Jack of Ravens

1

London, November 1940.

‘Gor Bimey, you’ll never see a night like it! Forget old Mr Hitler — he’s a twerp! Goering’s barmy, so’s his army! Get inside for the time of your lovely lives!’

The man in the garish yellow and black pinstripe suit clapped his hands and threw his arms wide. Behind him the glittering lights of the Holborn Empire formed a golden halo that promised warmth and comfort amidst the thick, chilly fog and the bomb-blasted rubble-strewn street.

Church shivered even in the depths of his suit and thick woollen overcoat. From the shadows across the street he watched the couples in their Sunday best troop up arm in arm from all directions. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, no gods, no spider-controlled politicians, no misshapen beasts or magical beings; just working-class people out for a night of beer, laughter and song to help them forget the day’s labours and the rigours of war. Jerzy’s message had specified the time and the place, and Church had no choice but to investigate.

The foyer was grand with a plush red and gold carpet, polished mahogany and chandeliers harking back to its music hall glory days in the Victorian era. Church eased his way through the chattering crowd and bought his ticket. The bar was packed to the brim with men swilling pints of bitter and women sipping on halves of mild beneath a fug of smoke. Raucous laughter and spontaneous song thundered around the walls.

‘Wouldn’t believe there’s a war on, would you, mate?’ a rat-faced man said as he pushed his way to the bar. ‘I wish they’d go back to the old days when they’d let you take your beer into the auditorium. Bloody Council.’

Using the Far Lands glamour Niamh had provided him with for cash, Church couldn’t resist indulging in a pint, the first he’d had for months, and then he made his way to the auditorium. Before the First World War it had been laid out with rows of tables where food and drink were served up all night long, but now it resembled any other theatre, with velvet-seated stalls, boxes and a balcony.

A man in a long fur coat was already on stage singing, ‘I’m ’Enery the Eighth I am, ’Enery the Eighth I am, I am,’ with lots of comic moves and face-pulling. In the stalls, where drunks were already heckling, there was a bear-pit atmosphere. ‘You’re no Harry Champion!’ Someone hurled what looked like a cauliflower at the singer. He ducked and then side-stepped two other pieces of produce with which the audience members had pre-armed themselves.

Church searched the darkened seats for any sign of Jerzy, but he was nowhere to be seen, not even in disguise. The unfortunate performer was driven off-stage prematurely and the compere came out to lead the audience in mass singing of ‘Roll Out the Barrel’.

As the voices rose up to the rafters, Church noticed a subtle change come over the auditorium.

‘It’s not like this when Arthur Askey’s on.’ A cockney man with slickedback hair and an expensive-looking charcoal suit was now sitting in the next seat, though Church had not seen him arrive. The man put his feet over the seat in front. His shoes shone so brightly they reflected the man’s radiant grin; there was something darkly mischievous about him that Church found familiar. ‘Still, there’s a right load of riff-raff in tonight.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Church looked back and saw the source of the shifting atmosphere. High up in the balcony, almost lost in the deep shadows, was the Seelie Court. Church could make out the shimmering golden skin of the king and queen in the front row, and the more monstrous members of the court loomed behind. Church guessed that no other audience member would see anything out of the ordinary, but when he turned to the fellow beside him to check, the seat was empty once more.

Church slipped out of his seat and made his way to the balcony. The audience was now singing ‘Knocked ’Em in the Old Kent Road’. He was ushered forward by a being with bat-wings and a head like the Elephant Man. The king bowed his head slightly to one side and smiled faintly. ‘Greetings, Brother of Dragons. What is the nature of your business this even? More battles to fight and enemies to slay?’

‘More women to romance?’ the queen added with an enigmatic smile.

Church bowed. ‘I came by invitation, your majesty.’

‘As did we,’ the king said. ‘How curious. A mysterious assignation was promised, and a night of unparalleled entertainment. I must say the latter is certainly true. The Fragile Creatures have excelled themselves in this hall of wine and song.’ He tapped his foot in time to the robust singing of the audience.

‘May I ask who invited you?’ Church said.

‘Another mystery.’ The queen stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘The invitation was unsigned.’ She urged one of the Tuatha De Danann beside her to leave his seat. ‘Sit a while,’ she said to Church. ‘Fragile Creatures have always intrigued us, but the reputation achieved by the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons is most interesting. I had the pleasure of spending time with one of your kind who fought against the Northmen who invaded this island in their dragon ships. He had many great tales to tell of his adventures. And of you.’

‘Me?’ Church took his seat. On stage, an escapologist was now being locked into his chains by a pretty assistant.

‘Why, your exploits are quite legendary amongst your own kind. They speak of you and the Blue Fire in one breath, as one thing, interchangeable, immutable. The king who must be awakened from his deep sleep. The power in the land that will return in the darkest hour. As we know, there are two faces to everything.’

Her beautiful features were inscrutable, but Church had the impression she was not simply speaking metaphorically. Was she alluding to Janus?

‘I have heard tell in the same stories,’ she continued, ‘of a love that spans the vast sea of time, of two hearts torn asunder, striving to return to each other across the years, whatever suffering and hardship may be thrown in their path. Is this true? Can Fragile Creatures really feel so deeply, so strongly?’

‘Yes, they can.’

‘Remarkable. This woman — she is special?’

‘She is to me.’ Church watched the escapologist disappear into a sack that was tied at the neck. ‘I’ve lost a lot of my memories of us together, but I haven’t forgotten a thing about the kind of person she is, and how much we mean to each other.’

‘It must be difficult to maintain those feelings without the structure of the memories to contain them.’

Church didn’t respond.

‘Would you like one of those memories back?’

‘You can do that?’

‘One. For now. Too many would unbalance you.’ She smiled warmly at Church’s hopeful expression. ‘Here.’

She rested her cool fingers on Church’s forehead and he felt a rush of colour and light that gradually coalesced into images. The early hours of the morning along the banks of the Thames in South London. Thick fog, shortly before dawn. A creeping feeling of despair over the death of his old girlfriend, Marianne. A sound from beneath the shadows of Albert Bridge: a shape-shifting creature from the Far Lands. It was the incident that had propelled him into his new life as a Brother of Dragons. And Ruth was there, too. She’d arrived from another direction, drawn by the same sound.

But it was more than just a memory, for it explained everything about his love for Ruth. In the moment when their eyes locked for the first time, he saw a person filled with passion, someone with whom he had a deep, instant connection. She gave him hope, there and then, in one glance.

Church withdrew from the memory with a strong swell of emotion threatening to wash him away. ‘Thank you,’ he said. The queen nodded and smiled sweetly.

The escapologist slipped from the sack and his chains in a flash of light and a puff of smoke. He left the stage to thunderous applause.

With his new memory warming his heart and changing his perspective completely, Church felt he had much to consider and so made his excuses and left the Seelie Court.

By the time he was back in his seat, the compere had finished his patter and the next act was coming onstage to loud cheers — clearly a popular choice.

‘And now Max Masque!’ the compere announced. ‘The Dandy of the Dance, with a bag full of songs and smiles!’

A man in a lime-green suit shuffled on, did a pirouette followed by a back-flip. The audience cheered and clapped even louder.

‘Now then, now then, stop yer trouble,’ he said. ‘A copper grabbed me on the Mile End Road, and I said, “’Ang on, mate. I’ll tickle yer ribs for a guinea.” What did I say?’

He put one hand to his ear and the audience responded as one: ‘I’ll tickle yer ribs for a guinea!’

The comedian wore a mask that was split down the middle: one side showed the face of tragedy, the other the face of comedy. It was Jerzy.