Broken Homes

Father Thames on our right with Ash and a couple of followers beyond him. Beside me on my left was Oberon, Uncle Bailiff and some guys I didn’t recognise.
    The women – thank god the girls were all tucked up asleep – lined up three or four metres behind us – thus saving our blushes.
    ‘All right boys, unsheathe your weapons,’ called Oxley and there was the sound of zips and unzipping and cursing as some fumbled with buttons. ‘On my mark. Wait for it. Wait for it!’ called Oxley to groans and catcalls.
    ‘Loose,’ shouted Oxley and we did.
    I ain’t going to say where I came in the pack except to mention that it was embarrassing. But I obviously hadn’t had the chance to put away the pints like some of my competitors. Thankfully most of it was beer because a wall of steam arose in front of us and could have been a lot ranker than it was. It came down to Oxley, Oberon and the Old Man himself. The two younger men ran out at the same time with yells and groans.
    Father Thames, as casual as a gentleman in a pub urinal, glanced left and right down the line to ensure he had our full attention before cutting himself off in midstream and calmly buttoning himself up.
    ‘Well, what did you expect, boys?’ he said into the silence. ‘I am the master of the source, after all.’
    I woke up in the back seat of the Asbo and, despite that, I felt surprisingly good. Fucking wonderful in fact. I got out of the car and stepped into warm early morning sunlight. Immediately suspicious, I powered up my mobile and used to it to check the date – it showed what I expected – I hadn’t spent fifty years in enchanted faerie revelry. But in my line of work you can’t be too careful.
    Still, the faerie fair had vanished with the morning sun, leaving behind drifts of rubbish and muddy rectangular footprints pressed into the lawns. Just like a big dirty river that had burst its banks and left its mark on the dry land. It was in a state, but fortunately I’m a man who has a mum who knows a woman who runs a company that specialises in cleaning up after rock festivals. The woman who ran it said that if you’ve ever done clean-up at Glastonbury then nothing short of highgrade nuclear waste will ever scare you again.
    Her people arrived and parked in the areas recently vacated by the TSG. Most of them were young Somalis, Central Africans, Albanians and Romanians with a smattering of Poles, Turks and Kurds. They were dressed in boiler suits, steel toecapped boots and carried shovels and rakes and implements of destruction.
    Lesley looked cheerfully oblivious, curled up in the front seat, so I left her to it and went in search of coffee and bacon sandwiches. When I got back she was up and waving at me from the eastern edge of the park where we’d held the pissing contest.
    ‘What the fuck happened here?’ she asked.
    In front of where the Old Man of the River had stood flowers had bloomed. Nightingale named them when he rolled up to join us, Wild Angelica, Red Clover, Yellow Melilot, Wild Mignonette, Garlic Mustard, Scabious, blue spherical Devil’s-bit and tall stands of Red Valerian. He seemed delighted and said he would return to pick a bouquet for Molly.
    ‘But first we need to deal with those railings,’ he said.
    Despite the sunshine the wind coming up the river from the east was brisk. Uncle Bailiff had at least left the cut sections of the handrails in a neat stack and secured them with plastic ties. Me and Nightingale each took an end of the first section and lifted it into the gap. Nightingale put his hand around the join and spoke quite a long spell, fifth or sixth order I guessed. I felt a vibration like a tubular bell being struck neatly with a hammer and a tingle in my hands where I held my end of the rail and then a warmth.
    ‘I haven’t done this in a long time,’ he said.
    ‘Is this part of the weird way of the Weylands?’ I asked. It wasn’t exactly fashioning a wizard’s staff, but it was the same line of work. The metal was getting warmer and I was just wishing that I had a pair of proper workman’s gloves when Nightingale released his end. I slid my grip over so that he could take hold of my end and watched closely as he repeated the spell. Lux was in there but also formae and modifiers that I didn’t recognise.
    ‘Which reminds me,’ said Nightingale. ‘We must continue with our own blacksmithing.’ He released his grip, leaving an orange glow in the rough shape of his fingers on the