The Best Thing You Can Steal

by Simon R. Green

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Simon R. Green

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Act One: Putting Together the Crew

  Chapter One: Old Harry’s Place Not a Magic Shop

  Chapter Two: Going Underground All the Way Down

  Chapter Three: The Damned In His Own Words

  Chapter Four: The Lost Children The Hungry Ones

  Chapter Five: When a Man Is Tired of London, He Is Tired of Life Or Death

  Chapter Six: Found in a Graveyard Talking Loudly

  Act Two: Planning the Heist

  Chapter Seven: Telling the Crew What They Need to Know But Not Everything, Just Yet

  Chapter Eight: The Woman Who Used to Have Everything And Wants it Back

  Chapter Nine: Buyer Beware And Watch Your Back

  Act Three: The Heist Is On

  Chapter Ten: To Make God Smile Have a Plan

  Chapter Eleven: Sneaking Up on the Sleeping Dragon While Being Very Careful Not to Trip Over Anything

  Chapter Twelve: In the Lair of the Beast Expect the Unexpected

  Act Four: End Game

  Chapter Thirteen: The Unexpected Really

  Chapter Fourteen: And Finally

  Also by Simon R. Green

  The Ishmael Jones mysteries

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE ROAD *

  DEAD MAN WALKING *

  VERY IMPORTANT CORPSES *

  DEATH SHALL COME *

  INTO THE THINNEST OF AIR *

  MURDER IN THE DARK *

  TILL SUDDEN DEATH DO US PART *

  NIGHT TRAIN TO MURDER *

  THE HOUSE ON WIDOWS HILL *

  The Secret History series

  PROPERTY OF A LADY FAIRE

  FROM A DROOD TO A KILL

  DR DOA

  MOONBREAKER

  NIGHT FALL

  The Nightside series

  JUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNCANNY

  A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT

  THE BRIDE WORE BLACK LEATHER

  * available from Severn House

  THE BEST THING YOU CAN STEAL

  Simon R. Green

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Simon R. Green, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Simon R. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9122-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-760-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0498-1 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  There is a world beneath the world, where magic and horrors run free, wonders and miracles are everyday things, and the dark streets are full of very shadowy people. You can spend your whole life in the brightly lit streets and never experience anything from this other world. But all it takes is one step off the kerb, into the really fast lane, and suddenly you’re living in a much larger world.

  Once there, you can never go back. But then, why would you want to?

  My name is Gideon Sable, these days.

  I’m a thief and a con man, a smooth operator and a bit of a rogue, but never the bad guy. I specialize in stealing the kind of things that can’t normally be stolen. Like a ghost’s clothes, a radio that lets you listen in on what the dead are saying, or a photo from a country that never existed.

  And the people I steal from always have it coming.

  Every crime has a victim. The bigger the crime, the more people get hurt. So the trick is to choose the right crime, to hurt the right people. I’m planning a heist, to steal the only thing that matters from the worst man in the world. To get past his security, I’m going to need a crew who can do the impossible. Fortunately, the people I have in mind are pretty impossible themselves. The Damned, the Ghost, the Wild Card … and my very pissed-off ex-girlfriend, Annie Anybody. The woman who can be anyone.

  I have a plan, a secret weapon and a hidden agenda. If everything goes well, we’ll all get what we want. Assuming we don’t get killed, of course.

  ACT ONE

  Putting Together the Crew

  ONE

  Old Harry’s Place

  Not a Magic Shop

  London is the city where dreams can come true. The good and the bad and the highly unlikely. Which is why I was walking through the narrow backstreets of Soho in the early hours of a cold autumn morning. Old-fashioned street lamps shed a flat yellow glow, like sunlight that had gone off, as I sauntered through an area rich in history and legend … and all the other things that lend a misleading lustre to the more unsavoury pastimes.

  You don’t just stumble across streets like these; you have to go looking for them.

  The air was as cold as a banker’s heart, and the evening was heavy with a sense of anticipation – of great opportunities lurking round corners, and magic waiting in the wings. I was on my way to steal a bad man’s luck and make it my own. Because that’s what I do, these days.

  I turned the right corner, into the right street, just in time to see a Rolls-Royce come gliding haughtily towards me. I slowed my pace so I wouldn’t catch up to it too soon. The long vehicle eased to a halt with the air of an aristocrat deigning to visit the less fortunate. Sir Norman Powell was something in the City, an iron-willed tyrant who ran his business empire as though slavery had never gone out of fashion. Normally, he wouldn’t lower himself to admit an area like this even existed, but once a week he turned up here for the same reason as everyone else: because he wanted something you can only find in streets like these. Sir Norman might be a strict taskmaster when it came to running his business, but on his own time he preferred the company of the kind of lady who was always in charge. Sometimes, when he loosened his old school tie, you could catch a glimpse of the leash marks on his throat.

  Sir Norman hadn’t got where he was today through hard graft, talent or even family connections; he owed it all to charm. A good luck charm, to be exact: the preserved paw of a pookah. Very powerful magic, and very dangerous, because you could never be sure wh
en the pookah might turn up looking for it. But as long as Sir Norman made use of the paw to further his best interests, Lady Luck was always going to be in his corner, cheering him on.

  The car door opened and Sir Norman got out. He wasn’t much to look at: just another middle-aged man whose Savile Row suit had more style than he ever would. He didn’t look round to see if anyone might be watching, because no one he knew would ever lower themselves to frequent an area like this. So he never saw me coming.

  I timed it carefully, so I seemed to be just strolling past as he stepped out on to the pavement. I had the ballpoint pen in my hand and hit the button the moment I was in arm’s reach. And just like that, Time slammed to a halt. The light around me darkened as it slid down the scale into infra-red, and the air became as thick as treacle. I had to force my way through it, holding my breath because there was nothing to breathe. I slid one hand inside Sir Norman’s jacket, forcing aside material that had become as hard as iron, grabbed hold of the white rabbit’s paw and pulled it out. The paw seemed almost to nestle into my hand, as though happy to be leaving such an undeserving master. I slipped it into my pocket and hit the button again. Time surged forward and the everyday world returned.

  I continued down the street as though nothing had happened, and as far as Sir Norman was concerned, nothing had. Everything I’d done had taken place between one moment and the next, too fast to notice. I smiled as I put my pen away. Just one of the many useful things in my possession that helped to make me such a great thief. How did I get the pen? I stole it, of course.

  I knew about Sir Norman’s lucky charm because I made it my business to listen in the kind of places where people like to talk. The quiet side-street bars, where the people who work for the people who matter like to congregate when they’re off duty. So they can drown their sorrows, forget the day they’ve had and share their troubles with people who understand. They always end up talking about things they’re not supposed to discuss, just because they know they’re not supposed to. It’s such small rebellions that make their lives bearable. I listened unobtrusively, put the clues together, studied Sir Norman from the shadows … and weeks of careful planning paid off in a moment’s dexterity and nerve.

  I rounded the first corner I came to and hurried down the street. I wanted to be far and far away when Sir Norman discovered his luck was gone. With the paw in my possession, all the bad luck it had been deflecting for so many years would soon come crashing down on Sir Norman – and serve him right. The pookah’s paw was a comfortable weight in my pocket, but I had no intention of hanging on to it. Partly because Sir Norman would undoubtedly move heaven and earth to get it back, but mostly because I had more sense than to annoy a pookah. I was on my way to Old Harry’s Place to exchange the paw for something far more useful.

  You’ve no doubt heard about those marvellous magical shops that sell wonders and treasures and all the stuff that dreams of avarice are made of. Strange establishments, hidden away down obscure back alleys, that come and go according to their own inscrutable whims. Old Harry’s Place isn’t like that. It’s a pawnshop that’s always there and always open. You can find anything you want at Old Harry’s Place.

  All the other shops on the street were closed, and Harry’s darkened window had nothing to show me but my own reflection. I took a moment to admire my new image. Tall, dark-haired and just handsome enough to run most cons, I was wearing a black goatskin jacket, a brilliant white shirt and grey slacks. I don’t do colours, these days. I’m making a statement. I nodded to my reflection, and it winked back at me. A small flickering neon sign above the door said simply Buyer Beware. The door wasn’t locked, because it never is, so I strolled right in, putting on my most confident face.

  I paused just inside the door, next to the stuffed grizzly bear, because the shop’s interior always takes a little getting used to. At first, you think it’s just a crowded display room, packed with all manner of rare and precious things, until you realize how far back it goes. The stacks and shelves fall away into shadowy recesses that look as if they go on for ever. There are stories about people who’ve gone in exploring and never come out again. But then, there are lots of stories about Old Harry’s Place.

  A lot of them concern Harry. Some say he’s a demon let out of Hell to tempt people with his matchless merchandise. Others have been known to murmur that he’s immortal, and his shop has always been around in one form or another, tricking us into giving up things that matter in return for things that don’t. And there are those who say he’s the frontman for a weird alien invasion, buying up our culture one crooked deal at a time. Most of us think Harry makes up all these stories so that no one will ever guess who or what he really is.

  The only thing you can be sure of with Harry is that no matter how good a deal you think you’ve made, he’s always the one who ends up smiling.

  Old Harry’s Place is the kind of shop where you can find things you’ve been searching for your whole life. Where everything you ever lost or cared about or dreamed of is tucked away somewhere, in some dimly lit corner. Harry’s shelves are crammed with impossible delights, like the Aladdin’s caves we stumble through in dreams, searching for the one elusive item we just know will finally make us happy and content. The air is thick with dust and memories, and the faintest of fragrances, like the ghosts of crushed flowers.

  The perfect place to browse guitars that used to belong to dead rock stars, glass display stands offering maps of lost lands, and boxes full of medals from wars no one remembers. You can admire moths pinned to a board, their wings still flapping piteously, or a human skeleton with a steel punch hammered through its forehead. Wonder at a long row of china figurines, depicting all the angels named in the Kabala, or an equal number of deformed candles, representing the Fallen.

  Lines of fairy lights hang down from the ceiling, with wee-winged creatures plugged into their sockets, glowing like Christmas decorations. Current junkies. They sang me a pretty song as I threaded my way carefully through the maze of shelves and open bins, heading for the counter.

  I didn’t see anyone else in the shop, but there could have been any number of people browsing in the far reaches. As always, Harry was perched precariously on his high chair behind the counter, so he could look down on everyone else. A large, square man with a large, square face, Harry was a thoughtful gnomish presence in a suit that looked as if it could use a good dusting. He fixed me with a steady gaze over the granny glasses perched on the end of his nose as I approached the counter.

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ I said cheerfully. ‘It’s been a while, but … I’m back!’

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Harry, in his dry, distant voice that was never surprised by anything. ‘Look what the night dragged in. Trouble in a black leather jacket, with intrigue on its mind. Hello, Gideon.’

  I didn’t ask how he already knew my new name; Harry knows everything. I glanced around the shop, doing my best to look unimpressed.

  ‘All the wonders in the world, piled up high and sold for just that little bit more than anyone ever wants to pay. I have to wonder, Harry: what does the vintner buy, one half so precious as the stuff he sells? What do you get out of running a place like this?’

  ‘Job satisfaction,’ Harry said calmly. ‘What brings you back to me, Gideon, after such a long absence? Could it be I finally have something you can’t do without, that you couldn’t find anywhere else? Can I tempt you with the teddy bear you loved more than life itself as a child, that your mother threw out? How about the current address of the first girl to break your heart? Or perhaps …’

  ‘I’m here to meet Annie,’ I said.

  ‘Alas, dear boy, that lady hasn’t graced my humble establishment with her presence for even longer than you.’

  ‘She’ll be here,’ I said. ‘But until she arrives, I have a little something you might be interested in.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Harry. ‘No one ever comes in just to chat.’

  I reached into my pocket,
brought out the pookah’s paw and placed it on the glass countertop. Harry studied it for a long moment, his face giving nothing away, and then he reached under the counter and brought out a heavy steel gauntlet. He slipped it on to his left hand, picked up the paw and put it away under the counter. When he brought his hand back up, the gauntlet was gone. Harry nodded briefly to me, the nearest he could bring himself to appearing pleased.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me where I got it?’ I said.

  ‘You know I never ask questions,’ said Harry. ‘Because I don’t care. You always bring me the tastiest items, dear boy! I’ve almost got enough parts now to make a whole pookah. You haven’t stated a price, which leads me to suppose you’re here to make a trade. What is it you’re looking for?’

  ‘You know what I want. I want the compass, Harry. The one you said I’d never be able to afford the last time I was here.’

  Harry sighed quietly. ‘You still can’t, but … You are a devil, dear boy, to tempt me so unmercifully.’

  ‘I learned it all from you, Harry.’

  He reached under the counter and brought out an old-fashioned steel-bound compass. No matter what you ask for, Harry can always produce it from somewhere under the counter. He hefted the compass in his hand for a moment, as though trying to decide whether he could bear to be parted from it, and then placed it carefully on the glass counter. I picked it up, and the needle swung wildly until I concentrated, and then it pointed steadily at the door behind me. I smiled and closed my hand around it.

  ‘This will do nicely.’

  ‘A compass to point the way to whatever you need,’ said Harry. ‘Do I have to remind you that what you need often turns out to be very different from what you want?’

  ‘I’ve always been able to tell the difference,’ I said.

  ‘Not always,’ said Harry. ‘Or you wouldn’t be here looking for Annie Anybody.’