Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [104]
‘Really,’ I said.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I thought we were friends.’
I was going to say something comforting, but that was strangled off when Beverley shot out of the one-way system by the Oasis Sports Centre and turned into Endell Street without, as far as I could see, any reference to or indeed awareness of other road users.
‘Lesley is your friend,’ I said. ‘Henry Pyke is not.’
The thank-God-it’s-Friday crowds had spilled out of the pubs and cafés onto the pavements, and for a few hours London had the proper street culture that the people who own villas in Tuscany keep calling for. The narrowing road and the prospect of hitting a pedestrian caused even Beverley to take her foot momentarily off the accelerator.
‘Watch the people,’ I said.
‘Ha,’ said Beverley. ‘People shouldn’t drink and walk at the same time.’
We swerved round the mini-roundabout on Long-acre, slowed in deference to another crowd of drinkers outside the Kemble’s Head on the corner and accelerated down Bow Street. I couldn’t see any police cars, fire engines or other signs of an emergency outside the Opera House, so I figured we might have got there in time. Beverley pulled into a disabled parking space opposite the Opera House.
‘Keep the motor running,’ I said as I got out. I wasn’t really anticipating a fast getaway but I figured it would keep her in the car and out of trouble. ‘If the police try to move you on, give them my name and say I’m inside on official business.’
‘Because of course that’ll work,’ said Beverley, but she stayed in the Mini which was the main thing. I trotted across the road to the main entrance and pushed through one of the glass and mahogany doors. The interior atrium was cool and dark after the sunlight; manikins were mounted in glass cases by the doors, decked out in costumes from previous performances. As I went through the second, interior set of doors into the lobby I was met by a sudden rush of people coming the other way. I looked quickly about to see what could be driving them but, although they were moving briskly and with a sense of urgency, there wasn’t any panic. Then I twigged: it was the interval, and these were the smokers heading outside for a cigarette.
Sure enough, there were crowds of people streaming out of the doors marked stalls and heading left, presumably towards the loos and the bar – probably in that order. I stayed where I was and let the people go past – Seawoll at least, because of the sheer size of the man, should be easy to spot. Sartorially I was disappointed; everyone was dressed expensively but it was all smart casual with the occasional evening dress to relieve the boredom – I’d expected better of my betters. The crowd thinned and I merged with the flow and let it carry me left, past the cloakroom and up a flight of stairs into the main bar. According to the sign this was the Balconies Restaurant, and as far as I could see had been created by throwing several metric tons of stripped pine into a Victorian cast-iron greenhouse. Designed to serve the interval crowd, when a thousand lightly stunned punters would rush in and attempt to drown out the singing with gin and tonics, it featured large open spaces and plain padded furniture with clean brass fittings. Under the vaulted arch of its white iron and glass roof it was as if IKEA had been hired to refit St Pancras Station. If Thomas the Tank Engine had been Swedish, then his living room would have looked just like this.
Although he probably would have been a lot less cheerful.
There was a balcony six metres up that ran all the way around the room, wide enough for chairs and tables laid with white linen and silver. The crowds were thinner up there, presumably because most people had headed straight for the bar and as many gins as they could chuck down their necks before