he?” Ben managed to ask. His voice didn’t sound at all out of the ordinary, he thought, considering his exhaustion. He had sat up at home the whole night, waiting. Jonah hadn’t come back. “How did he do that?”
“He’s what we call a windwalker,” Miss Nodder said. “He can make the air bear him. That means he’s a blasted nuisance to get hold of. And he has other skills too.” She looked from Ben to the other men. “I believe I need to tell you about practitioners.”
Jonah didn’t come back to the cottage that night either. Ben sat up again, in the winged chair where he had so often read to Jonah, Our Mutual Friend abandoned on the table. He meant to wait all night, though he didn’t expect a visit, and if he received one, he didn’t know what he would do.
Jonah, his Jonah, was a magician. That was what “practitioner” meant, someone with unnatural powers. The ability to walk on air, or exert force on objects, or change a man’s thoughts.
Had he changed Ben’s thoughts? Ben had loved him so hard, so fast, falling into his arms and his life as though Jonah had been the missing piece of his existence. Had Jonah made him believe that? Was it all a lie? Nothing else about him had been true.
He had certainly pumped Ben for information. All those artless questions about work, about the robberies, and the investigation…
If he’d come back in time that night before the burglary, Ben would have told him about the trap laid at the Tring Museum, and Jonah wouldn’t have gone, and Ben might never have known that his lover was a traitor, and a magician, and a thief. He would have had lying, duplicitous Jonah in his bed now, and never known the truth.
He wished, more than anything in the world, that Jonah was here and he didn’t know.
The disaster that was overtaking him was too great for Ben to understand. Realisations burst in his mind like gunfire: the cottage that he could not afford alone, the appalling inevitability of the discovery that he had been living with Jonah, the likelihood that their true relationship would be discovered. The thoughts came on him sickeningly and died away, to be replaced by others just as bad, and at the centre of it all was the great airless darkness inside him where Jonah’s bright smile had been.
Ben stared at the ashes in their hearth, long after the candle guttered and died, until dawn greyed the windows, and then he got up and went to work because he couldn’t think what else to do.
Halfway through the morning, a messenger sent by Miss Nodder burst in.
“Men. Now. We’ve found Pastern.”
Ben and Marshall were among the last on the scene. It seemed Jonah had been hiding in the timber yard down by the canal, and it seemed as though he had resisted arrest. The justiciar Webster was nursing a bloody nose, there were hysterical sobs from somewhere in the milling crowd of bewildered people, and the great carved totem pole all the way from America that adorned the timber yard lolled drunkenly to one side. Jonah was face down on the ground, swearing and spitting, with three constables sitting on him. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, and a fourth man was awkwardly cuffing his ankles together.
As Ben stared at the filthy, struggling criminal, his lover, he heard an ominous rumble from the timber yard, and a crash that shook the ground.
“That’s the bloody logpile going again!” Webster leapt up. “All men, get in there, follow Miss Nodder’s orders. Someone, get that flying bastard in the carriage and keep him in there.”
“I will,” Ben said.
He dragged Jonah up and hauled him, filthy and wild, to the police cab. The horse neighed nervously as he approached. He half pushed Jonah in, since his ankles were so tightly tethered he couldn’t go up the step, and then he shut the door and sat on the hard bench, opposite the man who had ruined him.
“Ben.” Jonah had a split lip, and his tongue dipped at the blood. “Oh God, lover. I’m
“He’s what we call a windwalker,” Miss Nodder said. “He can make the air bear him. That means he’s a blasted nuisance to get hold of. And he has other skills too.” She looked from Ben to the other men. “I believe I need to tell you about practitioners.”
Jonah didn’t come back to the cottage that night either. Ben sat up again, in the winged chair where he had so often read to Jonah, Our Mutual Friend abandoned on the table. He meant to wait all night, though he didn’t expect a visit, and if he received one, he didn’t know what he would do.
Jonah, his Jonah, was a magician. That was what “practitioner” meant, someone with unnatural powers. The ability to walk on air, or exert force on objects, or change a man’s thoughts.
Had he changed Ben’s thoughts? Ben had loved him so hard, so fast, falling into his arms and his life as though Jonah had been the missing piece of his existence. Had Jonah made him believe that? Was it all a lie? Nothing else about him had been true.
He had certainly pumped Ben for information. All those artless questions about work, about the robberies, and the investigation…
If he’d come back in time that night before the burglary, Ben would have told him about the trap laid at the Tring Museum, and Jonah wouldn’t have gone, and Ben might never have known that his lover was a traitor, and a magician, and a thief. He would have had lying, duplicitous Jonah in his bed now, and never known the truth.
He wished, more than anything in the world, that Jonah was here and he didn’t know.
The disaster that was overtaking him was too great for Ben to understand. Realisations burst in his mind like gunfire: the cottage that he could not afford alone, the appalling inevitability of the discovery that he had been living with Jonah, the likelihood that their true relationship would be discovered. The thoughts came on him sickeningly and died away, to be replaced by others just as bad, and at the centre of it all was the great airless darkness inside him where Jonah’s bright smile had been.
Ben stared at the ashes in their hearth, long after the candle guttered and died, until dawn greyed the windows, and then he got up and went to work because he couldn’t think what else to do.
Halfway through the morning, a messenger sent by Miss Nodder burst in.
“Men. Now. We’ve found Pastern.”
Ben and Marshall were among the last on the scene. It seemed Jonah had been hiding in the timber yard down by the canal, and it seemed as though he had resisted arrest. The justiciar Webster was nursing a bloody nose, there were hysterical sobs from somewhere in the milling crowd of bewildered people, and the great carved totem pole all the way from America that adorned the timber yard lolled drunkenly to one side. Jonah was face down on the ground, swearing and spitting, with three constables sitting on him. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back, and a fourth man was awkwardly cuffing his ankles together.
As Ben stared at the filthy, struggling criminal, his lover, he heard an ominous rumble from the timber yard, and a crash that shook the ground.
“That’s the bloody logpile going again!” Webster leapt up. “All men, get in there, follow Miss Nodder’s orders. Someone, get that flying bastard in the carriage and keep him in there.”
“I will,” Ben said.
He dragged Jonah up and hauled him, filthy and wild, to the police cab. The horse neighed nervously as he approached. He half pushed Jonah in, since his ankles were so tightly tethered he couldn’t go up the step, and then he shut the door and sat on the hard bench, opposite the man who had ruined him.
“Ben.” Jonah had a split lip, and his tongue dipped at the blood. “Oh God, lover. I’m
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