The Left-Handed Booksellers of London

by Garth Nix

  “Your mum was friends with a Sipper,” pointed out Merlin. “Who else did she know, back then?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Susan. “And how can you be sure the Raud Alfar warden was shooting at me?”

  “I am sure. But Great-Uncle Thurston checked; he had Cousin Norman look back.”

  Susan opened her mouth to ask another question, but Merlin took pity and answered before she had to speak.

  “Norman’s one of the right-handed, and a seer, of sorts. A reverse oracle, you might say. He can look back at things that have already happened. And yes, before you ask, there are other right-handed who can look forward, but it’s much more difficult to make sense of what they see. So no fortune-telling, as such.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask about my future,” said Susan indignantly. “Only . . . if Norman can look into the past, maybe he could see my dad, which would make everything so much easier.”

  “Hmm. The further back it is, the more difficult it is to discern anything in particular,” said Merlin. “Particularly for Norman, who’s a bit dim, to be honest. Come on, like I said, cab’s waiting.”

  “Really?” asked Susan, following him back inside. “You are extravagant. I can’t afford to even catch a taxi, let alone leave one waiting.”

  “Oh, I’m not paying!” exclaimed Merlin. “I work in a bookshop, remember? The pay is execrable. I never have any money to speak of. All my clothes, wonderful as they are, are from Oxfam. Or nicked from relatives. No, we’ve got three cabs; Aunt Audrey and Uncle Jerome drive two, and various cousins take turns with the third. They won’t let me drive, worse luck, because I crashed Emilia’s Jensen that time, taking no account of the fact I did it on purpose to stop a . . . well, never mind. Great-Aunt Merrihew got the idea to use cabs from that old TV show, the spy one. You know, with the swinging light bulb that gets shot, da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum, pow!”

  “Callan,” said Susan. “I’ve seen it. I suppose it makes sense, to blend in. Though I’d have thought it was quicker to take the Tube most of the time.”

  “We can’t take the Tube,” said Merlin. He went out the front door but paused on the bottom step, resting one hand on the low iron gate. Susan shut the door behind them and stood on the next step up from Merlin, waiting for him to go on. But he didn’t move, instead looking up and down the square.

  “The mythic palimpsest concept I mentioned to you—well, the layers are very thick and close throughout London in general, but particularly below. There are lots of things under us that are bound or forgotten, and best left undisturbed. And others, wakeful, but not roused to action. Our presence disturbs them. We only take the Tube when we absolutely have to.”

  “Inconvenient,” muttered Susan. “What about the bus?”

  “Oh, we can take buses all right,” said Merlin. “But one of our taxis is better. I was lucky they let me have one this morning. Either you’re really interesting or they’re feeling for me in my weakened state.”

  “I’m sorry I grabbed your shoulder,” said Susan. “I should have remembered.”

  “Didn’t feel a thing, to tell the absolute truth, but don’t let anyone else know,” said Merlin. He was still looking up and down the square. “Where has Aunt Audrey gone with my cab?”

  Susan looked, too. There were plenty of cars parked up all around the square, but no black cabs.

  “She’s taken a fare, damn it!” swore Merlin. “She’s always tempted by a short run, bit of extra pocket money. She wouldn’t dare do it for the older cousins. And it’s going to rain.”

  “So we have to get the bus after all,” said Susan. She looked up at the clouds gathering above. It was going to rain, in defiance of a brief promise of the spring becoming an early summer even earlier, with blue sky and sunshine between approximately 8:20 a.m. and 9:13 a.m. “Um, where are we going, by the way?”

  “The New Bookshop,” said Merlin, who was still studying the cars on their side of the square. “Mayfair. Stanhope Gate.”

  “Oh. I thought Inspector Greene said you sold new books at a big shop in Charing Cross Road. I’ve been to Foyles. Is it near there?”

  “The New Bookshop sells old books, collectibles, and rarities,” replied Merlin, who still hadn’t moved off the step. Following his gaze, Susan saw he was intent on a green Ford van with two men sitting in it. “The Old Bookshop sells new books in Charing Cross Road. About a hundred yards up from Foyles.”

  “That’s confusing,” said Susan. “Are those the actual names of the shops?”

  “Yes,” said Merlin. “The New Bookshop, in its current form, was built in 1802; the Old Bookshop was built in 1729. Hence New and Old. Have you seen that green van before? In the square?”

  Susan looked. It was a very nondescript green panel van, at least a decade old. It had faded “Greater London Council” lettering on the side.

  “I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “I don’t pay much attention to cars.”

  The men in the car saw her looking, turned to each other, and had a very brief conversation, ending in mutual nods. Doors opened, and they got out. Two ordinary workmen in overalls. Though the balaclavas and hammers were a bit unusual. . . .

  One of them pointed at Susan.

  “You, Susan Arkshaw. Come here!”

  “Go inside and tell Mrs. London to press the button,” said Merlin easily, opening his tie-dyed bag. His gloved hand went in and came out holding the very large revolver. A Smython .357, Susan recalled as she fumbled her key into the lock and pushed the door open.

  “Mrs. London! Merlin says press the button!”

  Outside, Merlin was speaking in a conversational tone.

  “Drop those hammers and hold your hands up . . . very high.”

  Mrs. London came down the stairs at a trot, Mister Nimbus at her heels.

  Susan couldn’t quite hear what one of the men in balaclavas said, but it was something along the lines of “Pretty girl . . . that gun’s too big for—”

  Followed by the boom of a gunshot, a scream, the sound of hammers clattering on the road, and Merlin calmly issuing some more instructions.

  “Booksellers!” spat Mrs. London, hurrying over to the “Stag at Bay” print in the gilded frame that hung in the hall above the shared phone on the wall. She pushed a corner to tilt the painting, revealed a recessed push button in the wall, and pressed her thumb firmly against it for a full second.

  Susan stood aside as the landlady surprised her even more by drawing a small, blue-finished automatic pistol from her apron pocket and going to the partly open door, where she stood off to one side and looked out, holding her pistol with both hands down by her thigh in what seemed a very professional manner.

  “Hmph,” she said. As Susan moved closer, she added, “No. Stay there.”

  Merlin was saying something else to the men. Susan tensed, half expecting another gunshot. But none came. In the distance, she heard multiple sirens.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Two very stupid men are lying facedown in the road, one of them likely missing half his foot,” said Mrs. London.

  The phone rang. Mrs. London left the door partly open but kept watching it, backing up to pick up the handset with her left hand.

  “London. Yes. Secure. Two assailants down in the street, one GSW foot, ambulance required. One LIBER MERCATOR SPECIAL outside, a young . . . woman, blonde, blue dress, leather jacket, with revolver. I’ll tell her.”

  Her Glaswegian accent had entirely disappeared while talking on the phone, Susan noted.

  Mrs. London hung up and shouted out the door. The accent was back again.

  “Merlin! Two D11 response cars minutes away, and the Tolpuddle panda. Hold up your warrant card.”

  “Will do,” Merlin shouted back. “And here comes Aunt Audrey, looking abashed, as well she might. And where were you, Auntie?”

  “Send her inside,” called out Mrs. London.

  A few seconds later, a cheerful, short,
black-haired, dark-skinned, fortyish woman in jeans, T-shirt, corduroy jacket, and one battered brown leather glove on her left hand came inside. In her bare right hand, she clutched a steaming roll of foil that smelled delicious.

  “Wotcher, Mrs. L,” she said. “I only went to get a kebab because Merlin was taking so long, and I missed breakfast. Hello, you must be Susan. I’m Audrey.”

  “Uh, hello, Audrey,” said Susan as Mrs. London gave a kind of grunt. The sirens were much closer now. “Uh, will I have to go to a police station again?”

  “No,” said Audrey and Mrs. London at the same time.

  “Inspector Greene will want to talk to you, though,” said Mrs. London.

  “Got to come with us first,” said Audrey. “You recognize those two lads, Mrs. L?”

  “No,” said Mrs. London. “No one local. Had to be, not to know what this place is. Or really stupid, I suppose.”

  The sirens reached a crescendo outside, accompanied by screeching tires, which suddenly stopped and were replaced by the sound of numerous slamming doors. Blue light washed the hallway through the partly open door.

  “Armed Police! Armed Police! Don’t move!”

  Audrey unwrapped the end of her kebab and bit off a large mouthful. Mrs. London put her pistol back in her apron.

  “Give ’em five minutes to clean up and we’ll be orf,” said Audrey indistinctly, her mouth full.

  Chapter Five

  Below the street in darkness deep

  The goblins of the fair do sleep

  Their mischief done until tomorrow

  When they bring a new day’s sorrow

  “YOU’RE VERY QUIET,” SAID MERLIN IN THE BACK OF THE TAXI. HE sat opposite Susan, on the fold-down seat, eyes flickering left and right, watching the cars behind and adjacent to them as they slowly drove up Euston Road. The traffic was horrendous, as per usual, and it had started to rain in a halfhearted way.

  “I’m an art student from the country,” said Susan. “I came to London to study, and find my father. Not . . . not be part of . . . whatever the hell is going on. It was bad enough with the weird shit, as Greene calls it, but with those thugs as well . . . I mean, why me?”

  “Good question,” said Merlin. “I’d like to know, too.”

  Susan glared at him, but didn’t say anything. No further conversation occurred until they were going past Broadcasting House on Portland Place.

  “The BBC,” pointed out Merlin, with the air of a townsperson helping out a yokel.

  “I know,” said Susan impatiently. “I told you I’ve been to London before. We used to come here every year for my birthday until quite recently.”

  “Ah,” replied Merlin. “Just making conversation. You were very quiet—”

  “Why did you stick Frank Thringley with a silver pin?” interrupted Susan. “You never did say.”

  Merlin glanced over his shoulder at Audrey. The hatch in the glass partition between the passenger and driver compartment was open.

  “Good question, luv,” said Audrey. “Why did you, Merlin?”

  “He wouldn’t answer my questions,” said Merlin stiffly. “I asked him very nicely, too. And then he tried to razor me.”

  “You’re lucky Thringley did have a go, and that he was up to no good,” said Audrey. “I mean, our-neck-of-the-woods no good, what with that giant louse and all. Otherwise, you’d be hoeing the cabbage rows out back of Thorn House.”

  “I know,” replied Merlin testily.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Susan crossly. “And you still haven’t properly answered my question. What were you trying to find out?”

  “Thorn House is one of our places in the country,” said Merlin. “Dorset. They grow a lot of vegetables there. You’d probably be at home. Whereas I wouldn’t be, making it a suitable place to send me for a punishment.”

  “Growing up in the country doesn’t make me a farmer,” said Susan. “What were you trying to find out?”

  Merlin sighed.

  “My mother was killed six years ago,” he said quietly, looking down at his hands, the bare right laid over the gloved left. “A shotgun blast. An accident, supposedly, one of those ‘wrong place, wrong time’ things. She interrupted a robbery in Sloane Street. Three armed men rushed out of a jeweler’s as she came out of her favorite florist’s, next door. She put the robbers down, but there was another one in a car on the street, with a sawn-off shotgun. She got both barrels in the back.

  “When I turned eighteen and was fully inducted, I got the file from Scotland Yard. Call it morbid curiosity, I suppose. But once I’d read it, I thought it wasn’t an accident at all. I’m sure those four men were sent to kill my mother. The jewelry heist was cover for it. So, for the last year, off and on, I’ve followed things up.”

  “Despite being told to leave it alone,” interjected Audrey. The traffic had seized up again at Oxford Circus, so she could turn around and talk through the hatch in the glass partition. A strong waft of beef kebab and onions came with her words. “There was no evidence of it being a planned murder.”

  “Nothing except the unusual imbecility of the perpetrators,” snapped Merlin. “I interviewed them all in prison. Well, all except Craddock, the shooter—Mum lived long enough to stop his heart—and they were all near morons. I’m sure their minds had been tampered with. And they all had the same story to tell.”

  “Maybe it was true,” suggested Audrey, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Lots of criminals ain’t too sharp. Hang on, we’re orf again.”

  The cab clicked into gear and lurched forward, Audrey expertly exploiting the narrow gap that had opened between a white Ford transit and a bus before the van could close it up and deny any crossing of Oxford Street for another ten minutes.

  “No criminals ever tell exactly the same story,” said Merlin. “Not over and over again, across years, word perfect. They get things wrong, or forget. This was burned into their minds, and a lot of other stuff burned out. So I had to dig around, look deeper into their records, their associates and so on. To find some common connection, something that put them together for this job.”

  “And you found sod all,” said Audrey, swinging the wheel for the sharp right into Hanover Street. “And got told to leave it alone. Again.”

  “Yes, I didn’t find anything conclusive,” admitted Merlin.

  “What about your cousin?” asked Susan. She’d been thinking about him ever since Merlin had mentioned what he could do. “The ‘reverse oracle.’”

  “The wot?” asked Audrey.

  “A term I used to try to explain to Susan what Norman does,” said Merlin loftily. “As a matter of fact, Norman did have a look for me. But by then it was five years, and he’s really only good for a month or two back. But there are . . . entities . . . who can help unravel the past or look towards the future, give clues to help work out what went on. So I went to one of them.”

  “Against regulations,” said Audrey.

  “It’s a gray area,” said Merlin.

  “Is that right?” commented Audrey dryly. She swore as she had to swerve to miss a man who stepped out into the road. One of a stream of pedestrians trying to get past a huddle of workmen who were eyeing a partly dug hole in the pavement as if it was something unfamiliar and might move if they didn’t watch it.

  “Anyway, what . . . it . . . told me was as follows.”

  Merlin took a breath, pushed himself back against the partition, and intoned in a strange, flat voice:

  Seek the Sipper, blood-lapper

  Purse-cutter, goods-taker

  Chieftain of outcasts

  in the north

  in the north

  of the city of the moon

  He knows, he knows, he knows

  But is silenced, held fast

  By vows and oaths

  And will not speak

  “Bit of a clue, there,” said Audrey. “The ‘will not speak’ part, I mean.”

  “Oracles being notoriously unreliable and deceptive,�
�� said Merlin, “I chose to consider there was an unspoken ‘unless’ at the end of that little ditty, or—as may in fact be proven to be the case, finding the chap referred to would give me some other lead. ‘City of the moon’ means ‘Luan-Dun’ or London, by the way. So I looked around for North London Sippers who were also criminals, and talked to two—who were not exactly chieftains, I mean one is a bookie and the other a pickpocket, but they led me to Thringley, who definitely was a chieftain of outcasts. I talked to the first two Sippers perfectly peaceably, and I would have continued that way if Susan’s ‘uncle Frank’ hadn’t gone for the razor—”

  He abruptly stopped talking and leaned forward to stare over Susan’s shoulder through the back window, and then twisted about to look out the front. The taxi was making very slow progress along Curzon Street, had passed Bolton Street, and there was not only a lot of traffic but many pedestrians, a high proportion of them obviously tourists.

  “Audrey!” snapped Merlin. “Urchins!”

  “I see ’em,” said Audrey in a disbelieving tone. “What’s got them out under the sun?”

  Susan peered through the rain-dappled side window, trying to see what Merlin and Audrey were disturbed about. Everything looked normal to her, a sea of cars and vans and motorbikes on the road, and spilling onto the road from the footpaths, a confusing, multidirectional tide of pedestrians under umbrellas of all shapes, colors, and sizes; those without umbrellas ducking and weaving between those with, trying to move faster to keep out of the rain, or to avoid an umbrella spoke in the face.

  “There is no sun,” she said. “And what are you—”

  “Figure of speech,” said Merlin. “Urchins don’t usually come out in daylight at all. . . . I’ve counted three, Audrey. . . .”

  “Four,” replied their driver. “Five . . . curse this traffic! Six! Seven! Go, no, you idiot!”

  They jerked to a complete standstill, thanks to a delivery van reversing ahead, where there was no room for it to do so. The traffic behind closed up immediately, and they were stuck.

  “Stay or go?” asked Merlin urgently.

  Audrey peered through the windscreen, and then left, right, and behind.