The Minority Council (29 page)

Sinclair was waiting for me in the living room, a finger’s-depth of whisky swirling in his glass. The lights were turned low, the curtains drawn; everyone else upstairs.

I stretched out on the sofa and he scrutinised me, little eyes gleaming in a large head.

I said, “The Aldermen lied to me.”

He took a sip of whisky, appreciated, swallowed, appreciated again, put his glass to one side and said, “Yes, dear boy, of course they did.”

“There are dead people packing out the edges of this lie.”

“Again, I query your surprise.”

I fumbled behind my head for one of the sofa cushions, punching it and puffing it up into something resembling comfort, then shuffled deeper into the sofa. He waited.

“Did you know?” I asked.

“That the Aldermen lied to you? It seemed inevitable. The specifics of the lie in question—that, you will have to tell me.”

So, I did.

I told him everything.

I told him about Meera, fairy dust, Morris Prince and the trip to the dusthouse in Soho.

About the fairy godmother, Hugo and his bloodhounds, a meeting at the Barbican, a long drop and a short stop, and why everything stank of curry.

The Beggar King, his problem, his subject who turned to dust, and not through her own choosing.

Templeman and his plan.

About Nabeela, and the five kids on one night in Westbourne Park, who found themselves four kids without a soul and one corpse, torn apart by claws no one had seen.

About Mrs Dixon and the Neighbourhood Eye, about Rumina Rathnayake, emails between five people talking about plans and lies, Templeman’s name on the list. About the deserted estate near Stratford, and calling the Neighbourhood Eye and getting, for our pains, a monster with claws.

At the end of it I said, “So I guess this brings me back to my initial question: did you know?”

Sinclair sighed, put the whisky glass to one side, and said, “Some of it… perhaps. One must always keep abreast of rumours; sort, as it were, the wheat from the chaff. Magicians do so like to gossip, but sometimes—occasionally—there is more than a little truth to their tales. In answer to your question, I can only assume you are asking me if I knew about the connection between the Aldermen, the Neighbourhood Eye and your monster that comes in the night. The answer is: no, I did not know. And while perhaps I can understand what the Aldermen may have been attempting to achieve, assuming that this creature is all that you say—and by your expression, Matthew, and somewhat, how to put it… dogged look… I shall take it that it is—I really cannot condone their actions. As for the rest…” He let out a sigh, which took its
time as a great deal of lung beneath a great mass of belly deflated with a great whoosh of air. “Let us say, I had heard rumours.”

“What kind of rumours?”

“The destruction of the dusthouse, of course. Everyone is talking about that. The rumour is that the Midnight Mayor was responsible, though no one fully understands why this usually so conventional figure is taking such drastic measures against an institution which, until now, has been reasonably tolerated within the city. And, frankly, I was a little surprised; I had heard that the dusthouses were indestructible.”

“Dodgy foundations,” I replied.

“Of course, of course, dear boy, how short-minded of the architects. As for the fairy godmother’s involvement with that little problem of the Beggar King… I had heard rumours that the beggars were angered by, shall we say, members of their order going astray, with unexplained deaths and disappearances without bodies. These things happen all the time, in a big city, when you are alone, but the Beggar King watches his flock well. If he thinks that the dust is involved, well then, we would be reckless to doubt his word. And yet…”

“Yet?” I groaned, fatigued, pressing my hands against my eyes.

“… and yet there is no economic benefit to the fairy godmother in addicting beggars. They cannot pay for the dust, and while the resources are hardly wasted if the subject then dies and produces more dust in the process, there can be no need for the godmother to achieve a massive increase in the supply of dust. A drug that by its very nature kills the user has, of necessity, a limited market—
high demand, limited supply, high prices. No, I see no economic incentive at all for the fairy godmother.”

“I thought the fairy godmother had a monopoly on dust.”

“Well quite so, quite so; therein lies the mystery.”

We could feel him watching us, unafraid. I said, “What would you do?”

A pair of oversized eyebrows flickered up above a pair of undersized eyes. “I?”

“About the Aldermen.”

“Is the problem that concerns you one of disloyalty, or an objection to their deeds?”

“I didn’t expect loyalty.”

“Did you expect their deeds to be clean as well?” he asked, struggling to keep the incredulity from his voice. “They are the protectors of the city, Matthew. Not of you or me, not of individuals standing on the corner. Theirs is a world of numbers and ideas, of big problems and bigger solutions, of what is best for the majority and of prices that must be paid. Of course they would go behind your back were it for the greater good. It is, frankly, what they would expect of you.”

I scowled. “Great.” Then, “What do you think I should do?”

“You ask me, dear boy?”

“Yes.”

“I am… flattered, I think.”

“And I’m totally stuffed.”

“Nevertheless, to be asked my advice by your good self, even in consequence of your being totally stuffed, is… unexpected.”

“Don’t worry, I try not to make a habit of it.”

“If you do want my advice, here it is: talk to the Aldermen.”

“That’s terrific.”

“I mean it, most sincerely. You already have the fairy godmother after you and, as the state of your ribs can attest, I believe you have discovered for yourself that he is hardly a trifling enemy. You and your apprentice, the last two sorcerers in the city—which, if nothing else, is tribute to your survival skills—have failed to tame this roaming monster which is summoned by the Neighbourhood Eye. By your reckoning, the creature has already killed one, maybe more, and stripped the minds from many others. You have proven that the Neighbourhood Eye and the Aldermen are one; therefore, to solve the problem of the insect-monster, you must first speak to the Aldermen, obtain their knowledge of this enemy that you cannot contain. A medusa’s gaze,” he exclaimed, “failed to contain it! By the by,” looking thoughtful, “are Kensington and Chelsea aware that they’ve hired a medusa?”

“Doubt it.”

“A pity. Medusas, banshees, vampires, werewolves, goblins—they should all really be covered by local council anti-discrimination guidelines.”

I managed to convert a goggle of disbelief into a mumble of, “Well, that would be nice.”

“Matthew.” His voice was still light, but somewhere I heard a warning. “Of all the things that you have told me tonight, do you know what most gives me concern?”

“More than the monster, the medusa, the bloodhounds and the lingering smell of curry?”

“Indeed, more than all those.”

“Wow me.”

“It is this warning from the Beggar King. There is no need for the fairy godmother to risk his lucrative business by… experimenting, shall we say… on beggars. On the lost and the lonely; there is no profit in it for him. Yet by all accounts, the decay of this beggar woman, Ai, as described by the Beggar King, suggests someone out there shows an interest in the dust that is more than just commercial.

“The fairy godmother is a businessman, Matthew; he can still be bought and sold, for all his power. But fairy dust is as much a weapon as it is a narcotic—a deadly weapon, to be sure, a weapon which in time will kill its user, but still a weapon in the wrong hands. I would not like to think what would happen if ever a magician were able to control their own use of it.”

“You said yourself, it’s a narcotic, one that kills the host.”

“In its present form.”

“You think someone might be trying to alter that form?”

“I think all possibilities should be considered.”

“Great, because my day couldn’t have got better.”

He smiled, the infinitely patient smile of the kindly father watching a clumsy infant son trying to climb the stairs. “You should rest, Matthew.”

“Yeah,” I groaned, laboriously getting up from the depths of the sofa. “Thanks, by the way, for letting us crash.”

“Who am I to say no to the Midnight Mayor?”

“Hell, everyone else does.”

“That seems remarkably short-sighted of them.”

“Goodnight, Mr Sinclair.”

“Goodnight, Matthew.”

I shuffled towards the door, too tired to care any more about the pain. I was nearly there when he murmured, “Matthew?”

“Mr Sinclair?”

“If you must use my name when bluffing your way into dusthouses, in the future please do so with a little less flair.”

I grinned. “Yeah—sorry about that. But if it’s any comfort…”

“Yes?”

“… all publicity is good publicity, right?”

“I try to feel honoured, Matthew, I truly do.”

The bed was infinitely soft and infinitely deep.

We fell into it until there was no more light.

Not quite sleep.

The half-state between sleep and waking when we could feel our eyeballs roll back into our head and, by the very act of feeling, would jerk awake again.

And then, possibly, sleep.

Dreaming of Meera.

Should have been of a smile.

Voice.

Smell of the river.

Fingers.

Lips.

Wasn’t.

Dreamt of Meera and dreamt of dust, and woke with the taste of it in our lungs, parched and out of breath.

Morning came too soon.

It brought tea, toast and marmalade, and cereal with nuts in.

Nabeela said, “I gotta call in sick or something. I’ve never pulled a sickie before—how d’you do it?”

Penny said, “I should probably call my aunt, shit.”

I said nothing, and checked my phone: two missed calls from Kelly.

I sat on a wide step leading down to a walled back garden of mown grass and the smell of lavender, and called my PA.

She answered immediately. “Good morning, Mr Mayor, I’m so glad you’re calling, I was beginning to worry that something had happened, silly isn’t it, I know, but there are just a few things I need to run by you…”

“Kelly,” I interrupted, head resting in my hand, phone clamped to my ear, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course, Mr Mayor, anything at all!”

“I need to talk to Rumina Rathnayake, Cecil Caughey, Lucy Holta, Tommy Kwan, B. Fadhil and Richard Templeman, somewhere away from the office, now. And Kelly?”

“Yes, Mr Mayor?”

“Make sure they’re not armed.”

Charlie gave us a lift in Sinclair’s car, because Penny didn’t think there’d be anywhere to park hers.

Sinclair himself explained he needed to “tidy up a few bits of paperwork, you know how it is, dear boy, no rest for the wicked and so forth.”

Then, as we were heading down the steps to where Charlie was waiting, Sinclair caught my arm. I’d never seen him move more than a few inches at a time, like a giant that didn’t want to risk damaging the delicate furniture of lesser creatures, but his fingers were suddenly tight
above my elbow, his voice soft, a hiss short of a whisper. “Be careful whom you trust, Matthew,” he said. “Those Aldermen who oppose you will not submit without a fight. And there will be more, far more, than just this creature you’ve described. Ask yourself why the fairy godmother is so powerful. Ask yourself why the fairy dust is not more feared. Ask yourself who stands to gain from experimenting on beggars. And then be careful—be so careful—whom you trust.”

This said, he let go, and turned away as if nothing had happened, gliding one careful step at a time back into the house, a light tweaking of the wrist at his side the only symptom of a goodbye, as the door slammed shut behind him.

The car smelt of fresh leather and stale air freshener.

I watched London go by. Bus stops busy with commuters, Underground stations churning forth a continuous stream of men and women, skins of every colour, clothes in every style, some walking the confident walk of the worker who has been this way a thousand times; some the shuffle of the nervous tourist wondering which way is up on their two-pound public transport map. The way people walk in a city tells a lot about them: local or lost, visitor or regular, tourist or resident, coming or going, afraid or at home. Thieves look for the quality of the walk as much as anything when picking their mark.

Penny was silent.

Penny wasn’t usually silent.

As we neared our destination, Charlie started looking to avoid the endless one-way systems and perpetual “no left turn” signs that were the bane of every inner-city driver’s life. We made our way to Long Acre, a street of clothes shops catering to fashionables who surfed the very
breaking wave of trend, perpetually unfulfilled in their quest. Outside Covent Garden Underground we scrambled out, Penny, Nabeela and me; and, as Charlie drove away, we paused.