Nabeela?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do anything… you know…”
“Dangerous? Brave? Noble? Unexpected?”
“Let’s say… in violation of local council health and safety procedures.”
She laughed. “Hey—I totally did that when I went to you for help, right?” At the barrier, ticket in hand, she hesitated. “Hey, Matthew?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if you’ll turn out a complete jerk or a waste of time. But, for coming down here, I mean, taking a look and all that…”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
And that was the start of that.
The Hammersmith and City Line crawled out west, past decaying stations held up with scaffold poles and optimism. I had no particular justification in going this way, but felt that if I followed my instinct long enough, it would duly lead me to trouble. After all I was Midnight Mayor.
At Shepherd’s Bush, the low, jagged townscape was disrupted by the great white mausoleum of the Westfield shopping centre, encircled by traffic and moated by car parks. Turning south, the track ran above the street markets of Goldhawk Road, covered over for the night along their alleyways butted against the brick arches of the railway. The approach into Hammersmith was slow and jolting as we waited for a platform to clear.
I thought about the eye staring over the football pitch where, a few weeks ago, a kid had died; killed, seemingly, by a shadow that came and went in a breath. I thought about Callum, staring through me in his gloomy bedroom. I thought about the beggar in the chapel doorway to whom I’d given a few coins, and the note on my chair— THE BEGGAR KING WANTS TO TALK —and that other Post-it, left on the corner of my desk where its innocuousness guaranteed it would be seen.
You can’t save those who don’t want to be saved.
Outside the station, and I’d forgotten how much I disliked this part of town. Another shopping centre, this one a faded baby-pink, sat on a huge roundabout fed by yet another main road, this one from Heathrow and packed solid most of the day and night. Oversized pubs spilt out crowds, boozing alongside the stalled traffic, while buses vied to crawl up into the local terminal like a great herd at a watering hole. Hammersmith was a place between worlds, where motorway dwindled into A-road, where grand terraced houses with well-groomed gardens met with flats of immigrants fed on baked beans and Marmite; where great corporate offices shared sandwich deliveries with struggling enterprises whose every month in the black was a triumph beyond compare. It was a place of all magics at once, where, like hot and cold air colliding, the mystical flavour of the city created an unpredictable storm.
I started walking at random, heading south and west past curry houses, pet shops and mobile phone retailers specialising in unlocking without asking. I could taste the river, close but just unseen, its smell sometimes sneaking through gaps between the buildings.
I was nearly at Putney when she rang.
It would be nice to say I knew who and what it was, before it happened. But sometimes the phone just rings.
The number didn’t come up as hers, but when I answered I could hear her breath, hard and slow. Though her voice was distorted by the phone and something more, something worse, I recognised it at once.
“Matthew?” she said. “I’m… in trouble. I don’t want to go.”
“Meera?” I breathed, stopping dead in the street.Sometimes you don’t need to ask more questions, there was enough in her voice to know. “Where are you?”
“Don’t let them take me!” she gasped, and there was a jerkiness to her voice that suggested it was trying to break. “Don’t let them!”
“Meera, tell me where you are.”
“I’m…” she began, and the phone went dead.
I cursed and redialled.
Her phone rang for nearly a minute and she still didn’t answer. I was already boarding at a bus stop, heading for Putney Bridge station.
I phoned again as I
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do anything… you know…”
“Dangerous? Brave? Noble? Unexpected?”
“Let’s say… in violation of local council health and safety procedures.”
She laughed. “Hey—I totally did that when I went to you for help, right?” At the barrier, ticket in hand, she hesitated. “Hey, Matthew?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if you’ll turn out a complete jerk or a waste of time. But, for coming down here, I mean, taking a look and all that…”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
And that was the start of that.
The Hammersmith and City Line crawled out west, past decaying stations held up with scaffold poles and optimism. I had no particular justification in going this way, but felt that if I followed my instinct long enough, it would duly lead me to trouble. After all I was Midnight Mayor.
At Shepherd’s Bush, the low, jagged townscape was disrupted by the great white mausoleum of the Westfield shopping centre, encircled by traffic and moated by car parks. Turning south, the track ran above the street markets of Goldhawk Road, covered over for the night along their alleyways butted against the brick arches of the railway. The approach into Hammersmith was slow and jolting as we waited for a platform to clear.
I thought about the eye staring over the football pitch where, a few weeks ago, a kid had died; killed, seemingly, by a shadow that came and went in a breath. I thought about Callum, staring through me in his gloomy bedroom. I thought about the beggar in the chapel doorway to whom I’d given a few coins, and the note on my chair— THE BEGGAR KING WANTS TO TALK —and that other Post-it, left on the corner of my desk where its innocuousness guaranteed it would be seen.
You can’t save those who don’t want to be saved.
Outside the station, and I’d forgotten how much I disliked this part of town. Another shopping centre, this one a faded baby-pink, sat on a huge roundabout fed by yet another main road, this one from Heathrow and packed solid most of the day and night. Oversized pubs spilt out crowds, boozing alongside the stalled traffic, while buses vied to crawl up into the local terminal like a great herd at a watering hole. Hammersmith was a place between worlds, where motorway dwindled into A-road, where grand terraced houses with well-groomed gardens met with flats of immigrants fed on baked beans and Marmite; where great corporate offices shared sandwich deliveries with struggling enterprises whose every month in the black was a triumph beyond compare. It was a place of all magics at once, where, like hot and cold air colliding, the mystical flavour of the city created an unpredictable storm.
I started walking at random, heading south and west past curry houses, pet shops and mobile phone retailers specialising in unlocking without asking. I could taste the river, close but just unseen, its smell sometimes sneaking through gaps between the buildings.
I was nearly at Putney when she rang.
It would be nice to say I knew who and what it was, before it happened. But sometimes the phone just rings.
The number didn’t come up as hers, but when I answered I could hear her breath, hard and slow. Though her voice was distorted by the phone and something more, something worse, I recognised it at once.
“Matthew?” she said. “I’m… in trouble. I don’t want to go.”
“Meera?” I breathed, stopping dead in the street.Sometimes you don’t need to ask more questions, there was enough in her voice to know. “Where are you?”
“Don’t let them take me!” she gasped, and there was a jerkiness to her voice that suggested it was trying to break. “Don’t let them!”
“Meera, tell me where you are.”
“I’m…” she began, and the phone went dead.
I cursed and redialled.
Her phone rang for nearly a minute and she still didn’t answer. I was already boarding at a bus stop, heading for Putney Bridge station.
I phoned again as I
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