‘You’ve always got to push it, haven’t you?’ she said, and put her hand on the staff.
Her eyes closed and her mouth turned down.
‘Who do you think I am – Athena?’ she said, but her hand curled around the staff and she lifted it from my hands. ‘Still, this is a proper gift for all that you don’t appreciate its true value, either.’
As I got to my feet she shifted her grip to the end of the staff and held it upright so that the iron-shod tip rested on her shoulder.
‘So what is all this in aid of?’ she asked.
‘I want to talk to Sir William,’ I said.
‘Really? What for?’
‘Intelligence gathering?’
Lady Ty snorted.
‘Sir William?’ she said. ‘He’s not what you’d call plugged into the mainstream.’
‘Historical witness,’ I said.
‘What makes you think I can help you with that? Our relationship’s not what you’d call close.’
‘Close enough that he put half a metre of imaginary sword through that sniper,’ I said. ‘You might not be on talking terms, but I reckon you’re still family.’
‘Where is it you think you go when you talk to him?’ she asked.
‘I think I stay right where I am. I think I’m tapping into the memory of the city.’
‘You think too much for a policeman,’ she said. ‘Do you know that?’
‘I get that a lot.’
‘I’ll bet you do.’
‘Can you grant my boon or not?’
‘Why not,’ she said, and – as fast as an old-time preacher fleecing his flock – she leapt forward, slapped the palm of her right hand against my forehead and pushed.
Have you ever had that sensation, just as you’re going to sleep, that a bomb has gone off inside your head? It’s a real medical phenomena called, I kid you not, exploding head syndrome. It’s what’s known as a parasomnia, which is Greek for ‘we don’t know either’. Anyway, that’s what it felt like as I pitched backwards into the black – like a big painless bomb going off in my head.
Generally speaking Exploding Head Syndrome is harmless, but should you experience the further symptoms of finding yourself talking to the avatar of a river goddess, please contact Dr Walid, who collects that sort of data as a hobby.
‘Bruv!’ cried William Tyburn as he dragged me to my feet and hugged me.
He smelt of kebab and wet wool and hunting and woodsmoke.
He let go of me and held me at arm’s length.
‘I knew you couldn’t stay away.’
I was standing on the bank of a river, too narrow to be the Thames proper and choked with reeds. It was a warm overcast day and away from the water the land rose up to be crowned by a couple of thatched roundhouses. Around them spread a confusion of herb gardens, drying racks, woodpiles, small animal pens and stretches where the ground had been worn away to dusty brown tracks.
On the far bank of the river the reeds gave way to trees that might have been oak and ash and alder, and all the other varieties that Beverley says would cover the lowlands of England if given half a chance.
‘Welcome to Thorney Island,’ said William Tyburn. ‘Much better without that pseudo-Gothic monstrosity, isn’t it?’
Not as monstrous as his yellow and red check trousers, I thought, although the matching red and brown check tunic had faded to the point where it no longer hurt the eyes. He had grass stains at the elbows and his front was wet with sweat. The lowly man of the soil look was undone by the torc around his neck – a thick braided coil of gold terminating in clusters of what might have been snakes, or perhaps ropes or tangles of tree roots.
‘Checking the bling, right?’ said Tyburn. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Got it totally tax free too.’
The humidity was stifling and I tried to catch my breath.
‘I’d offer you a beer. But since you’re not actually here that would be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it?’ He grinned and stepped back and opened his arms. ‘How else may I serve you, or are you stuck under another pile of rubble?’
‘I was looking for some information,’ I said.
‘Indoor plumbing,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be big.’
‘And you wonder why no one takes you seriously.’
‘Seriously enough that you’re willing to pony up to have a chat.’
‘What did you think of my gifts?’
He cocked his head at an angle and then shook it slowly from side to side.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But giving what it must be costing Mrs High and Mighty Muckity Muck to send you here, they must have been princely gifts indeed.’
Which was interesting – it never occurred to me that transporting me here, wherever here really was, would cost Lady Ty any effort. Something to think about later.
I still felt out of breath and tried to inhale deeply a few times to clear the feeling. As I did, I noticed a young white woman in a garish blue and red check skirt and a loose linen tunic emerge from one of the roundhouses. She paused to glance curiously at me before nodding and smiling at Tyburn. They exchanged pleasantries in a language that could have been Ancient British, or gibberish for all I knew, before she headed off over the rise in the land.
A pale young white man emerged from the same roundhouse, and gave me a similar once-over to the woman before waving a greeting to Tyburn and heading down the slope towards the river a few metres downstream of where we stood.
This man was dressed only in what were obviously his last chance trousers, the pattern faded to a light yellow and orange check and held up with a rope at his waist. He was shirtless and torcless and carried a metre-long spear over his shoulder. The tip, I noted, had a sharp point and double barbs and, judging from the whitish yellow colour, was carved from bone.
‘Do they know who you are?’ I asked, as we watched the young man wade into the river with his spear.
‘Of course they do,’ said Tyburn.
The young man took position a couple of metres out into the current with his spear held ready to strike.
‘Who you really are?’ I said.
‘They have a much better idea of who I really am than you do.’ He held up a hand for silence. ‘Wait for it,’ he said softly and then – ‘Fish!’
The spear darted down and I saw it tremble as it struck. The young man leant on it to make sure of the kill before squatting down to pick the fish up with both hands. It took both hands because the thing was half a metre long and thrashing around vigorously. The young man wrestled it through the reeds and up the slope to dry ground, where he plonked the fish down, picked up a rock and gave it a good smack. Then again, to be on the safe side.
Once he was satisfied that the fish was thoroughly dead the young man hoisted it to his shoulder and, pausing a moment to nod respectfully at Tyburn, carried it up towards the houses.
‘What, no tribute?’ I asked.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Tyburn. ‘What do I want with a bit of raw fish?’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I’m going to pop up later and have it when it’s cooked.’
‘Cushy,’ I said. ‘What does he get out of it?’
‘He got a fish, didn’t he?’ Tyburn grinned. ‘A big fish.’
‘And you arranged that. How?’
Mysteriously,’ he said. ‘Have you ever considered becoming a god?’
‘I don’t fancy the hours.’ I wondered if he was being serious.
‘You get a free fish supper.’
There was a tightness in my chest that no amount of breathing seemed to help. I had to fight not to pant – soon I was going to have to fight not to panic.
‘You can’t catch your breath,’ said Tyburn, ‘because you’re asphyxiating. Sooner or later Her Sewership will have to pull you out – hopefully before you go into cardiac arrest.’