by Green, Sally
I nod.
Thank you for sending her to help me. And for the sandwiches.
“I didn’t ask her to give you any food.” He smiles. “She’s a tough cookie with a bit of a soft center.”
I grin at him and turn to leave.
He calls, “Adieu, mon cher,” as the door closes behind me.
I walk quickly down the alley, sticking close to the wall on my left, eyes fixed on the far buildings, thinking, The end of the alley. The end of the alley.
Money
Bob’s warning about the Hunters has really got to me. I knew they’d be after me, but now my adrenaline spikes every time I see a person dressed in black. I find a park a few miles away and pace around. A dog walker helps me read the sign in the drawing, which says Earls Court. Also in the drawing is a man sitting on a bench reading The Sunday Times. The dog walker tells me that today is Wednesday, so I’ve got four days to get as much cash together as possible.
I’ve no idea where to begin but I know getting a job isn’t going to be the answer. I remember Liam, whom I did community service with, giving advice about stealing. “Find someone stupid and rich—there’s loads of ’em—and rob ’em.”
* * *
I’m near St. Paul’s Cathedral. It’s all quiet. The few people I’ve seen have come out of a bar and got straight into a taxi. I’m waiting farther along the street.
It’s late when a lone City gent appears, walking carefully and cursing the lack of cabs. He has really fancy clothes, shoes with no holes in them, and a waistline that indicates lack of food is not a problem for him. I’m not really sure how to do this, but I walk up to him from across the road. He is pretending he hasn’t seen me and speeds up. I move into his path and he stops. He must weigh over twice what I do, and he’s not short, but he’s weak and knows it.
“Look, mate,” I say, “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I need all your cash.”
He’s looking around and I realize he’s going to start shouting.
I step up close and push him into the wall. He’s heavy, but as he hits the bricks the air sort of flobbers out of him like a balloon deflating. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I need all your cash.” I have my arm at his neck, pushing his head to the side. His eyes are staring at me, though.
He slides out a long, slim, black leather wallet from his jacket. His hand is shaking.
“Thank you,” I say.
I take the notes, flip the wallet closed, hand it back to the man and then I’m off.
Later, when I’m curled up in a shop entrance, I think about the man. He’s probably lying in a nice warm bed, and he definitely doesn’t have a pack of Hunters after him, but he could have ended up in hospital with a heart attack. I don’t want to kill people. I just need their money.
* * *
The next day I suss out Earls Court station. It takes me a while to find the platform and the place that matches Bob’s picture, but the bench, the sign, and the locker are there. I’ve just got to come back in three days and get whatever is on top of it. I go and sweep my hand over it now but find only grime.
Now I need some rich, healthy young men to rob.
* * *
Liam should come down to London. He’d love it. The place is full of stupid rich people. A few struggle, and some try to hit me, but basically it’s all over before it’s started.
I’ve bought a suit and had my hair cut so that I blend in with the fains. But it’s dead in Canary Wharf on Saturday, and I’m glad because stealing from these guys is pretty low and they are all pretty hopeless. I’ve got over three thousand pounds and a reasonably clear conscience, but it’s no fun doing anything just for the money.
* * *
On Sunday I get the tube to Earls Court and walk around the station, checking for Hunters. No one is even looking at me; everyone is looking blankly ahead or at their phones. I walk to the end of the platform and back to the locker and reach up.
A piece of paper is there. I slide it to the edge with my fingertips, stuff it straight into my pocket, and carry on with hardly a break in my stride.
In a cafe I befriend a woman. She goes through the instructions. They are similar to the ones Mary gave me but not as precise. They are for Thursday.
Jim and Trev (Part One)
I’ve followed the instructions carefully. They have taken me to the outskirts of London, to a grotty house at the grottier end of the sprawl. I’m standing in someone’s front room. It is dark in here. Jim is sitting on the stairs. Whereas Bob is a struggling artist, Jim appears to be a struggling criminal, a White Witch of the lowest ability. He’s no Hunter, that’s for sure.
The house is small, owned by fains who, Jim assures me, “don’t know nuffin’ ’bout nuffin’.” The front door opens into a lounge area that leads to the kitchen. There are stairs in one corner and a large flat-screen TV on the wall, but no chairs for some reason. Jim has closed the curtains and the air inside is heavy. There’s a smell of onions and garlic, which I think is coming from Jim.
Jim hasn’t told me how to get to Mercury but has told me how important a good passport is, how I will actually need two passports, how his passports are quality passports, that they are in fact real passports, and on and on . . .
He wipes his nose on the back of his hand before sniffing a large amount of snot back into his chest.
“There’s more work in these than a bespoke suit, more skill, more everythin’. These passports will get you through the strictest checks. These passports may save your life.”
I don’t even want a passport. I just want the directions to Mercury. But I’m guessing I shouldn’t fall out with him. “Well, I’m sure you’re right, Jim.”
“You’ll see I’m right, Ivan. You’ll see.”
“So that’s two thousand then, for two passports and the directions to Mercury.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Ivan, if I’ve not been clear. It’ll all come to three thousand pounds.” He wipes his nose again, this time with the palm of his hand.
“Look, you said a thousand for one passport.”
“Oh, Ivan, you’re new to this, aren’t you? Let me explain. It’s the problem of the foreigners. I’ll get you a British passport at a thousand, but it’s best to get one from somewhere foreign as well. The States is a possibility, but I favor New Zealand these days. A lot of people got grudges against the Yanks for one reason or another, but no one’s got a grudge against a Kiwi, ’cept maybe a few sheep . . .” And he sniffs and swallows deeply. “Course, foreign stuff is dearer.”
I don’t know. I’ve no idea if a thousand pounds is a good price or not. It sounds a lot to me. Two thousand sounds ridiculous.
“Mercury will want to know that you’re being careful. She likes people to take all the precautions.”
And I’ve no idea if he knows the first thing about Mercury, but . . . “Fine. When?”
“Great, Ivan. Lovely to do business with you. Lovely.”
“When?”
“Okay, son. I know you’re keen. Two weeks should see us right, but let’s say three to be on the safe side.”
“Let’s say two weeks, one passport and a thousand pounds.”
“Two weeks, two passports, three thousand.”
I nod and back away from him.
“Brill . . . Half now, of course.”
I can’t be bothered to argue more so I pull out three wads that I have made up of five hundred each. I saw that in a film and I’m pleased I’ve done it. Everything with Jim feels like a cheap gangster movie.
“Pick the directions up at the same time in two weeks and follow them. It’ll be a different meeting place. Never use the same place twice. You bring the money etc. etc.”
“Are the instructions part of a spell, Jim?”
“A spell?”
“The instructions to get to the meeting point. A spell
to ensure Hunters can’t follow.”
Jim smiles. “Nah. Though I do always check out my customers as they wait for buses and trains and if I saw a Hunter I’d be long gone.”
“Oh.”
“But mainly they’re directions. Don’t want a customer getting lost. You wouldn’t believe how thick some people are.”
Jim goes to the door and switches the light on. “Blimey.” We both blink and shield our eyes in the glare. “Just need a photo of you.”
While he’s doing that I wonder what Gift he has. It’s considered rude to ask, but this is Jim so I do.
He says, “The usual. Potions. I hate ’em.”
He continues, “And I thought . . . we all thought that I was goin’ to have a strong Gift. From childhood I had this special talent, and my mother, bless her, said, ‘My son will have a strong Gift.’ See, already from age three or four, I could tell witches from fains. Could tell it easy, and that’s rare, that is.”
“Yes. Rare, for sure. So how do you do it, Jim?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this but it’s all in the eyes . . . I see little glints of silver in White Witches’ eyes.”
My mouth must have dropped open.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Jim, I’m just . . . amazed. What exactly are these glints of silver like?”
“Oh well, like nothing else, really. The nearest I can say is that they are thin slices of silver and they move around, twistin’ and turnin’, like bits in one o’ them snow-shaker toys. That’s what it’s like.”
“You see it in your own eyes when you look in the mirror?”
“I do. I do.”
“Amazing.”
“Yes, it is. Beautiful, really. Witches have beautiful eyes.”
“And what do you see in my eyes, Jim?”
“Oh well, your eyes . . . you’ve got interestin’ eyes for sure.”
“Do you see silvery sparks?”
“Ivan, if I’m honest, I’d have to say, not so much silvery . . .”
I sit on the floor and lean back against the wall.
“Do all White Witches have silvery bits in them?”
“As far as I’ve seen they do.”
“Have you ever met any Black Witches?”
“A few. Their eyes is different.” He looks worried. “Not silvery.”
“Like mine?”
“No. I’d say yours are unique, Ivan.”
No. They’re like my father’s.
Jim gives a huge sniff and swallow then sits next to me.
“I can tell Half Bloods as well.”
“You can?” I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a Half Blood, someone who is half witch and half fain. They are despised by witches.
“They’ve got real pretty eyes. Weird, though . . . like flowing water.”
There’s a knock on the door and I’m on my feet behind it, looking at Jim. He’s smiling at me.
“All right, Ivan, all right. It’s just Trev.” Jim looks at his watch. “He’s late, though. He’s always late, is Trev.”
“Who’s Trev?” I whisper.
Jim gets up and stretches his back before wandering to the door.
“Trev’s the brains. He’s got skills, has Trev”—and here Jim lowers his voice to a whisper—“not a lot of magic but a lot of skills. He’s goin’ to take a look at them tattoos for you.”
* * *
Trev looks like an expert, but I’m not sure in what. He is exceptionally tall, balding, with wispy gray hair growing from below the level of the top of his ears to his shoulders. He’s wearing a worn brown suit, thick beige shirt, and rust-red knitted waistcoat. Trev is expressionless in every way. His body seems to float along with hardly any arm or even leg movement. His voice when he says, “Hello, Jim,” is flat and toneless. He shows minimal interest in me and hardly looks at my face, which is fine. He is, however, brought to life by my tattoos.
“I’ll have to take samples,” he says, peering at me and pulling my skin around and moving from my neck to my hand and then my leg. “Of the skin and bone.”
“The bone?”
“I’ll take it from your ankle.”
“How?”
Trev doesn’t answer but kneels on the floor and opens a scuffed, black leather bag. It looks like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.
I notice that Jim is grinning.
“Are you a doctor, Trev?” I ask.
Trev possibly hasn’t heard as he doesn’t reply. Jim sniggers and sniffs heartily.
Trev pulls out a plastic bag, rips it open, and lays a blue surgical sheet on the floor. Next out of the bag is a scalpel; it too is in a plastic bag that is quickly ripped open and thrown to one side. Soon there is a glinting row of surgical implements, most worryingly a small hacksaw.
By this stage Jim is hopping around with glee.
Trev lays another blue sheet beneath my leg and then starts to clean my ankle with a surgical wipe, saying, “It’s better if I don’t use anesthetic.”
“What?”
“Except the patient usually jerks around too much. Think you can hold still?”
“Probably not.” My voice has gone higher.
“Shame.” And he turns to his bag and removes a hypodermic needle and some clear liquid. “I need to analyze the skin, tissue, and bone. If there’s some anesthetic in there it may skew the results.”
I don’t know if he’s making this up and just wants to make Jim’s day.
Jim looks expectant.
“Okay. I’ll hold still.” And I wonder at what stage I can change my mind.
“Jim can help . . .”
“No, I don’t need him.” I don’t want his snotty fingers anywhere near me. They’re more terrifying than the hacksaw.
“Don’t do any healing until I say I’ve finished. I’ll be quick.”
To give Trev his due, he doesn’t hang around.
I don’t jerk. I’m rigid, watching it all. I don’t make a sound either, no screaming or moaning, though my jaw and teeth ache, I’m clenching them so tightly. I’m drenched in sweat by the end of it.
Jim watches me heal and says, “Blimey! You’re quick.”
Trev then asks how the tattoos were applied and while I talk he pops lids onto the four small, round plastic trays that contain the bits of skin, blood, flesh, and bone. Then he stacks the trays and puts a large elastic band round them, holding them together. He carefully places them in the corner of his bag. Next he rolls up the bloodied plastic sheet with the surgical tools into a large bundle, gets Jim to hold open a bin liner, and slides the lot in, then screws up the sheet that was under my leg and tosses that in as well.
He peers at my ankle and nods. “I took the ‘0,’ but you can see it’s already reappeared on the scab. That’s very clever. It’s all very clever. I’ll take a few photos.” He gets out his phone and clicks away.
“Interesting scars,” he says, looking at my hand. “Acid?”
“You’re studying the tattoos,” I say.
“Just professional interest.”
“How soon will you be able to tell me the results?”
Trev looks at me totally blankly. “I need to analyze what chemicals are in the tattoos. That should be straightforward, but there’ll be magic involved, which makes it a thousand times more complicated.”
“How soon will you know if they’re tracking me?”
Trev doesn’t answer. He snaps the lock on his bag and stands up to go. He says to Jim, “The tattoos are unlikely to be used to track him.” And Trev picks up his bag and walks out.
Jim shuts the door. “No manners. That’s ’cause he’s too bright for ’em. Still wouldn’t do ’im any ’arm to try.” He sniffs, swallows a mouthful, and then says, “He never rushes neither. Never. I’ll give you the lates
t when I see you in two weeks.”
“He didn’t mention money.”
“A sad failin’ of our Trev, that is. Thinks he’s above all that. ’Course he’s got to eat, ain’t ’e? Like anyone.”
“I’m guessing he isn’t cheap.”
“He’s an expert, Ivan. Experts ain’t cheap. Experts in passports, experts in tattoos, experts in anythin’ ain’t cheap. He charges by the hour. I’ll let you know what sort of region he’s goin’ to be in when I see you next time.”
Jim and Trev (Part Two)
Early one morning two weeks later Jim and I are in the changing rooms of a village tennis club. I’m not sure if the odor is Jim or the changing room, but I can’t imagine the tennis-club members would put up with this smell for long.
“You’re looking a lot better, Ivan. A bit fuller round the ol’ cheeks. Gaunt, that’s what you were, gaunt.” He is glancing to the door behind me all the time as he speaks.
“Is there a problem, Jim?”
“There shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. You did follow the instructions all right?”
“Of course.”
“It gives me the willies this place. Let’s make it quick, eh?”
I take the passports and look through them. They seem fine to me. I have two different names and dates of birth, but I’m eighteen in both, which is plausible.
“That’s it then,” Jim says as he finishes counting the money. He puts it in his jacket pocket and I grab his arm.
“The directions to Mercury, please, Jim.”
Jim shakes his head sadly, but is still smiling, professional that he is. “Ivan, me ol’ mate, I’m real sorry but I can’t divulge any details till we have the results in from Trev. I’d love to help, course I would. Course I would.”
“And how is Trev doing?”
“Oh, Trev’s havin’ a great time, Trev is. I went round to see him the other day and he’s lovin’ it. A giant puzzle he said. A big, giant puzzle.”