The Midnight Mayor (48 page)

He said, eyes on me and voice for the rest of the room, “If I may refer you to the files on your table. Three weeks ago, a traffic warden on duty in Dollis Hill walked into her local police station to report that a gang of youths on bikes had stolen her hat and cycled off, in her words, ‘laughing and calling me racist names’. The police report says she was extremely distressed, which may be understandable in light of the fact that this was her third visit to the police station in three months. Two weeks before she had been spat at in the street. A month before that, and the driver of a Corsa parked illegally on a double yellow line had beaten her so badly she had required stitches, and treatment for two days in the local hospital. It was the opinion of the writer of the police report that having her hat stolen by a boy who laughed at her as he cycled away was the last straw. An act of random, careless cruelty by a stranger to a stranger; the kind of thing that, to the right mind, in the right place, with the right . . . disposition . . . could push you to do unwise deeds.

“The day after her hat was stolen, she quit her job as a traffic warden.

“I should also add further that our credit-check service reported a bad rating on her financial situation. Her family were immigrants; she was granted leave to stay by grace of being born in the UK, but her parents quickly abandoned her and ran back off to wherever it was they came from, leaving the state to handle matters in their usual way.

“Gentlemen, may I be bold to say that this is the kind of extremely flawed and volatile individual who could well, if circumstances were right, be so reckless - perhaps without even knowing what she did - as to cause extreme harm to our city. If we were the Samaritans then I would suggest a nice cup of hot soup and a gentle talk with the counsellor; but this situation is far beyond that. The facts are in front of you to see. If this woman is indeed the reason why Mr Pinner has come to our city - as circumstance suggests she is - then I move immediately to vote on the course of action suggested by our Midnight Mayor. That this woman - this traffic warden whose hat was so unfortunately stolen - be considered a threat intolerable to the safety of the city, and be eliminated before the death that Mr Pinner is clearly seeking comes to London. If there is no objection, let us take this vote now.”

There was no objection.

They took the vote.

Not a hand went against it.

Mr Earle said, “Mr Swift? You haven’t voted for the motion.”

“I didn’t realise I was meant to.”

“You are a member of this board.”

“I am?”

“Yes. This was your idea, your deduction, your motion.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Well? How do you vote?”

“I . . . we . . . I mean, I . . .”

I lowered my head.

“What’s her name?” I said.

“Is it relevant?”

“Just curiosity.”

“Her name is Penny Ngwenya. How do you vote, Mr Swift?”

We studied our feet.

What would the Midnight Mayor do?

I raised my hand.

 

Penny Ngwenya.

Spat at, assaulted, her hat stolen.

Give me back my hat.

Dollis Hill.

Too much coincidence.

Mo had stolen a traffic warden’s hat in Dollis Hill and was punished for the crime.

And Penny Ngwenya, refugee stuck in the system, no money, spat at, assaulted, robbed, had filed a report, on which no action had been taken.

And Mr Pinner had come to the city.

Penny Ngwenya.

Poor little Penny Ngwenya; she probably didn’t even know what she had done, or what had to be done in reply. I hoped she did. Then it would be easier. Then I could tell Loren.

We drove.

Not that far, as it turned out.

St Pancras International. Some wisecracker had announced in the 1830s that, what with the Houses of Parliament having burnt down, there should be a competition to build the replacement. St Pancras was one of the entries. If British MPs wore sweeping cloaks and cackled at the moon, it would have been the perfect place for government. Red towers with spikes on; a clock that could never quite agree with its neighbour on the tower of King’s Cross; a long, pale blue-grey arch that you could see from on top of Pentonville Hill, or from the tower blocks of Camden. Tiled steps, marbled pillars, red bricks hiding a decayed interior of exposed cables and pipes just locked out of the public’s sight. It was not a delicate building. Nor was there anywhere to park. There are downsides to putting international terminals on main roads.

I said, “You sure . . .?”

“She works here.”

“Doing . . .?”

“Cleaner.”

I looked up at the bright clock on the tallest tower, at the heaving traffic stop-starting down the numberless traffic lights of the Euston Road, at the people waiting for taxis under the metal overhang of King’s Cross. “Let me out here,” I said. “You find a place to park.”

“Where are you going?”

“If this Penny Ngwenya is the cause of all this, I’ll know. Seriously. You find someone better qualified to look, and I’ll give back the coat.”

Oda came with me. No point in saying no. They let us out just past the British Library, pulling, illegally, into the bus lane so I could duck into the shelter of the great beige stone buildings that kept their backs turned to the traffic, their faces towards the quieter streets of Bloomsbury. The wind was nose-bite icy, ear-dropping cold. I pulled my coat up tighter around my neck and hurried towards the traffic lights, while the Aldermen in their big cars that deserved every penny of congestion charge they had to pay went in search of a place to park.

“We’re not doing anything without the Aldermen,” said Oda.

“Sure. Just looking.”

“Sorcerer . . .” Warning in her voice.

“Just making sure. You wouldn’t want an innocent to get blasted, would you?”

“You misunderstand my cause. Bigger pictures.”

“Of course. Silly me.”

The station was divided into three parts: Underground, international and overland. It seemed easier to find our way in through the low sculptured doorways to the Underground at pavement level, than through the high arches above street level leading to the mainline station. Glass and bright lights; beeping gates, whirring ticket machines, men and women in blue uniform: police. Of course - police. An international terminal, where else?

“You know,” I murmured, “if this Ngwenya is the one responsible, St Pancras may not be the best place to . . .”

“There are ways.”

“Really? You mean you can . . .”

“If I told you my methods,” she said calmly, “then I might not be able to use them again.”

We looked away.

The mainline station combined trains to Glasgow with services to Paris, Brussels, Lille and, for the truly masochistic, Disneyland. It was built to impress. The roof was higher than the average winter cloud on the city, the platform longer than the distance between most bus stops. Everywhere was the same pale, cold blue light, shining down on glass and steel, built one into the other like they were elements of the same nature, modern simplicity melted into Gothic grandeur. The effect should have been an uncomfortable clash of old and new, but both periods were united by the drive to achieve splendour and space, to make it clear to anyone who hadn’t guessed as they stepped off the train, that this was London, capital city, and you’d better hold on to your wallets.

The sound was the constant rumbling of the Eurostar engines, which sat right next to the main foyer, separated only by a thin glass sheet, some unsympathetic coppers and international law. Tourists about to travel could buy champagne at £70 a throw from the leather-sofa champagne bar that sat by the nearest long platform. Shoppers with space left in their bags could nip downstairs to where passport control kept its booths and, from the shops huddled around the X-ray machines and metal detectors, purchase anything from a trashy novel to an exploding bubble bath. Cafés offered travellers from Paris croissants and thick dark coffee, to cushion them against the baked-beans-based culture shock they were about to receive; off-licences offered cut-price booze to bring your family, whose present you’d failed to buy on holiday; luggage shops offered businessmen the best leatherware, and everything shone with commerce.

And everything shone, because someone was there to clean it. Oda and I stood above the escalator leading down to the main shopping hall, and watched. The station was buzzing with people, arriving, or heading for the last train to the Continent; bags and coppers and immigration control, shoppers and sellers elbowed each other for room.

Oda said, “Do we know what this woman looks like?”

“We’ll know.”

“Because of your Jedi nature?” she snapped.

“Because you can’t just summon the death of cities and not have something peculiar going on. Doesn’t your bigger picture involve using me for my essential and potent grasp of these things?”

“You haven’t been very potent so far,” she grumbled.

“We saved your life.”

Silence.

“I didn’t expect it to . . .” I stopped. “Sorry,” I said finally.

“Sorry? You’re saying this as though there’s some meaning. As in, repentant, remorseful, regretful?”

“Don’t know. Just seemed like the thing you wanted to hear.”

“I should hit you.”

“There’s a queue. You still need me.”

“Even less than you could possibly comprehend. We do have your theories.”

I shrugged. “Just theories. And if I’m wrong, you still need the Midnight Mayor. Why do you think Nair lumbered me with this?” I asked, genuinely interested.

She shrugged. “What does it matter?”

“Plenty. He seemed like a sharp guy. Smart enough to find Raleigh Court; smart enough to have a good address book in his mobile phone. Earle thinks he did it in order to tame us. To
make
us get involved.”

“There is a logic to it.”

“It could have just been a good combination. A complete and utter accident. A stranger dials a random number on the phone, and you can guarantee that sooner or later, they’ll call us. Your fingers must twitch at the thought. You hate the idea of sorcerers per se; you despise the blue electric angels, you fear the Midnight Mayor. Wrap them up in one bundle . . . I’m impressed you aren’t even hitting.”

“Utility.”

“That’s what they said about the nuclear bomb. It’ll come in handy one day - sure, let’s keep it around.”

“Matthew,” she said sharply, and then seemed to catch her own breath, draw it in, as if she could suck the word back down. “Sorcerer,” she added, firmer, “unless you have something useful to say, shut up and work.”

I shut up.

We worked.

It didn’t take long. People go out of their way not to see the cleaners. There’s a shame involved - we let the crap fall from our nerveless fingers, and someone else picks up after.

Look; and ye shall find.

When she shuffled into view, dragging the trolley with its twin bins and collection of brushes and mops hooked onto the side, we knew before I had time even to reason it through. We snapped at Oda, “Wait here a moment,” and tripped briskly downstairs to the lower concourse, elbowed through a gaggle of schoolkids just off the train, ducked the swinging banjo of a musician dressed as Mickey Mouse headed for Disneyland and walked straight up to where she was carefully laying down a yellow sign proclaiming “Caution! Slippery Floor!” She had her back to me.

Sorcerers are good at killing people. It’s not in the job description, it just . . . comes naturally.

We stopped in front of the sign. She looked up. We opened our mouth, and she said, “Can I help you?”

A hundred ways to kill.

Stop it right here, right now. That’s the plan.

Burn out her heart, set her brain on fire, boil her blood, break her bones. A hundred ways to die, a thousand things we could do. Just human.

“Hey - can I help?”

There was a badge pinned to her blue overall. It said “P. Ngwenya - Hygiene Care Assistant”.

I looked into a pair of perfect brown ovals set in a face that was itself almost a perfect oval, except for the wide protrusion of her slightly squashed nose. Her black hair was done in plaits wound so tightly to the curve of her skull that the fuzzy hair in between each row looked like thin grey paint rising to a carved ridge.

Looking at her, there was something I recognised.

I said, “Uh . . .”

The empty sounds you make to buy time.

She waited patiently, not smiling, not moving, just waiting to see what I’d do next, almost as if she knew what had to come.

“Um . . .” I stumbled.

I was aware of Oda coming down the stair behind me. I heard a

voice say, “Do you ever clean round the University of London?” The voice was mine.