Ben Aaronovitch - Rivers of London

‘Beverley,’ I said. ‘We’re in deep shit.’ I told her about the fire.

The mother frowned. She was the linguist in the family. ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.

The flames were clearly reflected in the shop windows and the blank silver faces of the manikins, so it seemed pointless to lie. She looked at her children and then back at me. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

I looked at Beverley.

‘Can’t you do any magic?’ she asked.

It was definitely getting hotter. ‘Can’t you?’

‘You got to say it’s okay,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘That’s the agreement,’ said Beverly. ‘You’ve got to say it’s okay.’

One of the window panes cracked. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Do what you have to do.’

Beverley threw herself down and pressed her cheek to the floor. I saw her lips moving. I felt something pass through me, a sensation like rain, like the sound of boys playing football in the distance, the smell of suburban roses and newly washed cars, evening television flickering through net curtains.

‘What is she doing?’ asked the mother. ‘She is praying for us, yes?’

‘Sort of,’ I said.

‘Sshh,’ said Beverley, sitting up. ‘I’m listening.’

‘What for?’

Something flew in through the window, pinged off the wall and fell into my lap — it was the cover off a fire hydrant. Beverley saw me examining it and gave me an apologetic shrug.

‘What exactly have you done?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve never actually tried this before.’

The smoke thickened, forcing us face down onto the mercifully cool stone of the shop floor. The middle German child was crying. His mother put her arm around him and pulled him close. The youngest, a girl, seemed remarkably stoical. Her blue eyes were fixed on mine. The father twitched. He was wondering whether he should at least get up and try do something heroic, however futile. I knew exactly how he felt. The last of the window panes shattered, glass pattering down on my back. I breathed in smoke, coughed, breathed in more smoke. It didn’t feel like enough of a breath. I realised that this was it — I was going to die.

Beverley started laughing.

Suddenly it was a hot Sunday morning under unexpectedly blue skies. There’s a smell of hot plastic and dust as the paddling pool is rescued from the garden shed and the kids, dressed in swimsuits and underwear, are bouncing up and down with excitement. Dad is red-faced from blowing up the pool and Mum is yelling to be careful, and the hose is run in through the kitchen window and jammed onto the cold tap. The hose gives a dusty cough and all the children stare at its mouth …

The floor began to vibrate, and I had just enough time to think What the fuck when a wall of water hit the south side of the shop. The door was smashed open and before I could grab hold of something I was lifted by the surge and slammed against the ceiling. The air was blown out of my lungs by the impact, and I had to bite down on the instinct to draw in a breath. For a moment the flood cleared enough for me to catch sight of Beverley floating serenely amid the debris before the water drained out of the shop fast enough to slap me into the floor again.

The father, with more presence of mind than I’d shown, had wedged himself and his family against the counter. They assured me they were all okay, except for the youngest who wanted to do it again. Beverly stood in the middle of the shop and did the air punch.

‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Let’s see Tyburn do something like that.’

Beverley’s euphoria lasted long enough for us to get our German family to the nearest ambulance. As far as I could tell from looking around while we walked out, Beverley’s wave of water had started somewhere near the centre of the covered market and rolled outwards to flood the Piazza to a depth of ten centimetres. I reckoned that at a stroke Beverley had quadrupled the amount of property damage done that night, but I kept that thought to myself. She hadn’t managed to extinguish the fire on the roof, but even as we sidled away, the London Fire Brigade were moving in to finish it off.

Beverley got strangely agitated when she saw the firemen, and practically dragged me up James Street and away from the market. The riot seemed to be all over bar the media witch hunt, and TSG officers in full riot gear stood around in groups discussing baton technique and reattaching their ID numbers.

We sat down on the plinth of the sundial column at Seven Dials and watched the emergency vehicles roaring past, Beverley flinching every time a fire engine went by. Still soaking wet, we were beginning to chill despite the warm evening. Beverley took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m in so much trouble,’ she said.

I put my arm around her and she took the opportunity to slip one of her cold hands under my shirt and warm it against my ribs. ‘Thanks a lot,’ I said.

‘Just shut up and think warm thoughts,’ she said, as if that were hard with her breasts brushing up against my side.

‘So you burst a few pipes,’ I said. ‘How much trouble can you be in?’

‘Those were fire hydrants I messed with, which means the cult of Neptune’s going to be pissed,’ she said.

‘Cult of Neptune?’

‘London Fire Brigade,’ she said.

‘The London Fire Brigade are worshippers of the god Neptune?’

‘Not officially, no,’ she said. ‘But you know — sailors, Neptune, it’s a natural fit.’

‘The Fire Brigade are sailors?’

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘But in the old days when they were looking for disciplined guys who knew about water, ropes, ladders and didn’t freak out at altitude. On the other hand, you had a lot of sailors looking for a nice steady career on dry land — marriage made in heaven.’

‘Still, Neptune,’ I said. ‘Roman god of the sea?’

Beverley laid her head on my shoulder. Her hair was wet, but I wasn’t complaining. ‘Sailors are superstitious,’ she said. ‘Even the religious ones know you got to have a little respect for the King of the Deeps.’

‘Have you met Neptune?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘There’s no such person. Anyway, I feel bad about the hydrants, but it’s Thames Water I’m worried about.’

‘Don’t tell me,’I said. ‘Worshippers of dread Cthulhu.’

‘I don’t think they’re very religious at all, but you don’t piss off people who can release raw sewage into your headwaters,’ she said.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen your river.’

Beverley turned and made herself comfortable against my chest. ‘I’ve got a place off the Kingston bypass,’ she said. ‘It’s just a semi, but my garden goes all the way down to the water.’ She lifted her head until her lips were brushing mine. ‘We could go swimming.’

We kissed. She tasted of strawberries and cream and chewing gum. God knows where we might have gone after that, except a Range Rover screeched to a stop right by us and Beverley disengaged so fast I got lip burn.

A stocky woman in jeans got out of the Range Rover and marched over. She was dark-skinned with a round expressive face that was, on this occasion, expressing a high degree of annoyance. ‘Beverley,’ she said, barely registering my presence. ‘You are in so much trouble — get in the car.’

Beverley sighed, kissed me on the cheek and got up to meet her sister. I scrambled up myself, ignoring the pain from my bruised back.

‘Peter,’ said Beverley, ‘this is my sister, Fleet.’

Fleet gave me a critical once-over. She looked to be in her early thirties, built like a sprinter — broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted with big muscular thighs. She wore a tweed jacket over a black polo neck, her hair trimmed down to a thick stubble. Looking at her gave me a weird sense of familiarity, like you get when you meet a minor celebrity whose name you can’t remember.