Read Online The Midnight Mayor by Kate Griffin - Free Book Online Page B

up position by the window. I thought of sniper rifles and bright lights. He said, “Mr Swift, first may I offer my regrets that you have clearly been a victim of some violence.”
    The words were the flat intonations of a busy priest, with three burials left to do before sunset and a migraine coming on. I said nothing. He didn’t care.
    “How much are you aware of the remit of our duties, Mr Swift?”
    “You’re the Aldermen,” I replied flatly. “A formation of like-minded individuals of a magical inclining whose responsibility is to ‘protect the city’, whatever that means.”
    “Yes - you hit upon an ambiguity there.”
    I shrugged.
    “You are broadly correct. There is more to our mandate than a loose ‘protect the city’ and, naturally, more than simply ‘like-minded individuals’ in our exclusive choice of membership; but I don’t need to bore you with these details.”
    I shrugged again, feeling skin stretch around the stitches, pain dribble down my spine. “I’m guessing you’re not here because you’re worried about my health.”
    “Alas, that is not our main concern. I am sure you also understand our authority,” added Mr Earle, finding a point and sharpening it.
    “I understand,” I replied, “that for nearly a thousand years there have been Aldermen watching over London, and that sooner or later anyone who opposes their will, dies. I know you serve the Midnight Mayor, who, if he exists, is the sacred protector of the city stones and whose heart beats in time to the rhythms of city life and so on and so forth.”
    “You don’t believe in the Midnight Mayor?” he asked. “Interesting.”
    “Is that what you meant by ‘authority’?”
    “If you regard authority as merely being might, then yes. We could argue semantics all day, but I think you have the essential details. Well then, with all this in mind, perhaps I can ask you some questions. Where were you last night, Mr Swift, between one and three a.m.?”
    I stared at him in surprise, which threatened to turn to anger. “Being stabbed by spectres,” I replied.
    “But where , Mr Swift?”
    “Willesden.”
    “What were you doing in Willesden?”
    “I told you. Being stabbed.”
    “Mr Swift . . .” He sighed, then asked, “Is this your watch?”
    He held up a sad, burnt piece of fabric and metal, 99p from a vendor on the street, with a faded Mickey Mouse behind the frozen hands. I didn’t ask how he’d got it, didn’t blame Vera for giving it to him. “Yes,” I said.
    “I assume it was damaged during this . . . encounter with the spectres?”
    “It stopped when I was attacked, yes.”
    “At two twenty-five in the morning?”
    “I wasn’t paying much attention to the time.”
    “No, no, of course not. No, naturally, why should you?” On the edge of something else, he asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Are you sure? Vera, my darling, a cup of tea?”
    “I’ll put the kettle on,” growled Vera.
    I could feel electricity buzzing through the walls, taste it on the air. A twitch of my fingers and I could wrap myself in it, send spinning mains lightning through the room, cranked up with all the will of a sorcerer’s magic to the point where flesh would pop. I said, “Maybe I would like tea.”
    “Tea all round,” sighed Vera.
    “Coffee for me,” said Mr Kemsley. “Decaf, if you’ve got it.”
    The head of the Whites, one of the largest organisations of magicians, painters and warlocks to burrow beneath the streets of London, smiled through her gritted teeth, and turned on the kettle.
    “I don’t suppose anyone saw this encounter in Willesden?” asked Mr Earle.
    “A large number of people, I suspect. But they wouldn’t know what to make of it.”
    “Anyone . . . of alternative inclining?”
    “I’m guessing you’re not referring to sex, biology or morals?”
    “Forgive me, Mr Swift, but in my line of work it can pay to be careful in one’s choice of language.”
    “You