City of Halves

by Lucy Inglis

  Lily stared at him.

  ‘The human archaeology department of the museum. Plague pits, graveyards, murder victims, every set of human bones dug up in the City for a century. It’s not really the kind of place that takes the sending of spirits into eternal darkness that well.’ He pulled a face.

  An alert came up on Lily’s screen. ‘There’s signal failures at Barbican, Moorgate and Aldgate.’

  He swore almost silently.

  ‘What?’ Lily whispered.

  ‘Barbican is Aldersgate, or maybe Cripplegate. I’ll have to go there, deal with it, then be on hand to back Felix up.’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘Okay. Anything else?’

  ‘I don’t know where to look!’ Lily murmured, eyes on the screen. ‘And even if I find something how am I going to be able to tell you about it? I can’t call you.’

  There were footsteps in the hall. They fell silent. ‘Lily?’ her father said from outside the door. ‘Don’t stay up on the internet. Try to get some rest.’

  ‘Okay, Dad. Got it.’

  They waited.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Regan said almost without sound. ‘Thanks.’

  She nodded. They watched each other. He leant over and bumped his nose against hers gently, their mouths an inch apart. It was clumsy, almost human. The floorboard outside her door creaked. He got up from the bed, suddenly too quick and elegant to be real, taking her face between his warm, dirty hands and pressing a kiss to the side of her forehead.

  The floorboard outside her door creaked again. ‘Do I have to come in there and turn it off myself?’

  ‘No, Dad!’ Lily squeaked. ‘I’m turning it off now!’

  ‘Good girl. Sleep well.’

  She turned to where Regan had been. But there was only the open window, a faint thud and retreating footsteps as he landed thirty feet below on the cobbles and disappeared into the night.

  She stared after him. ‘Sleep? Are you insane?’

  Lily wriggled into her jeans under the covers, tugging on two pairs of socks and three varying T-shirts. She pulled on a black beanie for good measure and lay still, waiting for her father to go to bed. It didn’t take long. Ten minutes after his bedroom door closed, Lily slid from the bed and pulled on her boots. She wrote her father a note in the light of the gas street lamp below her window, telling him she’d gone out early on a lead. Dropping her bag across her body, she picked up her keys extra slowly to avoid them scraping on her desk and crept into the hall. It took her what felt like an age to reach the door and make it out on to the landing. As it clicked shut behind her, she waited for a second, then ran as quietly as she could down the brightly lit stairwell.

  Outside the cold hit her like a hammer and her newly washed face stung. She put her head down and headed down to the river gate. How to get out without any of the porters seeing her would be a challenge. Luckily, a party was just ending in Middle Temple Hall, and Lily slid down the side of the gate just as a row of taxis ferrying guests home distracted the porters. She made it out on to the Embankment and headed east. It took her almost fifteen minutes to get to the Museum of London. St Paul’s Tube station was closing up as she passed, the station guards pulling the flexible metal gate into place. They were talking and laughing in the cold.

  Lily skipped over the road, avoiding the last old-fashioned number eight bus lumbering on to Cheapside down to Bow. Because the Museum of London was entered via the London Wall roundabout, the way to get to it was a strange, hidden escalator on the approach road. The escalator had been switched off for hours. Lily clanged up it and on to the walkway leading into the centre of the roundabout. As she passed into the huge black-brick wheel, like a wall of death, and into the Museum’s garden, she realised she’d made a terrible mistake.

  Lily looked down from the balcony, into the dark of the garden, which was lit by dozens of candles stuck inside jam jars. As the icy breeze slid over the jars, the flames guttered and flickered. At one end of the garden was a huge Green Man art installation, shadows playing on his contorted face. Inside a strange circle made of white glittering crystals stood Felix. He was still wearing his sunglasses, but instead of his high-visibility gear was dressed entirely in black. On the ground before him were the corpses of the bandogge and banshee, more crystals piled on top of them. He raised his arms and began to chant. It sounded something between an order and a spell. Instantly, the wind picked up and the candles guttered. Lily stood, bolted to the ground, as the crystals on the bodies began to shift. Lily cast a glance at the Museum entrance. It was dark and empty, the foyer lit with dull uplighters, deserted. She looked back at Felix. His chant had sped up and his arms were raised above his head.

  She shouldn’t have come.

  What am I doing? Creeping out in the middle of the—

  St Paul’s began to strike midnight. The wind rose again and Felix’s lamps guttered wildly. Lily looked up. The night sky was now a roiling mass of clouds. Felix’s voice rose over the sound of the bells, louder and louder. Outside, below them in the cold London night, a motorcycle screamed west, and a siren broke out. The white crystals were spinning in tiny cyclones, rising up from the bodies. Lily stared, gripping the cold metal handrail as white shapes began to rise with them – the spirit of bandogge and banshee, spiralling out of their bodies, spinning, forming and reforming.

  Then Lily saw with horror that more thin white apparitions were appearing from the air vents leading into the subchambers of the Museum.

  ‘Felix, no,’ she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. She looked down into the garden, twenty feet below, then spied a ladder and a pulley system, which Felix must have used to let the bodies down. She ran to it, scrambling, legs banging on to the rails as her boots clawed for the treads. Hand over hand, she was in the garden moments later. As she turned from the ladder Lily’s stomach lurched. She was surrounded by a crowd of dead Londoners.

  Gripping her bag strap, she stepped back against the wall. Felix was lost in his chant, head thrown back, arms still raised. The white figures before him danced and spun, writhing to escape his spell.

  Lily gulped as the figures around her solidified and crowded closer. Men, women and children of all ages were closing in. Children covered in rags and grotesque sores. A highwayman, his neck at a peculiar angle. A woman in a huge hooped dress. A man naked to the waist, one leg crushed as if from a terrible accident. Lily felt something tugging on her jacket. She looked down and started back again, knocking over the ladder. There was a vine crawling over her jacket and jeans, up her legs. She watched in horror as more vines began to spurt from the Green Man’s mouth.

  Felix was bellowing above the whipping crystals and the spinning figures of the Chaos creatures began to intertwine, screaming and howling over Felix’s chant. Lily put her hands over her ears. A clap of thunder broke directly over the roundabout and she hunched down, away from the sound.

  Suddenly, over the handrail, there was a flash of pale material and the thud of boots on the soil. Lily turned her head. Regan!

  He was fighting a creature that looked like a cross between a vast golden house cat and a lion without a mane. They smacked into the turf, the huge cat-thing buckling back on its haunches. Regan reared up over it, inked fingers digging into the creature’s throat.

  ‘Get out of here. This is not your fight,’ he threatened, pushing the creature away from him. It slumped, bones heavy, on to the grass before slinking away, growling resentfully. In two bounds it hit the wall of the garden then landed on the handrail above them. With one last look over its shoulder and a purring growl, it disappeared into the darkness at the entrance of the Museum.

  Salt lashed Lily’s face. A cataclysmic clap of thunder broke over the roundabout, and Felix fell to the ground. In an instant, the spectres pulled their hands from Lily and retreated, sucked back into the ground and the air vents, back to where their bones lay. She shook off the vines as they unfurled from her limbs, crawling back into the stone mouth of the Green Man. Regan skidded to a hal
t in front of her, knees either side of hers in the gravel path edging the lawn.

  ‘What the . . . what are you doing here?’ He sounded angry and exhausted.

  ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘I’m good. Fine.’ His hair was everywhere and blood ran down one side of his face from the hairline to his jaw. He wiped his eye with the back of his hand.

  ‘You’re not!’ Her voice was shrill.

  ‘I will be . . . just give me a minute. Long night, that’s all. Put something under the last Moorgate train. Didn’t go quite as smoothly as I was hoping. We need to help Felix.’ He nodded to where the street cleaner was already on his feet, swaying like a drunk.

  ‘Whatchoo’ doin’ takin’ on a chindit?’ he berated Regan in a slurred voice.

  Regan let his head drop back and looked up at the night sky, weary. ‘That cat’s been acting up lately. Needs a proper hiding.’

  He got up and put his arm around Felix’s waist, supporting his weight by looping the Cleaner’s arm around his neck. He propped him up against the vent and ducked out from underneath his arm. He turned to Lily, who had struggled to her feet.

  ‘Look, I need to go. There’s stuff still out there, and only me to take care of it. I need you to do something.’

  She nodded, looking up at his filthy, bloody face.

  He gestured around the garden. ‘Clear all this mess up? Try not to leave a trace. Then get Felix out of here, to his car. He should have recovered enough by then. He’s usually just tired and a little woozy afterwards.’

  Lily hugged herself and nodded. ‘Be careful.’

  His fingertip grazed her cheek so lightly, from her eyebrow to her jaw, she wasn’t sure it had happened. ‘Always.’ Then he was gone.

  It took Lily a long time to clear up, even with Felix’s directions. The salt that couldn’t be collected had to be swept into the grass. Outside the black walls, the occasional car went by. Once or twice, there was a siren. The jars needed emptying of their candles, which were packed back into boxes and into black holdalls. The jars were wrapped and stowed away in a duffel bag.

  By the time Lily had clipped the bags one by one to a pulley that Felix had already rigged up, and got them out of the garden, he was looking a little better. All that was left on the grass was a scorch mark where he had been standing. Lily checked her watch, surprised to see it had gone four o’clock. Four hours?! How long was I being touched by dead people? It took even more time to unrig the pulley, retrieve the ladder and get all the stuff into Felix’s old car.

  ‘Jubee, diss was good work,’ he said in thanks, turning to her.

  She smiled. ‘No problem. Happy to help.’ She looked around. ‘Is he still out there?’

  Felix looked at his watch. ‘I say he likely headed home now. Dies off this time.’

  ‘Are you okay to drive?’

  ‘I fine.’ He waved a weary hand. ‘Home, shower, on the job at nine. See you aroun’, jubee.’

  As the car rattled off into the night, exhaust blowing noisily, Lily stood uncertainly on the freezing pavement, watching it go. Then she walked slowly back to the Rookery.

  Before long, she was pushing open the door to the office. It wasn’t locked. Inside, the paraffin lamp on the wall cast a pale yellow glow around the room.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, uncertainly.

  ‘Hang on!’ Regan’s disembodied voice called from somewhere. A long second later he appeared from the bedroom, bare-chested, in just a pair of clean jeans, scrubbing his damp hair with a towel. ‘Are you okay?’ He eyed her warily.

  She stood uncertainly in the office, hands on the strap of her bag, trying not to look at his washboard stomach. ‘Yes. Felix has gone home. I think we got everything.’

  ‘Right.’ He nodded, towel in his hands.

  ‘I, er . . . Dad thinks I . . . I don’t think I can go home without getting caught and—’

  ‘Oh. Well, make yourself at home,’ he said, gesturing to the flat.

  Lily watched him go through to the bedroom and fish a holey grey T-shirt from a drawer, pulling it over his tousled head in one sweep. On the end of the bed was a blanket of brightly knitted woollen squares. Its cheery look was out of place in the room, decorated only with more piles of books ranged around the walls.

  ‘I just meant I don’t think I can risk getting back into the flat without Dad catching me,’ she clarified in a rush.

  He shrugged. ‘Then stay, like I said. Get some sleep. I’m going to. Tonight was enough to tire even me out.’ He lay back on the bed and crossed his ankles.

  Lily hesitated in the doorway. ‘Um. Where should I . . .?’

  He propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Where do you think?’

  She put down her bag carefully, pushed off her boots and coat and lay down next to him on her back. He blew out the candle and settled back. They were silent.

  ‘Well, I’m glad this isn’t awkward,’ she said into the darkness after a minute.

  He turned on to his stomach and looped a long arm across her waist. She stiffened. His shoulder covered hers. ‘Lily?’ He sounded drowsy and close.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Please stop talking.’ His voice faded and she realised to her surprise that he was already asleep, exhausted. And heavy.

  She woke with a start, alone. Sitting up, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked around. The flat was still freezing and there was no sound from the outer room. Checking her watch, she saw it was just before eight and outside the window the sky was lightening. As she stretched, she felt something on her right wrist. It was a bracelet made of knotted red thread, which closed with a glass bead the size of a marble. Like a marble, it had a swirl running through it, but the shimmering dust within swirled and spun around the red thread, constantly in motion. Lily stared at it, curious, as she got up. She found the bathroom, which was as spartan as the rest of the flat but copious hot water sputtered from the taps, steaming in the cold room. Then she went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. The milk carton sat on the counter, without need for refrigeration. She sat in the office to drink it, and took out her phone. There was a text from her father asking her to check in. She called him.

  ‘Hey, Dad.’

  ‘Morning. Where are you?’

  ‘On my way to check on a lead on that guy we were discussing.’ Lily and her father were always deliberately vague on the telephone, in case their calls were monitored by any of the opposition.

  ‘Oh, right. You went early.’

  ‘I know. It was on my mind and I wanted to get on, as we’re so up against it.’ Lily breathed a sigh of relief that her plan seemed to have worked out.

  ‘Good girl. Well, let me know how you get on. And be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  They finished the call and Lily drank her tea. There was no sign of Regan. She washed the mug and headed out.

  Walking down to Bank, Lily waited at the number seventy-six bus stop. There was a newsstand half stacked with Metros. The headline shouted at her from behind the grille. PLAGUE OUTBREAK: EXTINCT DISEASE BRINGS TRAGEDY TO WHITECHAPEL.

  Lily picked up a paper and scanned the front page. Seven people, so far. More critically sick. She put the paper back, slowly. Things are getting worse. She bit her lip. She wondered where Regan was. What if more plague demons got through last night . . . what if . . . She shook the thought off. He’s fine. He just went back to work, that’s all.

  The bus arrived a couple of minutes later. On the long journey up to Stoke Newington, Lily sat absorbed in her thoughts. When, finally, it pulled to a halt at the junction with Amhurst Road, she felt a little calmer. She got off and turned into the street of large Victorian houses converted into flats. Finding the address, she pushed the buzzer for the top flat. And waited. Finally, it crackled.

  ‘What?’ a male voice said.

  ‘Stedman? Harris Stedman?’

  ‘Christ, keep your voice down! Who’s that?’

  ‘I got this address from Regan—’
r />   ‘Shut it,’ the voice screeched, making the intercom squeal.

  The door clicked. Lily pushed through it and climbed to the top floor. There on the landing, a door stood open and behind it was a brown-haired man not much taller than Lily. He was thin, with a ferret-like face. He jerked his head to the interior of the flat, looking annoyed. Lily walked past him.

  The flat was not what she expected. It was neat and clean, with large white sofas and arty pictures on the walls. Through the glass doors was a roof terrace. In front of the doors was a vast desk covered in paper, scalpels, a printer and what looked like an improvised laminator.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Lily turned. ‘My name’s Lily. My father is representing a client you made fake documents for.’

  ‘So?’ His eyes skipped to the desk.

  ‘Those documents allowed her to stay in this country as a trafficked individual. While under the control of her traffickers, she was forced to commit various crimes, which she’s being charged with. I need to find the traffickers, so we can have them prosecuted, not her.’

  ‘And this would be my problem how?’ His eyebrows raised.

  ‘You know who they are. And you can’t have missed the case in the news.’

  He stared at her.

  Lily folded her arms. ‘I just need a name, and where to find them.’

  ‘And I just need my business and my neck intact, but thanks.’ He opened the door again.

  Lily pushed it closed. ‘Don’t you care about this woman at all?’

  He looked at her as if she were stupid. ‘If I cared about other people, lady, do you think I would be in this line of work?’

  Lily shrugged. ‘But I need you to do this,’ she said simply.

  ‘What have you got over Lupescar that he’s giving my name away?’ He looked her up and down. ‘Or is that too obvious a question?’

  Lily put her hands on her hips. ‘Very funny.’

  He folded his arms. ‘It wasn’t a joke. I need to be able to trust people.’

  ‘You can trust me.’