The Midnight Mayor

“Where are we going?”

“The station.”

She glanced sharply at me. “You’re going to . . .”

“Power of the travelcard,” I replied. “You know how this song goes.”

If anyone paid us attention on the streets of Morden, they paid just enough to get out of our way.

They’d heard something explode and were thinking of terrorist bombs and the ten o’clock news. And we were moving too fast now, as we dragged Mo down the rain-drenched street, for anything to make us stop. I could hear sirens, getting closer, every pitch and tone of distressed vehicle, see people running in equal measure towards and away from the blast. We got Mo across the street towards the station, saw the bright sign of the Underground, that most holy of symbols, protection and safety and movement and freedom, and tumbled into the station even as the guard started to close the gates. “Hey, there’s been a—” he began.

“He’s got a gun, fucker!” Oda screamed at him.

The station manager looked from me, to Oda, to Mo. Oda, to prove her point, pulled out her own gun, fired two shots in the air and shouted, “Run for your lives!”

They ran, guard, manager, passengers and all. I loaded the full weight of Mo into Oda’s arms and staggered towards the ticket machines, fumbled for ever in my bag, looking for coins, anything, found some, bought a ticket for him, pulled out my own, handed Mo’s to Oda and snapped, “Get him through!”

We passed through the barrier and nearly fell into the hall inside, Oda crudely dragging Mo as she held their two tickets in her teeth. “Down, down!” I snapped, waving at the stairs. I felt movement behind me, turned back towards the half-open grille on the entrance; and there he was, Mr Pinner, walking in calmly out of the rain, shaking the droplets off his umbrella, which wasn’t even scratched, he wasn’t even scratched, the illusion of skin back on his face, all hint of paper gone, nothing torn, not even a thrown stitch in all his suit. He smiled at me and started to walk towards the barrier. I raised my travelcard, bracing myself for the spell, and began the incantation.

“These are the terms and conditions of carriage: ‘If you do not have an Oyster card with a valid season ticket and/or balance to pay as you go on it, you must have with you a valid printed ticket(s) . . .’”

He hesitated, seeing what I was doing, seeing the air thicken between us as I threw myself into the protective spell, invoking all that was sacred about the Underground.

“‘. . . available for the whole of the journey you are making. You may use your printed ticket in accordance with these conditions. All printed tickets remain our property and we may withdraw or cancel . . .’”

Then, he turned his head towards the nearest ticket machine, and walked towards it. The spirit went out of me; I nearly fell under the weight of my own travelcard. He pressed a button, chose a ticket, started to dig into his pocket for change, couldn’t find any, looked up at the empty glass where the station manager should have been selling, then smashed it with the end of his umbrella in a single swipe and reached through for the cash till.

I screamed at Oda, “It’s not going to work! Move!”

She’d already dragged Mo down to the bottom of the stairs. We took the steps two a time after her, skidded on the dirt-engrained tiles at the bottom, grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her towards the platform.

“What do you mean it’s not going to work?” she shrieked. “I thought that spell of yours stopped everything!”

“It stops everything that doesn’t have a right to be on the Underground,” I replied, looking up for the indicator board, “and he’s buying a fucking ticket as we speak!”

And there was the indicator —

1. High Barnet via Bank — 3 mins

2. Edgware via Bank — 9 mins

3. Edgware via CharingX — 15 mins

GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME

“Can we use the train?”

“Depends how much change he can find for the ticket,” I snapped, shoving her towards the further end of the platform. We dumped Mo on the concrete floor, and I turned to look back, searching for inspiration, protection, anything. I felt in my satchel, found a can of blue spray paint, started to draw the symbol of the Underground; then I thought better, switched to a can of red and drew the twin crosses, one inside the other, muttering, “Domine dirige nos, please, please, domine bloody dirige nos . . .”

The paint began to burn on the concrete in front of me.

“Sorcerer!” shrilled Oda.

“Not right now!”

“Matthew!”

I glanced back.

Mo was lying on the floor, and he was blinking.

“He’s awake!”

GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK

“I’m glad for him!” I snapped. “Seriously!”

“Matthew!!”

I glanced back and Mo was pointing; he had raised one hand the colour of a spilt biro and was pointing at the indicator. “‘Give me back . . .’” he whispered, and his voice was full of popping bubbles; little spurts of black ink ruptured from his lips as he spoke. “‘Give me back . . .’”

“‘Give me back my hat’,” whispered Oda, and for a moment there was almost a kind woman there, leaning over a dying kid. “What does it mean?”

“‘Give me back . . .’”

“What does it mean?” she hissed, shaking him gently by the shoulders. “What does it mean?!”

“I took it,” he whispered. “I took her hat. I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry Mum? I’m sorry I’m sorry Mum! Fuck shit please God fuck!”

“Whose hat? Whose hat did you take? His? Mr Pinner’s? Did you take his hat, is that why this has happened? Whose hat did you take, Mo?!”

“Mum! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’ll never again honest please you fucking help me fucking shit please help bitch help me sorry so sorry please . . .!”

I looked up sharply, there was something happening at the far end of the platform, a shadow in the corridor.

“Whose hat did you take?!” screamed Oda, shaking him now, not gentle at all. “Tell me!”

A light went out at the end of the platform, then another, and another, the long neon strips dying around us. And there was someone moving in the darkness, a man moving in it, the twin red crosses painted on the floor burning now with thick angry smoke, popping and spitting in rage. I dropped the spray can, backing away from the smell of it. One minute, said the indicator, just one little minute and then it’d all be OK, the train would come and we would go and Mo would live and Loren wouldn’t cry and we’d live ohgodohgodohgodohgod just let us live please just live a little longer just a little live and see and smell and

“Whose hat?!” shrieked Oda’s voice as the darkness spread.

“Hers,” whispered Mo. “Hers. The traffic warden’s hat.”

“Oda,” I whispered, as the light went out from the twin red crosses and the last neon tube died. “Oda, get away . . .”

“Which traffic warden, what traffic warden . . .”

“Dollis Hill,” he whispered, “the traffic warden’s hat.”

“Oda! Get away from him!”

She staggered back just as he started to scream. I grabbed her, turned her head away, turned my face away, heard him scream and scream, heard his skin tear and part, saw in the dying neon glow the blood tumble black across his flesh, spill black into the platform, roll black down into the trench for the trains to run in, spitting and sparking when it struck the tracks, and he just screamed and screamed and screamed until there was no breath left to scream with, no mouth left to scream with, no human left to scream, just a piece of dead, flayed meat lying on