‘Underwear, more like, you perv,’ said Gail.
‘Look, Brendan, I don’t even fancy your Gail—’
‘What?’ His face darkened. ‘Are you saying my wife’s ugly?’
‘No! I’m sorry!’
‘You will be,’ said Brendan, raising his fist.
‘Not me face,’ I protested. ‘I got a gig on tonight—’
For a second his blurry fist obscured all my vision, like some gigantic meteor about to hit the Earth. I closed my eyes, thinking this is it, I’ll never work the clubs again unless they take Elephant Man acts, and then came a quiet and familiar voice from out of the shadows, and everything stopped.
It was Lily, of course. She must have been watching from up the road, and run across when she saw what was happening. She took Brendan firmly by the arm, and he released his grip. Like I said, she’s a big girl.
‘Now then,’ said Lil. ‘What’s the matter?’
Brendan repeated the garbled tale. Gail and Lycra-Boy corroborated it. I stood by, feeling like a prat.
‘And you thought he was after Gail?’ said Lil, when he’d finished.
‘Well, yeah,’ said Lycra-Boy. ‘I mean, who else?’
Lily just looked at him. After a moment or two, so did Gail.
‘You don’t mean—’
Lil nodded. ‘You didn’t know?’
They were all looking at me now. Even Brendan had a smile on his face. ‘Well, come to think of it—’
‘Hang on,’ I said.
I was beginning to get the gist now, and I didn’t like it much. ‘I’m bloody straight, me. Straight as a die. Honest to God—’ Then Lily gave me one of her stares, and I shut up. It wasn’t easy, though; and from the looks on their faces I was sure the news would be all over the village by next week. Dammit. That really would put a crimp on my gig at the Rat – you can practically smell the testosterone in that place. An Elvis act – a short Elvis act – was hard enough – but a queer Elvis act would be downright suicidal.
‘Bugger,’ I said.
Lycra-Boy gave me a sympathetic look. ‘’S all right, man,’ he said. ‘I were in denial for years before I came out.’
‘Aye, he were dead shy,’ said Gail. She was smiling now. Even Brendan was smiling, which was the only good news as far as I was concerned, and his face was looking more like cooked ham than raw. ‘You know, there’s places you can go. Clubs and that. I bet yer act’d go down a bomb at the Pink Panther. And you’d get to meet people’ – she patted my arm – ‘’stead of hanging around the B ’n Q.’
Well, that was that. Words failed me. I gave Lily a reproachful glance, but she was looking the other way. She might have saved my life, I thought bitterly, but what price my self-respect?
So that was the end of the Brendan Mackie case. Well, not quite; there was an unexpected silver lining to the whole fiasco, which paid for my expenses and, to some extent, re-established my credibility. You see, Gail was right about those clubs. Top billing at the Pink Panther on a Friday night – hundred quid a gig, plus tips and drinks – and a rave review in the local press.
Jim Santana, the loudest, proudest Elvis act in the business. That’s what the Morning Post said, and I’ve had it printed on my calling cards. Overnight, I’ve become a kind of celebrity. Suddenly everyone wants to book my act, and Bernie at the Lord Nelson’s offered to reinstate me at twice my usual rate.
Still, as I told Lily the other night at the Cape Cod, this means that now I’ll have to work even harder to keep Harry Stone in the shadows. ‘I’m not in it for the money, Lil,’ I said. ‘Fame’s a fickle friend, as Elvis knew, and I’ll never let those bright lights seduce me. The stage may be my secret passion, but detective work’s my life.’
Lily nodded awkwardly, without meeting my gaze. I have to say I might have been a bit harsh with her recently, what with the comments I’d been getting from Brendan Mackie and the blokes down the pub. In fact it was the first time I’d been in the Cod since the Mackie affair, and I could tell that Lily was worried that her contribution to the fiasco might have soured our special relationship. Her hands were shaking slightly as she checked the temperature of the deep-fat fryer, and there was a flush on her cheeks that was more than just the heat. Seeing that, I felt something begin to thaw inside me. I can never stay mad with Lily for long, you know, and besides, it was Friday night, and that means fish for supper.
‘So what now?’ she asked shyly, putting a haddock in to fry. The deep-fat fryer hissed and slurred as the fish hit the fat, and I felt my mouth begin to water. No one does fish like Lily does; and no one does chips like she does, either; skin on, hand-cut, and just the right size. Salt, vinegar, mushy peas and scraps, all wrapped in hot greasy paper and a copy of the Daily Mail.
It was just one small step away from perfection.
‘Fishcake?’ she said, looking at me.
Elvis would.
‘Yeah, go on then.’
So I did.
The Ghosts of Christmas Present
The narrator of this little tale first made his appearance in ‘There’s No Such Place as Bedford Falls’, and since then I’ve managed to work out some of his story. In some ways, he’s a sad, deluded little man living in a dream world. But underneath, I suspect that he has more integrity than those who consider themselves entirely sane.
IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE on Festive Road. Fifty-five minutes to midnight and it looks as if it’s going to be a white Christmas at last, even though the whiteness only amounts as yet to a few flakes of cloud-dandruff against the sallow sky. But it’s enough. We ghosts have learned to use what magic we can. God knows, there’s little enough left nowadays, but tonight it’s here on Festive Road.
We have an hour. That’s the rule. An hour of magic once a year – and only ever if it snows. Because everything changes under snow: the greasy underlay of city pavements, the rooftops and chimneys, the parked cars, plant pots, milk bottles and parking meters all capped with foamy festive Guinness-heads of white. And now, as the first small flakes begin to settle like daisies on the lawn, you can see them – the Ghosts of Christmas – coming from out of the white-edged shadows, the darkened doorways.
There’s little Miss Gale, who loved all the old films – White Christmas and Wonderful Life, but most of all The Wizard of Oz – looking so young in the falling snow, skipping out from under the yellow streetlights in her red-heeled Dorothy slippers. And there’s old Mr Meadowes, who used to walk to the school playing fields every day with his dog; and Mr Fisher, who was going to be a writer but never found his story; and Sally Anne, who only ever wanted to be pretty and good; and Jim Santana, who loved Elvis with such a passion that he ended up alone. All ghosts now, of course – ghosts like me, like the road itself, springing into wild half-life on Christmas Eve under the snow.
I know what to do. I’ve been doing it since Phyllis left, so many, many years ago. I miss her still, though we never did see eye to eye on the subject of Christmas. Myself, as you know, I’ve always loved the festive season. Queen’s Speech and mince pies. Phil Spector and Wonderful Life. Strings and strings of fairy lights – not just on the tree, but all over the house, the roof, the garden, like some fabulous creeper that keeps on growing.
But Phyl was different. She felt the cold. Dreamed of the sun; worried about what the neighbours might think. And so now it’s just me. Me and the ghosts, and my Wall of Lights with the neon reindeer and the dancing penguins and the garlands and wreaths of every colour under and over the rainbow from here to Bedford Falls.
Here come the ghosts; and the Wall of Lights begins to sparkle. You can only go so far with matches, you know; nowadays we require something more high-tech. There’s something here for everyone – and not just lights, but sprigs of holly; magic lanterns; dancing snowmen with flashing eyes. There’s a big Santa Claus for little Miss Gale, and as she steps close in her red-heeled shoes he jumps out of his sleigh with a lion’s-roar of laughter and a clash of bells. Sally Anne puts a shy foot forward and
is suddenly clad in a gown of many colours, while Jim Santana – dapper again in his sequinned suit, with a quiff as tall and shiny as a black silk topper – holds out his hand for the first dance. There’s mistletoe and mince pies and tiny cups of fruit punch; and all the time the music plays and Mr Fisher tells tales from Dickens, and the Wall of Lights pulses from orange to gold, to emerald, to blue, scattering shards of witchlight across the settling snow.
This is our moment. Under the lights, everyone shines; under the snow, everything is remade. It is falling faster now, and with it comes still more magic as with soft pale fingers it wraps up the past, erasing bad thoughts, bad deeds, bad memories, covering it all with a clean thick blanket of fresh white snow.
That’s why they come here – they, the ghosts. For just an hour, once a year, to be absolved; to begin again; to be, as snow falls and music plays, the people they always meant to be.
Five minutes to midnight. Will she come? Every year I wait for her, and every year I add more and brighter lights to the shining Wall in the hope that this year, she may – my ghost of Christmases past with her sweet face and her laugh like jingle bells. But every year I wait in vain; and it seems to me that the more lights I add, and the more ghosts come to Festive Road, the less chance I have of ever finding my ghost, my Phyllis, whom I lost on Christmas Eve between the Queen’s Speech and Morecambe and Wise; lost stupidly, to an early stroke, and who has spent every Christmas since at the Meadowbank Home, staring wanly – not speaking, not hearing, not quite asleep, but never awake – like a princess resting under snow, like a princess from an evil fairy tale with no magic and no happy ever after.
One minute left. My ghosts sense it; and quietly begin to drift away. One by one I turn off the illuminations; Mr Fisher goes first, merging softly into the shadows; then Sally Anne, shivering as her ball dress turns back to rags. Then Miss Gale, her red shoes slipping on the icy path; then Jim, Mr Meadowes and all the rest; turning back – to tramps, pimps, whores, unwanted – as the fairy lights go out.
I leave just one as the church clock chimes the hour. I always leave the one, you know; even though the doctors have told me again and again that miracles don’t happen, even when it snows. I think I’ll sit out here for a time; the snow is unexpectedly soft, like feathers, and the single light – sky blue, the colour of hope – makes everything beautiful. Snow settles on my arms and face; swaddles me like a sleepy child; drops goodnight kisses on my eyes. And as I drift into the dark I think I can hear Phyl’s voice, quite close.
Merry Christmas, she says.
And suddenly—
just for that moment—
it is.
Wildfire in Manhattan
I wrote this for Neil Gaiman’s Stories anthology. It’s a kind of sequel to ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’, and fans of my Rune books will recognize Aspects of several familiar characters …
IT’S NOT MY name – well, not quite – but you can call me Lucky. I live right here in Manhattan, in the penthouse suite of a hotel just off Central Park. I’m a model citizen in every way: punctual, polite and orderly. I wear sharp suits. I wax my chest hair. You’d never think I was a god.
It’s a truth often overlooked that old gods – like old dogs – have to die some time. It just takes longer, that’s all; and in the meantime citadels may fall, empires collapse, worlds end and folk like us lie on the pile, redundant and largely forgotten.
In many ways, I’ve been fortunate. My element is fire, which never quite goes out of style. There are Aspects of me that still wield power – there’s too much of the primitive left in you Folk for it to be otherwise, and although I don’t get as many sacrifices as I used to, I can still get obeisance if I want it (who doesn’t?) – after dark, when the campfires are lit. And the dry lightning-strikes across the plains – yes, they’re mine – and the forest fires; and the funeral pyres and the random sparks and the human torches – all mine.
But here, in New York, I’m Lukas Wilde, lead singer in the rock band Wildfire. Well, I say band. Our only album, Burn It Up, went platinum when the drummer was tragically killed on stage by a freakish blast of lightning.
Well, maybe not so freakish. Our only US tour was stalked by lightning from beginning to end; of fifty venues, thirty-one suffered a direct hit; in just nine weeks we lost three more drummers, six roadies and a truckload of gear. Even I was beginning to feel I’d taken it just a little too far.
Still, it was a great show.
Nowadays, I’m semi-retired. I can afford to be; as one of only two surviving band members I have a nice little income, and when I’m feeling bored I play piano in a fetish bar called the Red Room. I’m not into rubber myself (too sweaty), but you can’t deny it makes a terrific insulator.
By now you may have gathered – I’m a night person. Daylight rather cramps my style; and besides, fire needs a night sky to show to best advantage. An evening in the Red Room, playing piano and eyeing the girls, then downtown for rest and recreation. Not a scene that my brother frequents; and so it was with some surprise that I ran smack into him that night, as I was checking out the nicely flammable back streets of the Upper East Side, humming ‘Light My Fire’ and contemplating a spot of arson.
I didn’t say? Yes, in this present Aspect, I have a brother. Brendan. A twin. We’re not close; Wildfire and Hearth Fire have little in common, and he rather disapproves of my flamboyant lifestyle, preferring the more domestic joys of baking and grilling. Imagine that. A firegod running a restaurant – it makes me burn with shame. Still, it’s his funeral. Each of us goes to hell in his own way, and besides, his flame-grilled steaks are the best in the business.
It was past midnight, I was a little light-headed from the booze – but not so drunk that you’d have noticed – and the streets were as still as they get in a city that only ever shuts one eye. A huddle of washouts sleeping in cardboard boxes under a fire escape; a cat raiding a dumpster. It was November; steam plumed from the sewer grates and the sidewalks were shiny with cold sweat.
I was just crossing the intersection of 81st and 5th, in front of the Hungarian meat market, when I saw him: a familiar figure with hair the colour of embers tucked into the collar of a long grey coat. Tall, slim and ballet-quick; you might almost have been forgiven for thinking it was me. Close scrutiny, however, reveals the truth. My eyes are red and green; his, on the other hand, are green and red. Anyway, I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing those shoes.
I greeted him cheerily. ‘Do I smell burning?’
He turned to me with a hunted expression. ‘Shh! Listen!’
I was curious. I know there’s never been much love between us, but he usually greets me, at least, before he starts with the recriminations. He called me by my true name. Put a finger to his lips, then dragged me into a side alley that stank of piss.
‘Hey, Bren. What gives?’ I whispered, correcting my lapels.
His only reply was a curt nod in the direction of the near-deserted alley. In the shadows, two men, boxy in their long overcoats, hats pulled down over narrow, identical faces. They stopped for a second on the kerb, checked left, checked right and crossed over with swift effortless choreography before vanishing, wolfish, into the night.
‘I see.’ And I did. I’d seen them before. I could feel it in my blood. In another place, in another Aspect, I knew them, and they knew me. And believe me, they were men in form alone. Beneath those cartoon-detective overcoats they were all teeth. ‘What d’you think they’re doing here?’
He shrugged. ‘Hunting.’
‘Hunting who?’
He shrugged again. He’s never been a man of words, even when he wasn’t a man. Me, I’m on the wordy side. I find it helps.
‘So you’ve seen them here before?’
‘I was following them when you came along. I doubled back – I didn’t want to lead them home.’
Well, I could understand that. ‘What are they?’ I said. ‘Aspects of what? I haven’t seen anything like this since Ragnarók, but as I recal
l—’
‘Shh—’
I was getting kinda sick of being shoved and shushed. He’s the elder twin, you know, and sometimes he takes liberties. I was about to give him a heated reply when I heard a sound coming from near by, and something swam into rapid view. It took me a while to figure it out; derelicts are hard to see in this city, and he’d been hiding in a cardboard box under a fire escape, but now he shifted quick enough, his old overcoat flapping like wings around his bony ankles.
I knew him, in passing. Old man Moony, here as an Aspect of Mani, the Moon, but mad as a coot, poor old sod (it often happens when they’ve been at the juice, and the mead of poetry is a heady brew). Still, he could run, and was running now, but as Bren and I stepped out of his way, the two guys in their long overcoats came to intercept him at the mouth of the alley.
Closer this time – I could smell them. A rank and feral smell, half rotted. Well, you know what they say. You can’t teach a carnivore oral hygiene.
At my side I could feel my brother trembling. Or was it me? I wasn’t sure. I was scared, I knew that – though there was still enough alcohol carousing in my veins to make me feel slightly removed from it all. In any case I stayed put, tucked into the shadows, not quite daring to move. The two guys stood there at the mouth of the alley, and Moony stopped, wavering now between fight and flight. And—
Fight it was. OK, I thought. Even a rat will turn when cornered. That didn’t mean I had to get involved. I could smell him too, the underpinning stench of him, like booze and dirt and that stinky sickly poet-smell. He was scared, I knew that. But he was also a god – albeit a beat-up Aspect of one – and that meant he’d fight like a god, and even an old alky god like Moony has his tricks.
Those two guys might yet have a shock coming.
For a moment they held their positions, two overcoats and a mad poet in a dark triangle under the single streetlight. Then they moved – the guys with that slick, fluid motion I’d seen before, Moony with a lurch and a yell and a flash from his fingertips. He’d cast Týr – a powerful rune – and I saw it flicker through the dark air like a shard of steel, hurtling towards the two not-quite-men. They dodged – no pas de deux could have had more grace – parting, then coming together again as the missile passed, moving in a tight axe-head formation towards the old god.