Broken Homes

embankment simultaneously and stopped. Behind them the superstructures were darker shadows in the murk.
    Then the God and Goddess of the River Thames made their presence known.
    The force of them rolled in like a wave and a confusion of images and smells. Coal smoke and brick dust, cardamom and ginger, damp straw and warm hops, pub piano, wet cotton and sloe gin, tonic water and rose petals, sweat and blood. The waiting onlookers went down on their knees around us, the showmen slowly with respect, the tourists with looks of utter surprise. Even Abigail went down until she realised that Nightingale, Lesley and me were still standing. I watched her face set into an expression that is discussed in hushed tones wherever teachers and social workers gather together, and she struggled back to her feet. She glared at me as if it was my fault.
    The diesel engines stopped and there was silence – not even Abigail spoke. No wonder the showmen were kneeling in respect. PT Barnum would have banged his head twice on the ground in admiration.
    Lady Ty emerged from the mist first. By her side was a wiry man with a thin face and a shock of brown hair – Oxley, the Old Man of the River’s cunning right hand.
    They stopped at the point where the pier met the embankment and Oxley threw back his head and shouted something that sounded like Welsh but was probably much, much older.
    ‘The Queen and King of the River stand at your gates,’ bellowed Lady Ty in her best Dragon’s Den minion-cowing voice.
    Oxley shouted, or chanted, it’s hard to tell with these Celtic languages, another phrase and again Lady Ty translated.
    ‘The Queen and King of the River stand at your gates – come forward to receive them.’
    I felt a warmth on the back of my neck like an unexpected sunbeam and turned to see a young girl of no more than nine, in an antique silk jacket of brilliant yellow – Imperial Yellow she proudly told me later, and genuine Chinese silk – hair twisted up into a fountain of silver and gold thread over a round brown face with a big mouth set in a Cheshire Cat grin.
    She came skipping down the central path, bringing with her the warmth of the sun. The yellow silk glowed, driving back the mist and with her came the smell of salt and the crash of gunpowder and the crack of canvas under strain.
    ‘Who’s that?’ whispered Lesley.
    ‘Neckinger,’ said Nightingale.
    And I thought of myself studying my formae and my Latin and Blackstone’s guide to procedure . . . and all the time there were powers like this young girl among us who could bring spring into the world just by her presence.
    On the other hand, the effect was diluted a little bit by the fact that I noticed she was wearing black cotton leggings and a pair of Kicker boots.
    She danced up to Oxley and Lady Ty, spread her arms, and bowed deeply from the waist. Then she bobbed back up and fidgeted impatiently from foot to foot just like a normal child starring in her first nativity play.
    ‘We welcome the King and Queen of the River,’ she declaimed, stepped between the two adults and, seizing their hands, pulled them onto the embankment. Even Lady Ty, who’d been going for po-faced dignity, had to smile.
    ‘Peter, Lesley,’ whispered Nightingale urgently. ‘Check the perimeter. And take Abigail with you.’
    Nightingale had insisted on this perimeter sweep at the planning stage, but I found I was reluctant to miss the actual debarkation. Given that your actual gods were going to walk amongst us, it seemed disrespectful not to stay and pay our respects. And maybe do a bit of cheering and, you know, possibly a little bit of a genuflect, just to show willing . . .
    ‘Perimeter sweep,’ said Nightingale in his best command voice. ‘All three of you, now!’
    ‘I wanted to watch the show,’ hissed Abigail as we dragged her away, but there was a hint of fear behind her usual belligerence. I set a brisk pace towards the Oxo Tower on the basis that Nightingale was obviously worried, and anything that worried Nightingale wasn’t something you wanted worrying you.
    We’d gone about ten metres when there was a great roar behind us, like what you get when the home side scores in injury time and the fans all know that it’s all over now. Light exploded through the mist at our backs and, although we probably shouldn’t have, we all turned round to watch.
    It looked like a late rock show or early Spielberg – fingers of golden light spilling through the trees and the