City of Halves

by Lucy Inglis

  Regan looked down at her. ‘Did they ever tell you how many people have your blood type? Roughly.’

  Lily shrugged. ‘No idea. I looked on the internet once. Point nought nought nought nought four per cent of the population or something. More noughts. I don’t know of anyone else in this country.’

  ‘And other blood types are toxic to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not mine?’

  ‘It doesn’t look that way, does it?’ She shook her head. ‘But let’s not make a habit of that transfusion business.’

  He looked at the sky as though despairing. ‘It’s a last resort, not a hobby. I might be a freak, but I’m not that sort of freak.’

  Lily dug her chin into her coat collar, then winced at the clammy coldness.

  They came to the large glass-fronted entrance of the market. Inside, Lily looked around at all the booths selling every type and cut of meat. The inside of the building was unheated, and as cold as outside.

  ‘This way.’

  She followed him through the gangways, dodging the porters and edging out of the way of customers dragging wheeled trolleys stacked with coolboxes, destined for restaurants and cafes across the city. Regan stopped in front of a shiny meat counter beneath an old painted sign declaring Marsden’s Quality Meats. A young man was weighing and wrapping joints.

  ‘Hi Joey, Micky around?’

  The young man grinned. ‘He’s in the back, as usual.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  They walked behind the counter and Joey returned to his tasks. In a walk-in refrigerator behind the booth was a man in a white coat, his back to them. His cropped hair was almost as dark as Regan’s. He turned without looking up, writing on a clipboard, a pen in his gloved hand. He had a hare lip and a squashed boxer’s nose. The air was freezing, their breath clouding. Lily shuddered inside her clothes.

  ‘And what can I get for you? The fillet of beef is top notch today, even if I do say so myself.’

  ‘Micky?’

  The man laughed. ‘Regan! Long time no see, mucker. How’s tricks?’

  Regan smiled, a touch awkwardly. ‘So-so. I’m looking for some help. Well, advice, maybe.’

  Micky put the clipboard down.

  ‘This is Lily.’

  Micky whistled quietly. He went to the fridge door and poked his head out. ‘Joey, no visitors.’

  ‘Right-o,’ said Joey cheerfully.

  Micky pulled the door to, immediately dropping the temperature. Lily closed her eyes in despair for a second, then she clenched her jaw to stop her teeth chattering.

  Micky walked over to her, looking at her in exactly the same way Misrak and Delphine had. It was a mixture of curiosity and satisfaction. Lily looked back at him, glad that Regan was still holding her hand.

  ‘Why are you all being weird?’ She edged away a little.

  Regan tugged her to his side. ‘We’re not.’

  Micky glanced up at Regan. ‘There’s another dragon on the rise.’

  ‘I know. I met it behind St Sepulchre’s last night.’

  He nodded. ‘Joey and I dropped off a couple of cow carcasses for them round the back of Crutched Friars on our way in this morning. Let the van splatter some blood around the streets as we left. Saw one of them heading in a few minutes later. Should keep them busy for a bit.’

  ‘Thanks, Micky.’

  ‘What are friends for? I got word about it all, but me and Joey’ve only got each other, so we thought we’d stick it out, watch the show.’ He was still looking at Lily. ‘So, this is her.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yes.’ Regan said.

  ‘So the war’s coming, all right.’

  ‘Maybe as soon as tonight.’

  ‘And what do you want from me?’

  ‘Divine for us. The prophecy. You know what it says.’

  Micky nodded, his face serious.

  ‘I need to be sure. That it has to be that way.’

  The butcher studied him, then nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘No setting me on fire,’ Lily chipped in.

  Micky laughed. ‘Been telling you our secrets, has he?’

  Lily ducked her face, then regretted the cold scrape of the zip beneath her chin and jogged her knees in a vain attempt to keep warm.

  Micky winked, taking her chill for anxiety. ‘Don’t worry, petal, it’s not painful.’

  ‘Will you do it?’ Regan pressed him.

  ‘Of course I’ll do it.’ Micky nodded, then sighed. ‘Shame it has to be here, though – plays havoc with the health and safety.’ He began to strip off his gloves. ‘But I’m guessing time is of the essence.’

  ‘What do you need?’ Regan asked.

  Micky looked Lily up and down. ‘Some of that pretty hair should do it.’

  Lily stared at both of them. ‘You are joking.’

  Regan drew a large carving knife from the block on the bench. Lily took a step back, scowling at him. He reached out and, before she had time to protest, had snicked off a single curl.

  ‘See? Painless.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  Micky rubbed his hands together, then opened them. A pool of bright flames lay in his palms. At first they flickered yellow and orange, then rapidly deepened to a bright red. Micky’s fingers glowed. He smiled at Lily. ‘This was a real nuisance before fireproof gloves. And walk-in freezers.’

  She watched as he concentrated on his cupped hands.

  ‘Now,’ he said to Regan.

  Regan dropped the curl into his hands. It burnt immediately with a little flash, filling the refrigerator with the stink of singed hair. Micky frowned as the flames lessened. They receded until his hands were only glowing and smoking gently. ‘Nothing, mate, sorry.’

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ Lily said.

  They looked at her.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘The Agency are taking my blood, not my hair.’

  ‘Hair should work just as well,’ Micky shrugged. ‘It’s part of you.’

  Lily pulled up her sleeve and picked up the knife. Regan caught her hand. ‘No.’

  She stepped away, shaking him off. ‘Micky?’

  Micky looked at Regan, one eyebrow cocked. ‘Game bird, this one, eh?’ He rubbed his palms together.

  Regan stepped forward, frowning, putting himself between Micky and Lily, facing her. He looked conflicted. Micky sidestepped him, looking up. ‘Mate, it’s all right. I know you’re not supposed to let her get hurt, but one little scratch isn’t going to make any difference now, is it?’

  Lily flinched as she drew the knife along the underside of her wrist, well away from the veins. Blood ran instantly down her fingers. She let it drip into Micky’s flaming hands . . . and found herself on the floor, shielded by Regan’s body, as a fireball engulfed the refrigerator.

  Micky swore loudly as the flashover blew the door wide open. A few seconds later, Joey’s curious face appeared.

  ‘Micky?’

  ‘It’s all right, Joe. Shut the door, there’s a good lad.’

  Lily lay, winded, in the cage Regan’s propped arms had formed around her, one hand protecting the back of her head from the hard metal floor. ‘You okay?’ he asked, his grey-gold eyes looking into hers, worried.

  She took a breath. ‘Yep.’

  He was on his feet now, helping her up.

  ‘Well, I think we can safely say that’s a yes,’ Micky said, getting to his feet.

  ‘A yes to what?!’ Lily looked between them.

  ‘Yes, you are the girl from the prophecy, and, yes, there’s a war coming,’ Regan said, buttoning his coat. ‘Anything else?’ he said to Micky. ‘About the outcome of the prophecy?’

  Micky looked at him sadly. ‘I’m sorry, mate, I really am—’

  ‘Thanks, Micky. It’s okay, really.’ Regan’s smile was tight.

  Micky pulled his gloves back on and leant on the butcher’s block. He looked around his scorched refrigerator; shreds of singed paper blew gently on a corkboard
and black marks streaked the white roof and walls.

  ‘Sorry,’ Regan said.

  Micky waved his gloved hand. ‘Don’t be daft. What’s a fireball in the workplace between friends? Now that there’s a war on.’ He looked at Lily. ‘I suppose, soon, it won’t matter anyway.’

  Lily mopped the congealing blood from her wrist with the piece of blue paper towel Micky passed her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Regan said.

  ‘Any time.’

  Lily ducked her head, mumbling her thanks. Micky picked up his clipboard again, then frowned at the order form, now reduced to ashes, still attached to it. As they reached the door, he spoke. ‘You know Hori’s back, don’t you? You should see him, if this is it.’

  ‘What do you mean, this is it?’ Lily looked up. ‘You make it sound like there’s no hope.’

  Regan turned. ‘Back from Japan?’

  ‘Yeah. Saw Jake in the street the other day. Apparently the old man couldn’t stick it there. He remembered it all as wooden palaces and those girls with the socks and the flip-flops.’

  ‘Geishas,’ Lily and Regan said at the same time.

  ‘That’s them.’ Micky shook his head and chuckled. ‘Senile old coot. What did he expect?’

  Regan grinned. ‘Thanks, Micky.’

  Micky saluted with one gloved hand. ‘Good luck.’

  Outside they walked down to the Farringdon Road. ‘Who’s Hori?’ Lily asked.

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘Why the big mystery?’

  Regan smiled. ‘This one you need to see for yourself.’

  The number seventeen bus drew into the stop just ahead of them, heading for King’s Cross.

  Lily sat on the bus feeling uncomfortable inside and out. Her clothes were creaky and the bus was crowded. She was sitting above the heater, hot air pumping out against her legs, making her jeans muggy. Regan had led her to a seat at the back of the bus but then remained standing, leaning against the window, his hands in his jeans pockets and his coat swept behind him. Most of the time he looked slightly down, his face unreadable. Lily tried not to watch him, and failed. People made space around him for no apparent reason.

  She had hated Micky’s fatalism, and knew Regan was avoiding discussing it. ‘This is it’? How can this be it? Lily looked around her at the people making their way to work on an ordinary January morning. Cold, gloomy, preoccupied. She shook her head to herself in defiance, and looked out of the window at the grey, frozen streets.

  At the top of the Gray’s Inn Road, Regan pushed the stop button. The once run-down area of King’s Cross had been smartened up with the rebuilding of the station, but pockets of the old seediness remained. The freeze took hold of Lily’s clothes again. She followed Regan without speaking. On a street between a shuttered fried-chicken shop and a betting place sat a tattoo parlour, the windows blacked out with bubbled, peeling film. A large pink transfer on the glass announced BEST TATTOO.

  ‘Are they open at this time of day?’ Lily asked.

  Regan pulled the door for her. ‘They’re always open.’

  Inside the shop were large padded chairs and a massage table, its padding cracked and split. An array of tattoo equipment was lined up on a bench. In a corner a plastic fountain in the shape of a Zen rock pile trickled water noisily. A young man with a round stomach was sitting on a stool near the table, blearily drinking coffee from a paper cup. He was at least half Japanese, and tattooed on every visible part of his body with koi carp swimming in elegant circles, rising to the surface of the water. Even the ripples were perfectly visible. Lily stared.

  He got up. ‘Regan.’ He grinned as they shook hands and bumped shoulders in a complicated fashion.

  ‘Hi, Jake. Is Hori up yet?’

  The boy yawned. ‘Only been back two days and hasn’t gone to bed yet. Just sits and waits for the right customer.’ He pointed to Lily. ‘Candidate?’

  Regan shook his head. ‘No, but I was hoping Hori might be able to do some divining for us.’

  Jake shrugged. ‘You know what he is. Maybe, maybe not. Should warn you, he’ll try to persuade you to have more work. He’s never got over the experience. If he wasn’t such an old git I’d have sworn he’d fallen in love.’

  The corner of Regan’s mouth kinked in a smile. ‘He’s out of luck, but I’m flattered. How’s business?’

  ‘Pretty good thanks. We are – y’know – the best.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Got to be, when the old man won’t take a penny for his work. Got to make a living.’

  Pointing to a door at the back, Regan asked, ‘May we?’

  Jake waved his paper cup languidly. ‘Go ahead,’ he said through a yawn.

  Regan led Lily down a long corridor hung with rice-paper lanterns. ‘Horiyoshi. He’s a Tenome,’ he explained. ‘A Japanese version of the divining spirit.’

  ‘And he did your tattoo?’

  ‘The big one, yes.’ He touched the letter on his neck with his left hand. ‘This and these rooks are by Jake.’

  ‘How long did the big one take?’

  ‘A long time.’

  ‘Time to change your mind, then.’

  ‘Half a full body tattoo would look even worse than a whole one. Besides, he decides what you get and if you get it. This is what I got.’

  ‘He decides?’

  ‘You’ll understand when you see.’

  They arrived in a light and peaceful room with very simple furnishings, including a large table padded with white leather. It was as clean and spartan as the front shop was shabby and cramped. An ancient, bald Japanese man in a silk robe was seated at a wooden workbench, gnarled fingers arranging a set of long bamboo-handled tools with sharp tips.

  ‘Master Lupescar.’ He did not turn around, but continued to run his hands over the tools, straightening them gently.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d come back,’ Regan said. ‘Had to hear it from Micky.’

  ‘Glad to hear the news of my return has filtered down to the very bottom,’ Hori said sourly.

  Regan laughed. ‘He’s glad to see you back, I think. Perhaps he likes the competition.’

  The old man sniffed. ‘I had thought to live out a quiet retirement. Perhaps a little work now and again, if there was a fitting candidate. But the place was so busy. Noodle bars and nightclubs. Too much rush.’ He sighed, still fondling his tools. ‘And then word got out and I couldn’t move for Yakuza wanting to be tattooed like their heroes. Silly little boys, most of them, wanting to look like men. As if a pattern on their skin could make it so.’ He tutted. ‘You must be very busy at the moment. I hear the dragons are waking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Too busy for more work?’ the old man asked hopefully.

  ‘I don’t need any more, thanks, Hori. I just brought someone to see you, that’s all.’

  ‘Shame,’ the old man said, not looking at them. ‘He is my favourite canvas, you know. One of my finest irezumi. Beautiful. Powerful. A true meeting of subject material and design.’ He made a graceful motion in the air.

  ‘You’re forgetting the bit where you neglected to tell me exactly how big this design was going to be.’

  Hori shrugged without remorse.

  ‘We need you to divine for us.’

  ‘No work?’

  ‘No, not this time.’

  He sighed. ‘But subjects are so few and far between these days. I have not had a decent candidate in almost two months.’

  ‘Maybe you’re too picky,’ Regan laughed.

  The old man’s hands stilled on the tools. ‘I do not waste my work. Any of it.’

  ‘Sir,’ Lily piped up, ‘there’s something in my blood. Something the Agency wants. We need to know what it is.’

  ‘What did the butcher say?’ Hori sniffed. ‘As you went to him first.’

  ‘I only went to him because I didn’t know you were back. He said we should come and see you. After Lily’s blood set the place on fire.’

  ‘Did it indeed?’ He t
urned, suddenly interested. Lily was shocked to see his eyes were completely clouded over. ‘She is surprised, your little friend,’ he said to Regan.

  ‘I forgot to say, Hori’s blind.’

  ‘Well?’ His blank eyes stared straight at Lily. ‘What do you think of my work on Master Lupescar here?’

  ‘It’s very . . .’ Lily stuttered. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘I should think not,’ the old man said haughtily. ‘Would you like one for yourself? Yours, of course, would be different. It would reflect your own qualities.’

  ‘No! Well, I never thought . . . but no. Plus I’d rather not be grounded until I’m forty-seven. But thank you.’

  Hori turned to Regan. ‘What is she talking about?’

  ‘Human stuff.’

  The old man’s worn eyebrows rose in crescent moons, stretching the folds of skin over his eyes. ‘Come, child, come here to me,’ he said abruptly.

  Lily walked over. He reached for her hands. On each of his palms was tattooed a large eye. He grasped her fingers in his own. A shock ran up Lily’s arms, into her shoulders, rendering her unconscious instantly. As she slumped towards the floor, Regan caught her.

  ‘Hori—’

  ‘She is like a tuning fork!’ Hori said gleefully, turning away and picking up a tool before pulling a stone dish of ink pigment towards him.

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Place her on the bench. It is the work of a moment.’ He rubbed his hands together.

  ‘We just—’ Regan protested.

  ‘Place her on the bench, my boy. We can talk as I work. There is so much to tell you! So much.’ The old man slipped from the stool like an otter into water, an array of tools clutched in his knotted hand. ‘Just a little kakushibori, a hidden carving, nothing obvious.’ He smiled, eager and toothless.

  Lily shook her head to clear it. Regan was sitting on a low table in front of her chair. She turned over her wrist to look at her watch; less than fifteen minutes had passed. The movement made her aware of something on the inside of her left elbow. The sleeve of her top was pushed right up and a gauze wadding plaster was stuck to her skin. Over the cut on her wrist was another large plaster. She saw the screwed-up paper wrappers in Regan’s hand.