willing to . . . I’m not going to take the risk, OK?”

“Of teaching me? Am I that dangerous?”

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

She grunted. “Heard that before.”

“Penny!” we snapped. “Listen! We are not merely a sorcerer! We are more! Brighter, faster, we are me and I am us, and we . . . we burn the things we touch. We burn because of the beauty in the burning, because life is precious, extraordinary, and we would live it as if we were on fire with the brightness of it. Life is magic. We live to prove this true. It is a fire that mortals cannot sustain. I will burn, one day. My skin will crack and my blood will fall and when it does it will be blue electric fire and all that is human and mortal in me will dissolve in fire and speed and fury and delight and not even notice that it has died though I am senseless and alone. I cannot teach you. I will not have you share this fate, capisce?”

She thought about this a long hard moment, then said, “Well, bugger you with a pineapple.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I said . . .”

“I got the idea.”

“Way I see it,” she snapped, “is, if you are this protector of the city, and I am, basically, a walking bomb waiting to burst, then isn’t it your job as fucking protector to stop all threats from wandering the streets? Now, I’m going to wander your streets, Matthew Swift, because they made me who I am, because they defined me and what I believe in and how I think and feel and travel. And if I happen to go apeshit while doing it, then up yours, protector. You’ll have failed, all because you were scared you might hurt me. When I was going to destroy this city for . . . for so many fucking things . . . you gave me back my hat. You could have killed me, and you got shot giving me back my hat. And you really think you’re going to hurt me? Christ! Get a shrink already!”

We stared at her in horror. “But we . . .”

“Don’t give a shit!”

“I can’t . . .”

“Seriously! Look at my face! From now on I am going to be a difficult bitch until I get my way, and you, Matthew Swift, are standing right between me and my intended plan of being one kick-arse sorceress who can totally go out there and get her shit done. So either help me, or get out of my way, and the only way you’re getting out of my way, Mr Mayor, is by helping me. It’s your choice.”

“It’s not really a choice.”

“Then it should be very easy to make.”

I looked her up and down slowly by the neon lights of London Bridge. I looked up at the reflected sodium glow in the night-time sky, down at the river rippling below. I heard the rumble of traffic, the squawking of seagulls made fat on chips, smelt coffee and exhaust fumes and the distant rumbling of London Bridge station. I ran my fingers over the twin crosses scarred into the palm of my right hand, rubbed the back of my head, stretched from my nose to my toes, let out a long sigh of pure Thames air. Thought of mad eyes in a night-time dragon, of the songs that the telephones used to sing, and the shape of a traffic warden’s hat.

I said, “If we do this . . .”

“Yeah?”

“. . . promise me you won’t give up the day job?”

She shrugged. “Too late. Already quit. When do we start?”

I sighed, turned on the spot to look at the city, stretching out all around, the lit-up wonders in the night, Tower Bridge, the London Assembly (which would always and for ever be known as Ken’s Bollock), Hay’s Wharf, HMS Belfast, Southwark Cathedral, the Golden Hinde, Southwark Bridge, Millennium Bridge, Tate Modern, Blackfriars, St Paul’s Cathedral, the Old Bailey, the Monument, a great golden flame frozen for ever on top of a stone pillar, reminding the city of the last time it nearly died . . .

. . . nearly being the operative word . . .

I started to smile.

“Life,” we said, “is magic.”

about the author

Kate Griffin is the name under which Carnegie Medal-nominated author, Catherine Webb, writes fantasy novels for adults. An acclaimed author of young adult books under her own name, Catherine’s amazing debut, Mirror Dreams, was written when she was only 14 years old, and garnered comparisons with Terry Pratchett and Philip Pullman. She read History at the London School of Economics, and is now studying at RADA.

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