The Alchemy Press Book of Urban Mythic

by Unknown

  There were other bits of the job he didn’t like. Most of it, in fact. But he knew he was lucky, privileged. Other people would kill to have his chances.

  He’d been told so often enough.

  This was what he’d chosen, and he was good at it. Not great – he was never going to be in the gold-plated-yacht club, and he had to admit, to himself if no-one else, it was because he just didn’t care enough.

  ***

  They ended up after work in the Duck and Gun again. I really hate this pub, Michael thought. Something about it seemed to encourage abrasiveness.

  Not that Jack needed a lot of encouragement. ‘Yo Nige!’ he yelled. ‘Old fruit old chum, come over here and drink with the plebs, you high-class fart.’

  Nigel rolled his eyes, but joined them. ‘Jack, you’re so fucking crude. You might be a pleb, Michael isn’t.’

  ‘Well excuse me for breathing.’

  Nigel said something else which Michael, craning his neck to peer around the crowd, missed. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Oy oy, our Mikey’s on the hunt,’ Jack said. ‘Thought you got your end away last night.’

  ‘Last night?’ Nigel said. ‘Oh, not her. Seriously, Michael.’

  ‘Her who?’ Jack said.

  ‘Some arty-looking bint who was hanging around Michael in the pub. I hope you didn’t get drunk and babble.’ Nigel’s eyes were chilly as coins.

  ‘We didn’t talk about work,’ Michael said.

  ‘Nothing wrong with arty-farty bints,’ Jack said. ‘Had a few in my time. Mental, most of ’em, but fantastic shags.’

  ‘Not exactly the sort to take home to father, though?’ Nigel said.

  ‘Who’s taking ‘em home to father? The old bugger can get his own,’ Jack said, and snorted laughter.

  Nigel disappeared to the gents. Jack nudged Michael in the ribs. ‘Cheer up, Mikey-boy. Might never happen.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Michael said, surprising himself.

  ‘Bollocks. You’re one of the rising stars, mate. Inner circle in no time.’

  That hadn’t been what he’d meant, hadn’t been the reason for the sudden leaden despair rising about him like a liquid coffin. What had he meant? He wasn’t sure.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘what do you make of the Fremantle Investments thing?’

  ‘What d’you mean? Nice little earner, that was. Someone been giving you grief about it?’

  ‘No, not really. No.’ After all, what did it matter? No-one had actually been hurt, had they? It wasn’t a war, or anything. A few homes lost, but that happened, didn’t it? And it wasn’t as though he’d been personally responsible for any of it. ‘Just wondered about the firm’s reputation, you know.’

  ‘Well, there’s that new charity initiative they’re doing. Feeding the homeless and all that. That’ll help smooth things over.’

  ‘It’s a story, isn’t it?’ Michael said. ‘They’re trying to create their own folklore.’

  ‘Well, it’s good PR, if that’s what you mean,’ Jack said.

  Nigel reappeared, tucking his phone away. ‘Jack, your round, you cheap pikey.’

  Michael’s phone rang.

  ‘You are popular,’ Jack said. ‘Leave some for the rest of us.’

  ‘It’s the old man,’ Michael said. ‘I’d better take it outside.’

  A dramatic sunset was unravelling over the rooftops, giving the upper windows a bloody flare. Great sprawling streaks of crimson and slate. People hurried by, chatting on their phones, ignoring the apocalyptically beautiful sky.

  ‘Hello Pops.’

  ‘Michael. You free tomorrow evening? I thought Simpsons.’

  ‘Of course. Seven-thirty?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘How’s mother?’

  ‘Fine. Fussing over the dogs.’ A brisk snort, as though something was trapped in the back of his throat. The nearest his father ever got to a laugh. ‘See you then.’

  Michael pocketed his phone, watching the sky; and glimpsed a human figure on a roof, briefly silhouetted against the light.

  Shanny?

  It couldn’t be, but it was. He was utterly convinced of it.

  Parkour?

  It hadn’t looked like the joyous movement he’d seen in parkour videos. It had looked … he couldn’t put his finger on what it was, he’d only seen her for a second. But somehow it had looked as though she were hunting.

  His feet took him towards the building, still staring at the roofline, searching. People muttered past him, barged and swore. He ignored them.

  The building was just another glass and concrete box, a glossy two-storey foyer containing a full sized tree that might be real but looked plastic, a hypermodern underlit reception desk, huge ugly abstract paintings in colours of blood and tar. Everywhere has stories. But if this place had any stories, they’d been painted over, modernised away.

  The gleamingly-bland receptionist hovered her hand over the buzzer, looking quizzical. Of course, he looked the type to be let in. Just one thing.

  But what would he do? Say ‘Excuse me, I think this person I fancy is on your roof,’? That would go well. If he was wrong he’d be an idiot, if he was right, he’d get Shanny into trouble.

  He gave the receptionist a ‘Sorry, brain elsewhere,’ smile and turned away.

  He took his phone back out. Shanny.

  This might be a very bad time to ring her.

  You should just delete that number. He could hear the voices – his father’s, Nigel’s. Look at what she’s got you doing, wandering about staring at the sunset, looking for phantoms. She’s trouble.

  As though summoned, Nigel appeared in front of him. ‘There you are. Thought you’d been hit by a car or something. You know you left your jacket in the pub?’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Long call.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Come on then, Jack’s getting them in. He’s a dickhead, but his wallet’s in the right place.’ Nigel snorted.

  I am so tired of people who laugh at their own jokes, Michael thought.

  He finished his beer quickly and left, pleading an early start to make up for his lateness. He paused for a moment, glancing upwards; then caught Nigel looking at him through the pub window and hurried towards the underground.

  Bank station was unusually empty. The floor snapped under his shoes like cracking ice. The white tiled corridors seemed to slant at unpleasant angles, making him feel drunker than his couple of pints would account for.

  Must be because I never see it outside rush hour, Michael thought. Actually, I don’t ever use it outside rush hour.

  It was true. When he went for a drink after work, he always walked to Mansion House, or St Paul’s, or Moorgate, even when it took him out of his way, and meant changing lines to get home. When had he stopped using Bank in the evenings? And why?

  He didn’t know. He stood with his back against the wall, anxiously watching the indicators. Four minutes to the next train. God, it seemed a long time. He checked his watch, willed it to move faster.

  A stooped young man with lank hair emerged from one of the entrances, a dog at his heels. The man – no more than a boy, really, Michael realised – wore an ancient combat jacket, shapeless jeans frayed around the hems, trainers that had once been white. He huddled onto one of the benches. The dog shuffled and whined. His owner muttered reassuringly, stroked its head with dirt-grimed fingers.

  The dog shivered.

  You and me both, mate, Michael thought. Tepid air huffed against his cheek, he jumped and peered into the depths of the tunnel as though expecting something far worse than a train.

  The young man stood up, and shuffled forwards. Michael, following some odd but undeniable impulse, edged closer, half afraid the boy would think he was going to beat him up or proposition him.

  The dog whined. It was a small, terrierish sort of dog, with a new bright blue collar. Its coat was a rich chestnut. It looked far healthier than the boy.

  The tunnel growle
d.

  The boy shifted. Michael grabbed him by the shoulder, clamping down hard, feeling damp cloth and bones too close to the surface. The train roared into the station, sending scraps of paper scuttling away.

  ‘Wha?’ The boy looked bemused. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry, I thought…’ Michael took his hand off the boy’s shoulder. He could smell him, old sweat and the mouldy reek of clothes that never had the chance to dry out. ‘You looked a bit close to the edge. Sorry.’

  The boy shook his head, his greasy hair flipping, but it wasn’t a denial. It looked like someone trying to wake up.

  The dog pawed at the boy’s shin, and the boy’s eyes changed, suddenly alert and anxious. Jesus, he was young, he couldn’t be more than fourteen. He bent down and picked up the dog. ‘S’all right, Sammy,’ he said. ‘S’all right.’ Without another word, he got on the train. Michael got into the next carriage. His heart was pounding, he had the beginnings of a vicious headache. He collapsed hard into the seat.

  What the hell was that about?

  Something had made him grab the boy. Had he bent his knees? Leaned forward? Nothing that obvious. But there had been something. And for a moment Michael had been utterly convinced he was going to jump.

  Perhaps he was just overtired and a little drunker than he thought, and his head was full of nonsense. Anyway. The boy was on the train, now, with his dog. That was all right. Well, it wasn’t, the poor sod was obviously homeless, but it was as all right as it was going to get.

  I should have given him something, he thought, just before he fell into a thick, unpleasant doze. By the time he woke up, as always, one stop before his own, the odd little encounter had already taken on the quality of a dream.

  ***

  Simpson’s didn’t change much, although now smoking was banned, the rich and bloody fug of roast beef and gravy was unadulterated with anything other than warm hints of pudding and whiffs of less stolidly British fare from the Knight’s Bar.

  Pops also changed little. He and Simpson’s both had the quality of being, not diminished by the passage of years, but polished to a fine patina.

  ‘Well,’ Pops said, as soon as the wine had received his approval, and the pad-footed waiter had left. ‘Heard good things about your work, recently. Firm’s doing well.’

  ‘Yes, it is. We’re lucky.’

  ‘Not luck, m’boy.’ Forbes-Lathrop Senior folded a piece of rare beef onto his fork, and pointed it at Michael. ‘Good management. Concentration. Haven’t allowed themselves to be distracted.’

  ‘Distracted?’

  ‘All this nonsense in the papers. It’ll blow over. Always does. The old things go on, the old ways matter.’

  Michael found himself slightly hypnotised by the lump of bloody meat his progenitor was waving at him. ‘Old ways?’ he said. ‘Holland Mitchelson Wayne is a pretty modern firm, they didn’t incorporate until the 90’s.’

  His father stuffed the piece of meat into his mouth, chewed vigorously, swallowed. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Got to stay aware of the surface structure. But it’s important to keep other things in mind. That’s why they’re thriving. They’ve learned. Firms come and go, individuals come and go, but those with the right knowledge, the right attitude, they endure. And the homeless initiative, yes, very neat.’

  Michael was on the verge of asking his father if he felt all right. There was something slightly off about his conversation, though the old boy certainly looked as hearty as ever, his hair a gleaming silvered pelt, his eyes bright. ‘Father…’

  ‘Yes?’ The older man took a sip of wine, and a drop of red caught in the corner of his mouth. He dabbed at it with a napkin.

  ‘How are you finding retirement?’ Coward, Michael thought.

  Oh come on, what am I going to say? You’re talking weirdly, Pops, are you going a bit funny? He stared down at his plate, half-afraid his father would read the thought in his eyes.

  ‘Not so bad. Joys of the internet, I keep my hand in, you know. A bit of trading here and there. Come up to town, see some old friends.’ He flashed a glance at Michael. ‘Keep an eye on things.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Hmm. So. Any women on the scene? Your mother’s making noises about grandchildren.’

  ‘Nothing serious. Busy, you know.’

  ‘Waiting for the right one, eh? Nothing wrong with a healthy bit of relaxation, of course. Just needs to be the right sort. And you’re at an important career stage.’

  Michael took another forkful of the rich, tender lamb he no longer really wanted. ‘So I understand.’ That’s a story, too, he thought. Young man comes to London and makes his fortune…

  ‘Maybe it’s time things moved on a bit.’ His father leaned forward, tapped his wrist with the handle of his fork. ‘I’ve still got a favour or two I can call in.’

  ‘Really, there’s no need…’

  Pops waved his hand expansively. ‘Nonsense. And no wishy-washy stuff about nepotism, boy. All I’m going to do is see if I can get you a meeting with one of the senior people. It’s a little early, but I think it might help put things back on track.’

  ‘Back on track? I didn’t know they were off,’ Michael said.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. Just time to solidify things. I’ll call you.’

  ‘All right, Pops,’ Michael said, knowing that once his father was set on his own chosen track, there was as much chance of stopping him as if you stood in front of a speeding tube train. You just got crushed. Belatedly, he remembered to add, ‘Thank you.’

  ***

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Hey, Stanny! It’s good to hear from you. How are things?’ Michael leaned back in his armchair, smiling.

  ‘You saw me.’

  For a moment he was bemused, then he remembered the figure silhouetted against a flaming sky. ‘It was you? I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘I said you noticed things. Can we meet up?’

  ‘Of course, if you’d like … I mean, yes, I’d love to. When? Saturday?’

  ‘Could it be tomorrow? Lunchtime?’

  He blinked at the phone. ‘Um, sure. I won’t be able to stay out long, though, I’m afraid. An evening would be better.’

  ‘I know. It’s not … look, I hate doing this over the phone. I’ll tell you when I see you.’

  ***

  ‘It’s risky,’ Michael said, staring at the figures.

  ‘Great return, though,’ Jack said.

  ‘All the same … who are these people? Lowes? I get the feeling I’ve heard the name.’

  ‘You probably have. Technical firm. Biggo buckos. Look, think about it, just not for too long.’

  ‘All right, Jack, thanks.’

  He left for lunch feeling uneasy. Lowes would be a straightforward investment, nothing the regulators could possibly object to, but…

  Shanny had asked him to meet her at a tiny sandwich bar a good mile from the office. She was sitting outside. It was a cool day, and she was swathed in rainbow layers of wool, bright against the grey afternoon. Two plates with wrapped sandwiches and two thick white tea-mugs stood in front of her.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, sitting down.

  ‘Hey. I got you a sandwich, I hope it’s OK. I know you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Sure, thanks. Let me…’ he got his wallet out.

  She shook her head, put her hand on his wrist. She had half a dozen braided strands around her own, red, blue, purple, orange. ‘Listen, Michael, I need to ask you something.’

  Her fingers were warm on the bare flesh below his cuff. The cold had flushed her cheeks pink, her lips were anxiously parted.

  ‘That place where you work,’ she said. ‘Have you noticed anything odd?’

  He felt a hollow dropping sensation in his stomach and snatched his hand away. Nigel had been right all along.

  I’m waiting for someone, she’d said.

  But then she’d said she was checking the pub out.

  He got up. ‘I’d better go.’

  �
��What? Oh, crap, what did I say? Look, you probably think I’m nuts but…’

  ‘No, I just think you’re a journalist.’

  ‘A journalist?’ She looked so startled he paused. ‘Why would you think I was a journalist?’

  ‘Who were you waiting for, in the pub?’

  ‘All right. I wasn’t. I told you, I was checking the place. It’s what I do.’

  ‘What are you, a health inspector?’

  She sighed, and closed her eyes. ‘Not precisely. But I am not a journalist.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Lowes?’ Michael said.

  ‘Lowes?’

  ‘A technical company. They make … I don’t know.’

  ‘No. What has that to do with anything? Look, Michael…’

  ‘You’ve got five minutes, then I’m going back to the office.’

  ‘Just tell me if you’ve seen or felt anything odd.’

  ‘Felt anything?’

  ‘Yes!’ She waved her hands. ‘You know. Hairs on the back of your neck going up. Angry or depressed for no reason. Like you’re being watched.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Bank station. Your building’s half over it, you know.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, it’s down the street.’

  ‘Part of the station runs right under part of your building. And there’s something wrong with Bank. I told you.’

  He thought of the boy, his terrified dog. But this was all mad. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘You shouldn’t go back there.’

  ‘Oh now really.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ She might be mad as a fish, but she certainly looked serious. ‘There’s something really bad around there. I like you. I don’t want you to get … hurt.’

  ‘That’s…’ His phone rang.

  It was Nigel. ‘Michael? Where the fuck are you? A meeting’s been called, and your presence is very much required. Get your arse back here. Third floor meeting room, now.’

  ‘On my way,’ he said. He thumbed off the phone. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, I did this all wrong!’ Shanny said, getting up, bumping the table so the tea slopped over the mugs. ‘Please don’t go back there. Michael, there are things…’

  ‘It’s my job. I can’t just not turn up.’