barriers, unseen, wrapped around this part of the city, designed as much for keeping secrets in as enemies out. On street corners or embedded in coats of arms on grand municipal buildings, we could feel the watching mad eyes of the silver-skinned dragons of London.
Close, now. The slightest turn of my wrist changed the ring tone. A small street of older buildings: a tiny sandwich shop with sash windows and an empty lantern-holder of black iron; next to that, a wine bar and, incongruous in this cramped old street, a door of shiny mottled silver. A small red carpet had been rolled out in front, and a man, ifmen came in grizzly bear size, stood outside. A badge on his suit proclaimed him a licensed bouncer for a club calling itself Avalon. The closed door behind him, and the bolted look on his face, suggested that Avalon was not a universally welcoming establishment.
But it was in the direction of that door, and that door alone, that my phone kept ringing.
I hung up. My battery was nearly dead, and the silence felt shocking after all that trilling.
I walked up to the bouncer and said, “I’m looking for Meera.”
“Sorry, sir,” he said, not unfriendly, but in the tone of voice of a man hoping he didn’t need to get that way.
I smiled. There are two kinds of bouncers in London: the decent ones, just doing it for a living, who hope you don’t mind that they’ve got a job to do and if you’re going to throw up it’s probably time you went home—and the bastards. This man was not a bastard, and, upon reflection, didn’t deserve what was going to happen to him if he got in our way.
I said, “If I ask you to let me in without a fuss, it’ll be difficult, right?”
“Are you on the member’s list, sir?”
“Amazingly, no.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t let you in sir, unless a member will vouch for you.”
“Meera.”
“Meera…?”
“I… don’t know her last name.”
He smiled ruefully. “Sorry, sir.”
I sighed, ran my hands through my hair nervously, then stabbed at my chest with my thumb. “Me—Matthew,” Iexplained. “These streets,” I added, opening up my arms to encompass the quiet, dark little road, “my streets. This door,”—I pointed, hoping he’d hear the polite determination in my voice that was already in his—“my destination. These pinkies,” I twiddled my fingers squid-like at him, “mega-mystic-tastic pinkies.”
Polite scepticism, inclining towards the thought that he would have to get physical.
“My friend,” I added. “I think she’s in trouble.”
“This would be… Meera?”
“That’s her. Hey—I’ll stay here if you want, so we can send someone to check on her.”
“Can’t leave this door, sir.”
“What about someone inside?”
“You want me to ask someone to go in and look for a Meera?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m sure if your friend wasn’t all right, the management would take good care of her.”
I nodded in resignation. “Did I mention,” I asked, taking half a step back to put some room between him and me, “these pinkies? Mega-mystical pinkies?”
“You did mention, sir, yes.”
I raised my hand, commanding attention. “Watch
this
,” I said, and spread my arms wide.
It took a moment to come and, when it did, at first it was hardly noticeable. From every lit-up window of every silent office, from every glowing street lamp, from every reflected puddle of light and glimpse of passing car headlamp, out of every passage into every subway and from the glimmer of every wing light of every plane passing overhead, it came. At first it was just a bending, a turning,a twisting. Then it was more, then it was a snaking: coils of silver-cool office light and sodium-orange street lamp curling out like a solid living thing, washing down through the air, writhing along the cobbled streets, tangling around my feet and then rising back up to bubble between my fingers. At first a glow, then a buzz, then a burning, and
Close, now. The slightest turn of my wrist changed the ring tone. A small street of older buildings: a tiny sandwich shop with sash windows and an empty lantern-holder of black iron; next to that, a wine bar and, incongruous in this cramped old street, a door of shiny mottled silver. A small red carpet had been rolled out in front, and a man, ifmen came in grizzly bear size, stood outside. A badge on his suit proclaimed him a licensed bouncer for a club calling itself Avalon. The closed door behind him, and the bolted look on his face, suggested that Avalon was not a universally welcoming establishment.
But it was in the direction of that door, and that door alone, that my phone kept ringing.
I hung up. My battery was nearly dead, and the silence felt shocking after all that trilling.
I walked up to the bouncer and said, “I’m looking for Meera.”
“Sorry, sir,” he said, not unfriendly, but in the tone of voice of a man hoping he didn’t need to get that way.
I smiled. There are two kinds of bouncers in London: the decent ones, just doing it for a living, who hope you don’t mind that they’ve got a job to do and if you’re going to throw up it’s probably time you went home—and the bastards. This man was not a bastard, and, upon reflection, didn’t deserve what was going to happen to him if he got in our way.
I said, “If I ask you to let me in without a fuss, it’ll be difficult, right?”
“Are you on the member’s list, sir?”
“Amazingly, no.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t let you in sir, unless a member will vouch for you.”
“Meera.”
“Meera…?”
“I… don’t know her last name.”
He smiled ruefully. “Sorry, sir.”
I sighed, ran my hands through my hair nervously, then stabbed at my chest with my thumb. “Me—Matthew,” Iexplained. “These streets,” I added, opening up my arms to encompass the quiet, dark little road, “my streets. This door,”—I pointed, hoping he’d hear the polite determination in my voice that was already in his—“my destination. These pinkies,” I twiddled my fingers squid-like at him, “mega-mystic-tastic pinkies.”
Polite scepticism, inclining towards the thought that he would have to get physical.
“My friend,” I added. “I think she’s in trouble.”
“This would be… Meera?”
“That’s her. Hey—I’ll stay here if you want, so we can send someone to check on her.”
“Can’t leave this door, sir.”
“What about someone inside?”
“You want me to ask someone to go in and look for a Meera?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m sure if your friend wasn’t all right, the management would take good care of her.”
I nodded in resignation. “Did I mention,” I asked, taking half a step back to put some room between him and me, “these pinkies? Mega-mystical pinkies?”
“You did mention, sir, yes.”
I raised my hand, commanding attention. “Watch
this
,” I said, and spread my arms wide.
It took a moment to come and, when it did, at first it was hardly noticeable. From every lit-up window of every silent office, from every glowing street lamp, from every reflected puddle of light and glimpse of passing car headlamp, out of every passage into every subway and from the glimmer of every wing light of every plane passing overhead, it came. At first it was just a bending, a turning,a twisting. Then it was more, then it was a snaking: coils of silver-cool office light and sodium-orange street lamp curling out like a solid living thing, washing down through the air, writhing along the cobbled streets, tangling around my feet and then rising back up to bubble between my fingers. At first a glow, then a buzz, then a burning, and
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