by Sally Green
Nothing and no one has gone up or down the alley.
I told myself I would watch for an hour or two, but it feels like the office windows are watching me. I need to get this over with.
* * *
Feeling a bit shaky.
Couldn’t do it. I got close but I couldn’t go up there.
I will do it though. I’ve got to do it.
Just not yet.
* * *
Nothing happening at all. I was hoping to see the bloke, Bob, walk down the alley, but he hasn’t appeared.
He has to come out at some stage though. The best idea is to keep well back and watch.
* * *
He might be having the day off or be away on holiday for all I know.
It’s only one day gone. Only one day less.
* * *
Day two.
Okay. Day one was not a success. Nobody went up or down the alley (including me). A few people went in and out of the Council building.
But I’m here early now. Slept in a different doorway half a mile away.
And success already. A few people have gone into the Council building, but, more importantly, a van drove up the alley. It drove up, the gates to the courtyard opened, in the van went, and the gates shut. It all looked normal.
Nobody has walked up or down the alley yet. I’m waiting for my man to do that.
And waiting.
And waiting.
But everyone just walks on past the end of the alley, not even looking up there, like they don’t even notice it. There’s a dead-end sign and a brick wall at the far end, so no one’s likely to go up there. But still it’s like it’s invisible to passersby.
And what if he never comes? Mary told me about him years ago. Maybe he’s not here anymore. Maybe the Council has caught him.
Of course just when I’m not really paying attention, someone steps off the street and walks up the alley. A man. But is it Bob?
And now he has his back to me.
He’s gray haired, thin, wearing beige trousers and a navy blue jacket, and carrying a holdall. He walks fast, not looking to the door on the left that I escaped out of, not looking at the gates that the van went through, and he carries on to the end where he turns to the door on his right and unlocks it. As he turns the handle and steps inside he looks toward me. Then he’s gone.
So, if that is Bob, do I wait for him to come out again? He might stay in there for a few days. I’ve got to see him. Must stop being so pathetic. I’m crossing the road.
Now what?
A girl is walking up the alley ahead of me; she’s moving fast and is already at the end and knocking on the man’s door and going in.
What?
Do I do the same? Or wait?
A horn blasts. I’m in the middle of the road. I scuttle back to my side of the street and my doorway.
Was the girl watching too? Is she seeking help, or is she his assistant . . . daughter . . . friend?
She’s coming out already. She’s a kid, younger than me.
She’s walking fast, jogging across the road through a gap in the traffic, turning to her right and glancing at me.
Beckoning me.
I look at the alley.
It will still be here later.
I swivel round in time to see the girl turn down another street and I jog to catch up.
She cuts down another side street and then another and out into a major road with people and shops. Busy, barging people and I can’t see the girl. She could be in any of the shops. Clothes. Phones. Music. Books.
I turn round and she’s standing right in front of me.
“Hi,” she says and grabs my arm. “You look like you need a drink.”
* * *
She’s chosen a table at the back of the coffee shop. We’re sitting opposite each other. She bought the hot chocolates and asked for extra mini-marshmallows, then told me to carry the tray, and now she has the cup to her lips and is staring at me over its pink and white mountain. Her eyes are definitely fain: green, pretty but lacking that witch thing . . . the sparks. Definitely fain. And yet they’re weird; they have a liquid quality. There’s another color in there, a turquoise that’s sometimes there and sometimes not. Like a tropical ocean.
“You want to see Bob?” She flicks her long brown hair over her shoulder.
I nod and attempt to sip my drink but can’t get at it for the pile of marshmallows. I eat all the marshmallows to get rid of them.
“I can help you.” She picks at her marshmallows, waves a pink one in the air as she says, “What’s your name?”
“Um, Ivan.”
“Unusual name.” She picks up another marshmallow and adds, “Well, not in Russia, I suppose.”
She takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “I’m Nikita.”
I don’t think so.
“Do you work for Bob?” I ask.
She looks about fourteen, fifteen tops. She should be in school.
“Do the odd job for him. A bit of this. A bit of that. Run errands for him. You know.”
Not really.
She finishes her hot chocolate, getting everything out with a spoon. After a lot of scraping she puts it down, and says, “Want a cookie?” She’s up and gone before I can answer.
She comes back with two huge chocolate cookies and passes one over to me. I have to concentrate on not stuffing the whole thing in my mouth at once.
“You shouldn’t hang around in front of the Council Building,” she says.
“I was being careful.”
“I spotted you.”
I was being careful.
“You need to get some sunglasses to hide your eyes. And I’ve no idea what those are”—she points to my tattoos— “but I’d get some gloves.”
I have a scarf round my neck that I took from the holiday home, but there weren’t any gloves.
She leans over. “Cobalt Alley is protected.”
“Yeah, how?”
She waves her hands around. “Magically, of course. Fains don’t see the alleyway. Only witches see it.”
So she is a witch. But her eyes are different.
“Once you’re in the alley you won’t get out of it unless you look at where you’re going and think about where you’re going. And I mean look hard and think hard. On the way in only look at Bob’s door, think about the door and nothing else and you’ll get to it. On your way out stare at the buildings on the street at the end. Don’t look down. Never look down. If you look at the gates to the Council building, if you think about the Council building, that’s where you’ll end up.”
“Right . . . Thanks.”
“Your homeless disguise is good, by the way.” And she gives me a smile, so I’m not sure if she’s joking or not. Before I can reply, she gets up and walks out of the coffee shop.
My stomach gurgles, and I get that taste in my mouth and have to run for the toilet. I throw up into the bowl, a coffee-colored mix of little floating marshmallows and sludge.
I wait, and nothing more comes up, so I swing around to drink water from the tap. The face looking back in the mirror is pale with bloodshot eyes weighted down by black sacks. I do my best to heal, but decent food and water are the only solution. I look at the state of my old jeans, worn thin at the butt and knees. My shirt has holes on the arms and around some of the buttons. My T-shirt underneath is gray and frayed around the neck.
I head out of the shop but the woman behind the counter runs after me.
“Your friend just left you something,” she says, handing me a large paper bag.
Inside the bag are two packs of sandwiches—ham and cheese and BLT—a bottle of water, a bottle of fresh orange juice, and a napkin with writing on it. It takes me five minutes to figure out what it says.
Cobalt Alley
&
nbsp; I’ve eaten the BLT, drunk all the water, and I’m looking at Cobalt Alley. It can’t be that hard. Can it? I’ve got to get on with it. Bob and Nikita kept to the narrow pavement on the righthand side. Bob’s building stretches back from the corner to the wall at the dead end. It’s a rundown low building, one story with a slate roof, and its one door and one window are way up the far end of the alley.
I keep a steady confident-looking but not rushed pace and have my head slightly angled away from the Council side. My eyes are staring at the entrance to Bob’s place. I’m thinking, Bob’s place. Bob’s place.
I know I don’t look casual, and I have to make myself slow down in case anyone from the Council building can see. But then I feel a pull toward the Council building and I think, Shit! Bob’s place. Bob’s place. And I keep my eyes locked on his door.
I get there. Thank you.
Bob’s place.
I knock.
Bob’s place. Bob’s place.
I stare at the door. I’m muttering now, “Please hurry. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”
Nothing.
Bob’s place. Bob’s place.
I knock again. Louder. “Hurry up. Hurry up! Bob’s place. Bob’s place.”
What do I do if guards come out of the Council building now? I’m trapped. The whole thing could be a Council trap. And I feel my body being pulled again toward the Council building.
BOB’S PLACE! BOB’S PLACE! I can’t wait this long. Bob’s place. Bob’s place.
The door clicks and opens a fraction.
Nothing else happens.
I step into the room, turn and push the door firmly shut.
“Bloody hell! Bob’s place.”
“Yes, do come in. Glad you made it, but I’ll have to kill you if you even glance at the painting.” Far from being a threat, the words sound like a desperate plea for attention.
I turn to see a grubby room. Even the air tastes grubby. Against the far wall, which isn’t that far, as the room is narrow, is a wooden table with a bowl of fruit on it. There are a few apples and pears scattered across the table. To my right there’s a wooden chair and an easel and beyond them an open door through which the voice called. The position of the easel indicates the painting will be a still life of fruit. I go toward the next room, stopping to look at the work in progress on the way. It’s good, traditional and detailed. Oil on canvas.
In the next room I see a man’s hunched back. He’s stirring something in a small, dented saucepan. There’s a smell of tomato soup.
I wait in the doorway. The room has the chilly feel of a cave. It seems even smaller than the painting studio, but that’s because against two walls are stacks of large canvas frames, all with their bare, pale backs to the room. The only light comes through two small skylights. There is a small black leatherette sofa, a low Formica coffee table with three legs, a wooden chair like the one in the first room, a row of kitchen cupboards with a stained worktop, on which stands a kettle and a single electric ring. On the drainer by the sink are a large number of mugs and an opened can of soup.
“I’m making lunch.”
When I don’t reply he stops stirring the soup and turns to look at me, straightening up as he smiles. He holds the wooden spoon in the air as he might hold a paintbrush and a reddish-orange blob drops onto the lino. “I’d like to paint you.”
I don’t think he’d get my eyes.
The man inclines his head. “Probably not. It would be a challenge.”
I don’t reply. Did I say that about my eyes aloud?
“You look like you could do with some.” He holds the saucepan up and raises his eyebrows in a question.
“Thanks.”
The man pours the soup into two of the mugs on the drainer and puts the pan in the sink. Then he picks up the mugs and offers me one, saying, “I’m afraid I’m out of croutons.”
He sits on the leatherette sofa, which is small and narrow.
“I’ve no idea what croutons are.”
“What is the world coming to?”
I sit on the chair and hold the mug to warm my hands. The room is remarkably cold, and the soup only just warm.
The man sits with his legs crossed, revealing how incredibly thin his legs are beneath his baggy trousers, and also one red sock. He twirls his foot around and around and sips his soup.
I swallow most of mine in one gulp.
His foot stops. “It’s the dampness that’s the problem in here. Even on a summer’s day it never gets any sun, and there’s damp coming up from underneath. It must be the river.” He sips his soup, pursing his lips after each taste, and then puts the mug on the table, saying, “And the electric ring’s on the blink and not giving out much heat.”
I savor the last mouthful of soup. It’s not as good as the BLT, but it’s good. And I realize I’m relaxed. I know it is him. He is definitely no Hunter. He is Bob.
“I’m serious, I’d love to paint you. Like that.” He waves a hand at me. “Sitting on the simple wooden chair, half starved and young. So, so young. And with those eyes.” He stops waving his hand and leans forward to stare into my face. “Those eyes.” He leans back again. “One day maybe you’ll let me paint you. However, that is not for today. Today is for business of a different nature.”
I’m about to open my mouth to speak and he puts his finger to his lips. “No need for that.”
I smile. I like this guy. I’m fairly sure his magic is mind-reading, which is incredibly rare and—
“I have a certain skill, but a bit like my painting it’s competent and practiced—workmanlike you might say, rather than . . .” He stops and gazes at me. “I’m no Cézanne. For example, I have to concentrate hard to pull the key thoughts from the scrambled egg that is your mind. But still it is obvious why you are here.” And now he taps the side of his nose.
I think loudly, I have to find Mercury.
“Now that I got clear as a bell.”
Can you help me?
“I can put you in touch with the next person in the chain. Nothing more.”
So it’s not going to be straight to Mercury from here. But I’ve got a deadline to work to. Two months away.
“Time enough. But you must understand, and I’m sure you understand better than most, that caution is vital for all concerned.”
Does he know who I am? Why would I understand better than most?
“I heard a rumor that a prisoner escaped from the Council. An important prisoner. The son of Marcus.”
Oh.
“Hunters are out hunting him. And they are very good at that.”
He stares at me.
I realize I have let a thought out of the bag.
“May I see them?”
I extend my hand toward him, but he gets up and goes into the far room. I hear a switch flick and the lightbulb above me dithers about coming to life. Bob returns and stands in front of me. He takes my hand in both of his. His hands are cool and thin and his bony fingers pull my skin so that the tattoo is distorted.
“They really are hateful, aren’t they?”
I’m not sure if he means the tattoos or White Witches.
“Both, my darling, both.”
He lets go of my hand. “May I see the others?”
I show him.
“Well, well, well . . .” Bob returns to his seat on the sofa and his foot starts to twirl round again. “We need to see if you are right, if these are some way of tracking you. If they are, well, my fate is sealed already.”
He holds his hands up. “No, no. No apologies necessary . . . Indeed I think I may have to apologize to you, because we are going to have to get someone to look at those. I suspect it won’t be a quick procedure, and I know it won’t be pleasant. The man I’m thinking of is a philistine.”
Bob gets up and takes the mugs to the sink.
/> “I don’t think I’ll bother clearing up. Time to move on. You know, I’ve always thought I should paint in France, search for Cézanne’s spirit in the hills. I can do better than this.”
Yes.
“Should I take the paintings?”
I shrug.
“You’re right, a clean start is best. You know, I feel better already.”
He disappears again into the far room and comes back with a piece of paper and a pencil. Leaning on the kitchen worktop, he sketches. It’s good to watch him. His sketch is better than his oil.
“You’re very kind. I thought a picture would make more sense to you than some ugly words.”
The sketch is of me reaching up to feel on top of a locker, in what looks to be a railway station. There is a sign, but I don’t try to read it now. I’ll spell it out later.
He hands the drawing to me, saying, “You know you are beautiful, don’t you? Don’t let them catch you.”
I look at him and can’t help but smile. He reminds me of Arran, his soft gray eyes filled with the same silvery light, though Bob’s whole face looks gray and lined.
“No need to rub it in about my appearance. Oh, there’s something else. You will need money.”
I realize I haven’t given Bob anything.
“You have given me the chance of a new life and a little inspiration. You are my muse and, alas, I will have to make do with this merest fleeting glimpse of you. But others are less interested in life’s aesthetics and more in its grubbily begotten gains.”
How much will they charge?
Now Bob spreads his arms and looks around the room, “As you can see I am not an expert with money myself. I’ve really no idea about it at all.”
I now remember to ask about Nikita.
The girl who helped me—is she a witch?
“My dear boy, I hope you realize that if, twenty minutes after you leave here, I get a knock on the door from a man asking questions about you, it would be terribly rude of me to answer them. I would hate to talk about you behind your back and I would never dream of being that discourteous about anyone who comes here. Whether the knock comes in twenty minutes or twenty years, the same rules of conduct must always apply.”
