Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [130]
‘I know,’ said Mr Punch. ‘Isn’t the universe wonderful?’
‘Where’s Henry now?’
‘He’s in your girlfriend’s head having carnal knowledge of her brain,’ said Mr Punch, and then threw back his head and shrieked with laughter. I lunged but the slippery bastard turned on his heel and legged it down one of the narrow alleys that connected to Drury Lane.
I took off after him, and I’m not saying that I could feel the spirit of every London thief taker flowing through me as I ran, but consider – we did start outside Bow Street Magistrates Court, and I could no more have not chased him than I could have stopped breathing.
I burst out of the alley onto a winter’s Drury Lane, pedestrians bundled into anonymity, steam rising from the horses and the men who carried the sedan-chairs. In the rush of cold and snow the city smelled clean and fresh and about to be rid of one irritating revenant spirit. Spring came with a stuttering stop-start motion swiftness, and Mr Punch led me down grimy side streets that I knew didn’t exist any more until finally we passed a newly built St Clements and onto Fleet Street. The great fire of London went by too fast for me to register it, just a blast of hot air as if from the open door of an oven. One minute the top of Fleet Street was dominated by St Paul’s, and the next the dome had been replaced by the squared-off Norman tower of the old cathedral. To a Londoner like me it was a heretical sight – like suddenly finding a stranger in your bed. The street itself was narrower and crowded by narrow-fronted half-timbered houses with overhanging upper floors. We were back in the time of Shakespeare, and I have to say it didn’t smell nearly as bad as the nineteenth century. Mr Punch was running for his afterlife, but I was gaining.
London was also shrinking. Gaps were opening in the buildings on either side. I could see green pastures with hayricks and herds of cows. Things were losing focus around me. Ahead the River Fleet appeared, and suddenly I was dipping down to cross a stone bridge, while on the other side of the valley there were walls – the ancient walls of London. I only just made it through Ludgate before the actual gates had grown back and barred my way. The old cathedral was long gone; we’d missed the Anglo-Saxons and what modern go-ahead historians like to call the sub-Roman period, and paganism was back in fashion.
If I’d been thinking about it, I probably should have stopped and had a good look around, answered a few important questions about life in Londinium, but I didn’t because that’s when I closed the last couple of metres on Mr Punch and rugby-tackled the dead fucker to the ground.
‘Mr Punch,’ I said. ‘You’re nicked.’
‘Bastard,’ he said. ‘Black Irish bastard dog.’
‘You’re not making yourself any friends here, Punch,’ I said. I got him back on his feet with both his arms jacked far enough up behind his back that he wasn’t going anywhere without at least a broken elbow.
He stopped squirming and turned his head until he could watch me with one eye. ‘So you got me, copper,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do with me now?’
It was a good question, and a sudden savage pain in the hollow of my throat reminded me that I was running out of time.
‘Let’s see what the hanging magistrate makes of you,’ I said.
‘De Veil?’ asked Mr Punch. ‘Yes please, I’m sure he’ll be delicious.’
Revenant, spirit of riot and rebellion, I thought, you idiot. He eats ghosts. I needed something stronger. Brock had written that the genii locorum, the gods and spirits of place, were stronger than ghosts. Was there a god of justice? And where would I find him – or maybe her? Then I remembered: a statue of a woman stands atop the dome of the Old Bailey. In one hand she holds a sword and a set of scales. I didn’t know if there was a goddess of justice or not, but I was willing to bet big money that Mr Punch would know.
‘Why don’t we go and ask the nice lady of the Old Bailey?’ I suggested.
He tensed, and I knew I’d bet right. He struggled again and slammed his head back, aiming for my chin, but that isn’t exactly