But she had come to London early for a reason, and though it had started badly, and become very strange indeed, she wasn’t going to give up.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll find somewhere to stay. I can go to a youth hostel to start, I guess. Or some cheap . . . very cheap . . . hotel. Till I get a job. In a pub or whatever. I am eighteen.”
Greene stared at her. Her eyes were fierce, penetrating. She looked like she might favor the Sweeney school of physical interrogation as well, and was definitely someone Susan wouldn’t like to cross.
“Seriously, you’d almost certainly be better out of London. Not that you’d be entirely safe back home. But somewhat safer.”
“What do you mean?”
Greene shut the door behind her and sat on the desk.
“You’ve been in the Old World. You’ve been seen and marked by things from the Old World,” she said slowly, and with emphasis. “You’ll find yourself there more easily now, or it will come to you. But geographically speaking, word travels slowly in the Old World; there are many borders to cross between Highgate Wood and the entity that lives in the spa waters of Bath, or any of the other . . . things. Or so the booksellers tell me, because to be honest I know sweet FA myself. If you go home it could be years before anything else weird happens, if ever. Stay here, everything you’ve already met is much closer.”
“I want to stay,” said Susan. “I’ve got something I need to do.”
Greene stared at her for a moment longer, then got off the desk and paced around, pausing to loom over Susan. “Okay. Remember this. Nothing you think happened last night happened. If you talk about it to anyone, anywhere, but particularly the newspapers, the best that can happen is you’ll be locked up in a mental asylum and we’ll throw away the key.”
“I understand you’re threatening me,” said Susan slowly. She’d been arrested—though not ultimately charged—with her mother twice at CND antinuclear demos. She knew what was going on. “But I know my rights—”
“No, you obviously don’t understand,” said Greene. “This isn’t a police thing, it’s not a legal matter, it’s not part of British law. All the ancient weird shit, the living myths and walking legends and so on, they’re restricted, bound, held down, contained within boundaries by agreements and oaths and bindings and rituals and custom. And some of these can be broken or unraveled once people become aware of them, decide to reenact a bit of harmless old folklore or whatever. So we try to nip anything like that in the bud, stop people even thinking this stuff might be real. Usually, in minor cases, we put people away in a mental hospital, convince them they went gaga for a while, and everything works out. But you’re a special case, you’re already in too deep. We’d have to hand you straight over to the booksellers.”
“That doesn’t sound so—”
“Capital punishment doesn’t exist in the United Kingdom anymore, but the booksellers have an exception,” said Greene bleakly. “When they deal with someone who’s delved too deep, no one ever sees them again. And I understand from the booksellers that even that’s a better option than some of the things that happen to people who get in too far.”
There was silence in the room, save for the annoying hum of the fluorescent tubes overhead.
“Okay, I do kind of understand. . . . I mean, I get there’s stuff I don’t understand,” said Susan wearily. “I know I was lucky to survive last night. I have no intention of talking about it to anyone.”
“All right. You’re being sensible. Cooperative. So I’ll help you out, too. If you’re positive you’re going to stay, there’s a boardinghouse, not exactly a safe house, it’s simply somewhere we keep a bit of an eye on. We’ll put you up there—paid for by HM government—until you go to your student housing. The house is in Islington, so pretty handy for everything.”
“You know about my place at the Slade?”
“I’d like to think we know everything about you,” said Greene. “Since I’ve had five officers scouring all possible records since I got the call about ‘some of your MI5 agents’ rampaging about the North London shrubberies. But I’m sure there are things we missed. That’s the nature of it and one of the reasons I’ll be happier if you’re staying with Mrs. London in Islington. In case we find out something we should already know.”
“Mrs. London?”
“Yes. It is her real name, though she’s from Glasgow originally. God knows why she moved here. We have a deal?”
“What’s the place like?”
“Bedsit, but quite big. Gas ring if you want to cook, though Mrs. L does meals. Bathroom each floor, you only share with two others,” said Greene. “Place is hardly ever full anyway, so you might get lucky with the bathroom. Better than anywhere you could afford.”
“You’ve seen my bank account?”
“Like I said. Five officers. Two hundred and sixty-two pounds, fifty-five p as of close of business yesterday, and your bank manager was as cross as fire at being woken up too early in the morning to look that up for us, till I said we’d send him a letter of commendation from the deputy commissioner. Anyway, two-hundred-fifty-odd pounds is not a lot to last until term starts. Did I say breakfast is included at Mrs. London’s? And not skimped, none of your two Weetabix and half a cup of powdered milk. She does a fry-up and all.”
Susan was suddenly ravenously hungry. But then, she realized, she’d only eaten two slightly stale biscuits since lunch yesterday. “Uncle” Frank had invited her to dinner, but she claimed to feel unwell, planning to sneak out at the first opportunity. Though he’d been pleasant to her, she’d figured it was better to stay in her room and keep her door locked.
“What was Frank Thringley involved in?” she asked.
“What
