Rivers of London

by Ben Aaronovitch

  I readied the syrette.

  Lesley cowered as I approached. ‘Mercy, mercy,’ she squeaked. ‘I’ll never do so again.’

  ‘That much is certain,’ I said, but before I could inject her she whirled and thrust Nightingale’s cane in my face. The muscles in my back and shoulders locked and it was all I could do to keep my balance.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ asked Lesley, waving the cane from side to side.

  I tried to say ‘it’s a stick’, but my jaw muscles were locked along with everything else.

  ‘As Prospero had his book and staff,’ said Lesley, ‘so does your Master have both those things, but of those I need only the staff. Being of the spirit world gives one a certain je ne sais quoi when dealing with magic, but what one lacks sans corporality is the spark of vitality necessary to facilitate one’s desires.’

  Which at least confirmed that Henry Pyke had no intrinsic magic of his own, an observation I’d have found more interesting if I hadn’t been sodding paralysed and at his mercy.

  ‘This is the source of your Master’s power,’ said Lesley. ‘And with his power I can do, well, just about anything I please.’ She grinned, showing her smashed teeth. ‘Your line is: “Now, Mr Punch, no more delay”.’

  ‘Now, Mr Punch, no more delay,’ I said, and gestured at the noose. ‘Put your head through this loop.’ The weird thing was, this time I could sense the compulsion almost as if it was a forma, a shape in my mind but not of my mind.

  ‘Through there,’ said Lesley, winking at the audience. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Aye, through there,’ I said. I sensed it again, and this time I was sure: the idea of the shape was external but the actual shape itself was being formed by my own mind. It was like hypnotism, a suggestion rather than a command.

  ‘What for? I don’t know how,’ said Lesley, and struck a pose of deep despair.

  ‘It’s very easy,’ I said, grasping the noose, the rope scratchy against my palms. ‘Only put your head through here.’

  Lesley leaned forward and, missing the noose entirely, asked, ‘What, so?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, and pointed at the noose. ‘Here.’ If it was a suggestion, I thought, then I should be able just to think it away.

  Lesley theatrically missed, sticking her head through the noose once more. ‘So, then?’ she asked.

  I tried to push the shape out of my mind but found myself saying, ‘Not so, you fool,’ and pantomiming exasperation. Brute force wasn’t the way, and I was going to have to come up with something because in less than two lines the character of Jack Ketch was due to stick his own stupid neck through the loop and get himself hanged, and me with him.

  ‘Mind who you call fool; try and see if you can do it yourself,’ squeaked Lesley, and paused to give the audience a chance to titter in anticipation. ‘Only show me how and I will do it directly.’

  I felt my body shift in anticipation of the move that would shove my head into the noose. Which is when I thought that if I couldn’t get rid of the compulsion, maybe I could change it enough to break it. I did it like anti-noise, where you cancel out a sound wave by broadcasting another sound wave with an inverted phase – it’s clever stuff and very counter-intuitive, but it works. I was hoping the weird, inside-my-head version would work because I’d only just started making the shape in my mind when my mouth said, ‘Very well, I will.’

  My forma met the compulsion like the wrong two gearwheels brushing up against each other in a transmission. I thought I could actually feel bits of the forma spinning around in my brain and painfully ricocheting off the inside of my skull, but that could have been my imagination. It didn’t matter. I felt my body unlock and I yanked my head away from the noose and looked at Lesley in triumph.

  ‘Or maybe I won’t,’ I said.

  A huge arm clamped itself across my chest from behind and a large hand gripped the back of my head and pushed it through the noose. I smelled camelhair and Chanel aftershave – Seawoll must have walked up behind me while I was feeling clever.

  ‘Or maybe you will,’ said Lesley.

  I twisted, but while there are some big men who are surprisingly weak, Seawoll wasn’t one of them, so I jammed the syrette into the exposed bit of his hand and gave him the whole dose. Unfortunately the whole dose had been calibrated for Lesley, who was half Seawoll’s size. The pressure never wavered until Lesley yelled, ‘Hoist away, boys,’ and I was dragged into the air by my neck.

  The only thing that saved my life was the fact that I was being hanged in a theatrical noose which had been designed, as a matter of health and safety, not to hang the attractive Croatian baritone whose neck was supposed to be in it. The slipknot was a fake and there was a wire reinforcement inside the rope to keep the loop in shape. Undoubtedly there was a eyelet for clipping a tether to the no doubt artfully concealed safety harness to be worn by the handsome baritone, once he’d made his farewell aria. Unfortunately I didn’t have a harness, so the damn thing half-killed me before I managed to get my head out of the loop, scraping the skin off my chin in the process. I got my elbow into the loop for more support, but even with that, there was a sudden line of agony down my back.

  I had a quick look down and saw that I was a good five metres above the stage. I wasn’t going to be letting go any time soon.

  Below me, Lesley had turned back to the audience. ‘So much for the constabulary,’ she said. Behind her Seawoll sat down heavily on the stairs and slumped forward like a tired runner, the etorphine hydrochloride kicking in at last.

  ‘See,’ said Lesley. ‘One officer of the law kicks his last, while another lies sleeping, no doubt stupefied with drink. Thus do we good men of England put our trust in swine barely separate from the villains they purport to chase. How long, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, are you prepared to put up with this? Why is it that men of good quality pay their taxes while foreigners pay naught, and yet expect the liberties that are an Englishman’s hard-won prerogative?’

  It was getting harder to maintain a hold, but I didn’t fancy my chances letting go. There were huge curtains either side of the stage, and I wondered if I could swing over far enough to grab one. I changed to a two-handed grip on the loop and started to shift my weight and to flex, to get momentum going.

  ‘Because who is more oppressed?’ exclaimed Lesley. ‘Those that seek nothing but entitlements for themselves, or those that claim for everything: social security, housing benefit, disability, and pay for nothing?’ One thing I did do in history was the reform of the Poor Laws, so I knew then that Henry Pyke must either be using stuff from Lesley’s memory or else had been reading the Daily Mail for the last two hundred years.

  ‘And are they grateful?’ she asked. The audience muttered in response. ‘Of course they are not,’ said Lesley. ‘For they have come to look upon such things as their right.’

  It wasn’t easy keeping the rope from swinging out over the orchestra pit. I tried to correct, and ended up describing a figure of eight. I was still several metres short of the scaffolding platform, so I put my back into it, jack-knifing my legs to cross the gap.

  Suddenly the crowd gave a roar and I felt a wave of frustration and anger well up around me like floodwater backing out of a storm drain. I lost concentration at a crucial moment and slammed into the curtain. I made the jump, desperately grabbing handfuls of the heavy cloth and trying to get enough between my legs to stop me sliding smack onto the stage.

  Then all the lights went out. They didn’t spark, flicker, flash or do anything theatrical – they just turned themselves off. Somewhere amid the Royal Opera House’s sophisticated lighting rig, I reckoned, a couple of microprocessors were crumbling into sand. When you are hanging by your fingernails, down is nearly always the right direction, so I did my best to ignore the pain in my forearms and started working my way down the curtain. Out in the darkness I heard the audience not panicking which, given the circumstances, was much creepier than the alternative.

  A cone of white l
ight appeared around Lesley like a spotlight from an invisible lamp. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she called, ‘boys and girls. I think it’s time to go out and play.’

  One of my mum’s uncles once had tickets to Arsenal v Spurs at Highbury, and took me when his own son couldn’t make it. We were down among season-ticket holders, the hardest of the hard core football fans who went there for the game, not the violence. Being in a crowd like that is like being caught in the tide – you might try going in the other direction but it drags you along all the same. It was a dull game, style wise, and looked to be heading for a nil – nil draw when suddenly, in injury time, Arsenal made a late surge. As they got into the penalty area I swear the whole stadium, sixty thousand people, held their breath. When the Arsenal forward put it in the back of the net I found myself screaming with joy along with the rest of the people around me. It was entirely involuntary.

  That’s what it felt like when Henry Pyke let the audience loose at the Royal Opera House. I must have let go of the curtain and fallen the last couple of metres, but I only know that I was suddenly lying on the stage with a shooting pain in my ankle and a sudden desire to smash someone’s face in. I pulled myself to my feet and found myself face to disfigured face with Lesley.

  I flinched. Up close, the ruin of Lesley’s face was even harder to deal with. My eyes kept sliding away from the grotesque caricature. On either side of her stood the principal cast, all male, all tense and, except for the boyish baritone, much tougher-looking than you’d expect among practitioners of high culture.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she squeaked. ‘You had me worried there.’

  ‘You tried to hang me,’ I said.

  ‘Peter,’ said Henry Pyke. ‘I never wanted you dead. Over the last few months I’ve come to think of you as less of an arch-enemy and more as the comic relief, the slightly dim character that comes on with the dog and does a funny turn while the real thespians are getting changed.’

  ‘I notice Charles Macklin didn’t make an appearance,’ I said.

  The Punch nose twitched. ‘No matter,’ said Lesley. ‘The gout-ridden bastard can’t hide for ever.’

  ‘And in the meantime, we …’ it was a good question. ‘What are we doing?’ I asked.

  ‘We are playing our role,’ said Lesley. ‘We are Mr Punch, the irrepressible spirit of riot and rebellion. It is our nature to cause trouble, just as it is your nature to try and stop us.’

  ‘You’re killing people,’ I said.

  ‘Alas,’ said Lesley. ‘All art requires sacrifice. And take it from one who knows – death is more of a bore than a tragedy.’

  Suddenly I was struck by the fact that I wasn’t talking to a complete personality. The way the accent bopped around from era to era, the bizarre switches in motive and behaviour. This wasn’t Henry Pyke, or even Mr Punch, this was like a patchwork, a personality cobbled together from half-remembered fragments. Maybe all ghosts were like this, a pattern of memory trapped in the fabric of the city like files on a hard-drive – slowly getting worn away as each generation of Londoners laid down the pattern of their lives.

  ‘You’re not listening,’ said Lesley. ‘Here I am, taking time out of my busy schedule to gloat and you’re in a world of your own.’

  ‘Tell me, Henry,’ I said. ‘What were the names of your parents?

  ‘Why, they were Mr and Mrs Pyke, of course.’

  ‘And their first names?’

  Lesley laughed. ‘You’re trying to trick me,’ she said. ‘Their names were Father and Mother.’

  I was right – Henry Pyke, at least the portion of him inside Lesley’s head – was literally not all there.

  ‘And tell me all the good things that come into your mind,’ I said, ‘about your mother.’

  Lesley cocked her head to one side. ‘Now you’re just taking me for a fool,’ she said. She gestured at the principal cast, who’d been impassively watching our exchange. ‘Do you know what The Times said about this production?’

  ‘It was gloomy and pointless,’ I said as I got to my feet. If Lesley was going to monologue, I was going to use the opportunity to get up.

  ‘Close,’ she said. ‘What the opera critic of The Times actually wrote was that “the performance had all the gravitas of a Christmas episode of Coronation Street”.’

  ‘That’s harsh,’ I said.

  I didn’t have any more tranquilliser, but the first-aid kit was still lying in the wings. One blow to the back of the head with the heavy case might be enough to put Lesley down. And then what?

  Lesley cocked her head over to the other side – eyes still on me. ‘Oh look, boys,’ she said to the principal cast. ‘It’s the opera critic for The Times.’

  I considered telling them I didn’t even read The Times, but I didn’t think they’d listen. I ran for the nearest fire exit on the basis that, by definition, it would be the shortest route out and, by law, always unlocked. Also the emergency exit signs were on a different circuit, and thus the only source of light.

  I got three metres ahead of the singers while crossing the aircraft hangar space behind the stage and didn’t slow down as I banged through the first door, which cost a bruised rib but gained me at least a metre. My eyes had already begun to adjust, but even with the next emergency exit sign directly ahead there wasn’t enough light to stop me from tripping over a badly parked trolley. I went down clutching my shin, and an absurd part of my mind noting that an obstruction like that was a violation of health and safety regulations.

  A silhouetted figure came charging down the corridor towards me. One of the singers had caught up; it was too dark to see which one. I kicked the trolley into his path and he went down on his face next to me. He was a big man, and smelled of sweat and stage make-up. He tried to get back up but I stepped on his back as I climbed to my feet. His friends banged through the door so I yelled to make sure their attention was focused on me, and then ran for it. The yelps as they tripped over their colleague were deeply satisfying.

  Bang through another door and the lights were on, a separate circuit from the house lights, I guessed, and I was back in a blinding labyrinth of narrow corridors that all looked the same. I ran through a room inhabited by nothing but wigs and turned into a corridor whose floor was covered in drifts of ballet shoes. I slipped on one and went skidding into a breezeblock wall. Behind me I could hear the principal cast howling for my blood; the fact that the threats were beautifully articulated was of no comfort at all.

  Finally, through another fire exit and I found myself by the ground-floor toilets next to the cloakroom. I could hear glass smashing from the direction of the main foyer, so I headed for the side exit by the ticket office. I ignored the slow, wheelchair-accessible revolving door and headed straight for the emergency exits, but what I saw through the glass brought me to a sudden stop.

  There was a riot in Bow Street. A well-dressed mob was looting the hotel opposite, and a column of greasy black smoke was rising from a burning car. I recognised the make – it was a canary-yellow Mini convertible.

  The Last Resort

  Nobody likes a riot except looters and journalists. The Metropolitan Police, being the go-ahead, dynamic modern police service that it is, has any number of contingency plans for dealing with civil disturbance, from farmers with truckloads of manure, to suburban anarchists on a weekend break and Saturday jihadists. What I suspect they didn’t have plans for was just over two thousand enraged opera lovers pouring out of the Royal Opera House and going on a mad rampage through Covent Garden.

  I was pretty sure that a smart Londoner like Beverley would have the brains to bail out of her car before the mob torched it, but I knew her mum wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t check. I ran out, yelling my head off in the hope that everyone else would mistake me for a rioter too.

  The noise hit me as soon as I was out the door. It was like an angry pub crowd but on an enormous scale, all strange half-chants and animal hooting noises. It wasn’t like a normal riot. In one of those, most of t
he crowd does nothing except watch and occasionally cheer. Show them a broken shop window and they’ll cheerfully liberate the contents, but like most people they don’t actually want to get their hands dirty. This was a mob of ringleaders: everyone from the suspiciously well-dressed young man to the matron in an evening gown was mad as hell and ready to break something. I got as close to the burning Mini as I could, and was relieved to see no sign of anyone in any of the seats. Beverley had sensibly legged it and I should have followed suit, but I was distracted by the sight of the helicopter hovering directly overhead.

  The helicopter meant that GT, the Met’s Central Command, had taken direct operational control of the disturbance. This meant that dozens of ACPO rank officers were having their dinner parties, nights in with a DVD and evenings out with the mistress interrupted by urgent phonecalls by non-ACPO rank officers who were desperate to make sure that they were in no way responsible for anything. I’ll bet that GT knew early on that the wheels were coming off the wagon, and that as soon as the riot was over a grand game of musical inquiries would start. Nobody wanted to be the one without a chair when the music stopped.

  It was that thought which, ironically, distracted me enough for Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom to be able to sneak up behind me. I turned when he called my name and found him stalking towards me. His conservative suit jacket – pinstripe, I saw now that he was close up – had lost a sleeve and all its buttons. He was one of those people whose faces twitch when they’re angry; they think they’re all icy calm but something always gives them away. In Folsom’s case it was a nasty tic by his left eye.