A Madness of Angels: Or the Resurrection of Matthew Swift by Kate Griffin

over the years, offering a posher flavour of tea or a higher-cut boot than the discount bargain shops and the giant department chains that squatted on Oxford Street itself, like sullen hulking mounds looming over a river of wealth. Others had retained that darker edge of cut-price squalor that defined much of Oxford Street’s commercial goods – strange recycled computers, odd-tasting pizza with the fur left on, unusual lingerie shops for the woman who understands both work and play; suspicious acupuncture clinics and uncredited “Schools of English”, clustered in the shadows between the streets.
     
Amongst them, and I was pleased to see it hadn’t gone, was the “Cave of Wonders, Mysteries and Miracles”, advertised by a small wooden sign swinging above an open door through which the overwhelming smell of cheap incense and musty carpets hit the nose like it wanted a pillow fight. It lurked between a small bookshop and a pub with frosted windows and dark paintwork, looking embarrassed to be there. I felt embarrassed going into it. But I told myself it was for the best, took a deep breath of fresh air before entering, and began my descent.
     
What began as a bright stairwell with white walls was suddenly transformed. Beyond a hanging covered with mystic-esque symbols it became a dull stairwell of dark maroon walls and polished wooden floors, tormented by an eerie, nasal background droning from tiny speakers high up on the walls. The feel of the place changed too. The buzz of magic was stiller, quieter, an elusive black-silk touch across the senses rather than the shock of sensation I always used to associate with the Cave. Immediately, that made me suspicious.
     
The reception area had always been a makeshift affair, with plastic benches and tatty editions of last year’s Magic and Miracles – “THE GUIDE TO TRUTH!!!! – Featuring an exclusive interview with *** Endless Might *** on the rewards of proper summoning technique!!!”
     
These quaintly unpleasant items had been replaced with black leather sofas and a silver cigarette tray containing stress balls. I walked up to the receptionist, a sour-faced man wearing tight leather trousers and not much besides, and said, “I’m here to see Khan.”
     
“Uh?” His attention was fixed on a magazine which seemed to be all about What Brad Did Next, and breasts.
     
I tried again. “I’m here to see Khan – what are the stress balls for?”
     
He had a tattoo across his bare, bronzed back of a Pegasus spreading its wings. Down one arm someone had inscribed in black and red ink: “ WIZARD ”.
     
“Excuse me?” I repeated patiently. “Why do you have stress balls?”
     
His eyes didn’t leave an article dedicated to “How I Pulled Cheryl!!” as he replied, “Clear your aura for the reading.”
     
“Clear my what?”
     
“Your aura. You got an appointment?”
     
“No.”
     
“You’ll need to make an appointment.”
     
“I just want to see Khan – what do you mean ‘clear my aura’?”
     
“You gotta be in the zen to do a reading. Gotta have a clear head for the truth that’ll unfold, see?” he mumbled through his disdain.
     
I thought about it, and reached the only conclusion to be had from a lifetime of magical experience and several years of extracurricular mystic activity. “But… that’s bollocks,” I said, hoping he might be inclined to agree.
     
“Not my problem. Wanna make an appointment?”
     
“No, I want to see Khan.”
     
“No one here called Khan.”
     
“He owns this place.”
     
“Uh-uh. Sorry, mate, you’ll be wanting somewhere else. No Khan here.”
     
He still wasn’t paying us attention. We were not prepared to tolerate disrespect. We leant across the counter, grabbed him by the throat with one hand, pulled his face an inch from ours and hissed, “We want to see whoever is in charge now !”
     
He made a wheezing noise and pawed at my wrist. We wanted to see his eyes bulge a little further from his face, but I relaxed my grip and pushed him back. I smiled, in a