Broken Homes

said. ‘Whether we could do the same thing.’
    Beverley stared at me in what looked like amazement and then said she didn’t know.
    ‘It worked for Ash,’ I said.
    ‘But the Thames is his river,’ she said.
    ‘I thought that bit was your mum’s.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Beverley. ‘But it’s also his dad’s.’
    ‘It can’t be both at once,’ I said.
    ‘Yeah, it can, Peter,’ she said crossly. ‘Things can be two things at once, in fact things can be three things at once. We’re not like you. The world works differently for us. I’m sorry about Lesley’s face, but you go ducking her in the river and all she’s going to get is blood poisoning.’ She took a step back. ‘And you shouldn’t care whether she has a face or not,’ she said.
    ‘She cares,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
    ‘I can’t help you, Peter,’ she said. ‘I would if I could – honest.’
    My back-up phone, the one I don’t mind risking around potential magic, sounded a message alert.
    ‘I’ve got to get back,’ I said. ‘You coming?’
    Beverley stared at me as if I was mad.
    ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I’m going to go flood Rotherhithe or something.’
    ‘See you later,’ I said.
    ‘Sure,’ she said. Then she turned and walked away. She didn’t look back.
    I know what you’re thinking. But hindsight is a wonderful thing, it was only a little flood and the property damage was a couple of a million quid tops. And besides, the insurance companies covered most of it.
    I arrived back at the jazz tent just in time to say goodbye to my parents, who were heading home now the set was finished, and Abigail who was getting a lift back with them.
    There was a perceptible change after they left. And not just because the sound system near the Thames path that had been silent in deference to my dad turned on its speakers with a sound like an Airbus A380 clearing its throat. The tourist families with kids were draining away and gaps between the stalls were suddenly full of young men and women, drinking from cans and plastic glasses or openly passing joints back and forth. Me and Lesley knew this crowd of old, or at least the West End Saturday Night version of it. It was our cue to slip back to the Asbo and don the stab resistant and high-visibility raiment of the modern constable. Not to mention the knightly accoutrements of extendable baton, pepper spray and speedy cuffs. I clipped on my airwave and checked to make sure that the ruinously expensive second shift of TSG were awake and on call.
    When the sound system kicked in, it was strictly BBC IX tra playlist. Rough enough for the upriver crowd with enough proper beats to stop the Londoners from getting restless. Lesley liked it and I could cope, but the couple of times we ran into Nightingale we could see he was suffering. We took turns to hit the improvised dance-floor at the river end of the park, although the thermal properties of the Metvest means it’s not your ideal club wear.
    At one point I found myself alone by the river watching a three-quarter moon grazing the roof of Charing Cross station. There was traffic humming through the mist, the sky was clear enough that you could almost see a star and I thought I might have heard a scream of outrage coming from the direction of London Bridge. It was long, low and thin and yet shot through with a kind of mad glee, and I might have recognised it. But you know what I reckon? I think I imagined the whole thing.
    The pissing contest took place at three or four in the morning. I’d lost track when even the supernatural amongst us were beginning to wilt. The first I knew of it was when Oberon grabbed my arm and started dragging me to the east side of the park.
    ‘It’s a contest,’ he said when I asked what was going on. ‘And we need you to step up and represent.’
    ‘Represent what?’ I asked.
    ‘The honour of the capital,’ he said.
    ‘Let Lady Ty do that,’ I said. ‘She’s keen enough.’
    ‘Not for this, she’s not,’ said Oberon.
    We picked up a cheering section which included Olympia and Chelsea, goddesses of Counters Creek and the Westbourne and winners of the London-wide heats of I’m A Posh Teenager . . . Get Me an Entitlement five years running.
    ‘Do it for London,’ called Chelsea.
    ‘Aim straight,’ called Olympia.
    ‘What the fuck are we supposed to be doing?’ I asked Oberon again.
    He told me, and I said he had to be fucking kidding.
    So we lined up with me and Oxley in the middle,