And even as his father says the word, Joshua Joseph can hear music, and there’s a yellow electric gleam on the edge of the tunnel, and a flat smell of smoked sausage and nutmeg, of perfume and the flowers his mother grows on the window ledge in the kitchen.
They turn the corner, and the Night Market spreads out in front of them like the main street of a medieval town, festooned with lanterns and crank-handle generators with meagre bulbs glowing, stalls and handcarts and even shopfronts laid in rows, and up the walls on wooden walkways, so that the whole effect is of being in a great oblong bowl or the hull of a ship, the hundreds of traders and vendors bellowing their prices and offerings and clamouring for attention. And into this sea, his father leads them both, and is greeted and admired by all around.
Red velvet walls and corduroy armchairs; oil paintings, gold coins, Cornish pasties, and tea; pipe smoke and mint jellies and Turkish coffee, yellowed playing cards and chess. The Night Market is all these things, but most of all it is his father and the Uncles, sitting amid cushions and eating baklava and crumpets in the small hours of the night, telling tales and answering the questions of a small, bewildered boy, while his mother smiles and gossips with a dozen Aunts. Everyone here is “Uncle” or “Aunt,” or more unusually a cousin, like the boy and the girl seated on the next cushion along, the wards of Uncle Jonah, who is the only one wearing a suit, but whose crooked smile is like a lighthouse when it falls on the children.
Joshua Joseph asks very politely why no one has a second name. Mathew glances over at the broad-shouldered, very thin man whose barrow this is. He calls himself Tam, and in the daylight world he runs a smart shop where men of the upper classes purchase clothing and equipment for shooting and fishing. These goods, of course, he is happy to deliver by hand to the homes of his customers, so Tam is often very well informed as to the disposition of valuables in expensive houses.
“Men of the Market, Joshua,” Uncle Tam says, his big head nodding over his whisky glass. “Men like you and me, we’re bad with names. Bad with all kinds of recollections, really. We remember what’s important, oh surely, but those other things we sort of forget, so they don’t slip out when they shouldn’t. The Night Market, it’s not called that just because we hold it when the sun goes down. It’s because the whole thing takes place under cover of darkness. Shadows and fog in the mind, so we don’t see what we don’t feel like remembering, if you get my drift.”
Joshua Joseph doesn’t.
“Well, my folk are from Cornwall, right? Wreckers, in days gone by. You know what a wrecker is?”
“A kind of pirate.”
“Hm, well, yes and no. A pirate does a mighty job of work to get his booty, Joshua. He boards a ship and carries the day in battle, and he risks hanging and death in battle and all such. A wrecker is a quieter sort of fellow with an eye to business. He lets the coastline do his work, tricks the taxman—you do know what a taxman is?”
Insofar as the taxman is cursed by everyone he has ever met, a bad fairy who takes from the deserving to stuff the rich coffers of Socialists and Bankers, Joshua Joseph does indeed know, so he nods.
“So he tricks the taxman into crashing his ship full of gold and rum onto the rocks, and then all that’s good is washed up on the beach by the waves. And sometimes the taxman with it, and more than a few of those revenue fellows—that’s another word for a taxman—more than a few ended their days married to a wrecker wench and drinking rum on the beaches, for a taxman is a man like any other, ey?
“The point being that a wrecker does his work in darkness, so if the sheriff comes, no one saw his mates’ faces, not for certain, and he can swear an oath on the Holy Bible if that’s required that he has no sure knowledge of who else was there that brought the taxes onto the beach or took them away. So … what’s my name?”
Joshua Joseph thinks about it. “I don’t believe I ever heard it for definite.”
“Very good. So, then, you sit by me and learn a bit more while your dad does his business over the way.”
And learn he does, the strange skills of the Market: burglary and locks from Tam and Caro, and a dash of fisticuffs from Lars the Swede, the ways of the Tosher’s Beat from everyone. And from their boys and girls and wives and brothers and mothers: how to spot a counterfeit bill, a fake painting, a recent Louis XIV chaise; how to tell if someone is taking drugs or shorting the count or talking out of turn, and what to do about it; how to climb an old drainpipe without pulling it out of the wall; how to make a plausible disguise; how to disappear in a crowded room. The Night Market is filled with people who know these things and will explain them to Mathew Spork’s son over a fresh doughnut from the steel vat on Uncle Douggie’s counter—Uncle Douggie the boxer, strong as a Liverpool Hercules and very partial to fried foods.
To Joshua Joseph, lounging like a sultan on silk cushions with fingers covered in cinnamon and sugar, chocolate and jam, the Night Market is a place of excellent cuisine and spellbinding secrets, and all his own. He runs free through a hundred barrows, discovers that he is a terrible painter and a passable restorer of art; that he has no knack for complex locks but could comfortably earn a Boy Scout badge in helping people back into their cars; that his skills in mathematics will never lend themselves to making book (so don’t even try). He becomes a prince among the under-tens, dispenses fair justice and learns the rewards of getting caught with sugar on your hands when doughnuts are banned (and is promptly taught methods for concealing sticky paws and by inference also fingerprints). Mathew Spork is delighted, and in his jubilation, Harriet finds her happiness as well. Only Mathew’s father, Daniel, is displeased. Grandpa Spork thinks school will suffer, and does not in any case approve of the Night Market, though he will not say why.
School does not suffer. Indeed, school profits. As the practical applications of his courses become more apparent, Joshua Joseph becomes more diligent. What fraction of one hundred and twenty is two? Who cares? But: what is one point five per cent of one hundred and twenty English pounds (rounded up for ease)? And is that a suitable courier’s fee? Now that’s a far more interesting calculation.
Joshua Joseph Spork, Crown Prince of Thieves, lies that night on his back and looks up at a vaulted brick ceiling, and finally falls asleep to the soft whisper of Tam’s counting machine as it tallies stolen money.
With the lesson of the monte uppermost in his mind, Joe Spork slides his back down the wall outside Billy’s flat until he is resting on his haunches, and considers what he knows about the Book of the Hakote, and why someone might murder a man because of it. If you can see what’s going on around you …
He can’t. He has no idea. And that’s the other rule of the monte: if you can’t spot the sucker in the room, it’s you.
A woman called Bryce, dressed in a paper suit and a blue cloth mask, insists that Joe give her his shoes. She does this, not in a suspicious, inquirish sort of way, but rather with almost overwhelming boredom. Ruth Bryce spends her days hoovering up the traces of untidy murderers, and the image of the galumphing Boot of Spork clumping over her crime scene and obscuring the tiny yet vital traces clearly looms large in her mind.
Joe, not wishing to be rude or obstructive, removes his shoes and hands them over, knowing that Mercer, when he gets here, will immediately call him an idiot, and ten seconds later turn this unforgivable lapse into a huge legal advantage. As he passes over his shoes (from a shop around the corner and much scuffed despite the yellow Eva-Nu label) he realises that he is also surrendering, as a matter of practicality, any possibility of slipping away. A man might quietly wander off after half an hour or so—“Oh, I had no idea you still needed me, so sorry”—but without his shoes, he must remain and see the thing through. Some part of him, perhaps, wishes to be enmeshed. Joe Spork has few friends, and he will not disavow a dead one merely because an unkind person could construe his presence at the last as guilt. Least of all will he forsake this particular corpse, member in good standing of the Honoured & Enduring Brotherhood of Wait
ing Men. In time, no doubt, Billy’s fraternal order will turn up and sit vigil for him, but until that happens, Joe is all he has. Alone and—as Joe now realises—painfully lonely, that’s no reason he should be uncared-for in death.
“Spork, did you say, sir? Like ess-pee-oh-arr-kay?”
Detective Sergeant Patchkind is an elf; an affable, chirpy little man with a high voice who has already shown Joe a picture of his nieces. Just the thing, according to DS Patchkind, to settle the stomach and soothe the heart after the unpleasant experience of discovering a corpse. While Joe was considering the girls and thinking that they looked a lot like weasels and a bit like storks, DS Patchkind asked him a couple of unimportant questions for the sake of his paperwork. Joe gave a brief estimation of what it was like to come upon the dead body of an old mate, and Detective Sergeant Patchkind tutted and sucked air through his teeth and was about to go and talk to Bryce of the blue mask when something occurred to him.
“And what time was that, Mr.… sorry, what was the name again?”
At which point, briefly unmindful of Mercer’s stern injunction to reserve, he said “Spork” and immediately realised he was an idiot.
Now, with Patchkind looking up at him with an expectant face, he can do nothing but nod.
He doesn’t actually nod. He’s about to—has already sent a sort of “go” signal to his nodding muscles—when a subtle quiet ripples through the chamber. The forensics people stop chatting to one another, the coppers stop shuffling their feet. Joe, who has never been on a hunting expedition, imagines this is the silence which you hear in a large wood after the first stag has been downed. Into this silence speaks a most unctuous, most unpleasantly familiar voice, and Joe Spork recognises it for serious trouble.
“Dear me, dear me. Mr. Spork, what are you doing in such an unpleasant place? No, no, don’t answer that without a lawyer. Goodness gracious. We mustn’t infringe upon your ancient rights, that would be quite improper. Magna Carta and so on, I’m sure. Hello, Detective Sergeant Patchkind, a pleasure to see you once more, though regrettable of course that it should be in a house of death. Mind you, the exigencies of our professions, of course: we almost always meet in dark places, don’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” DS Patchkind says neutrally, “we rather do.”
“Just once, Detective Sergeant, as I was saying to my esteemed colleague Mr. Cummerbund just this morning, just once it would be nice to meet the charming Basil Patchkind in a pub and share a jar of ale. Was I not, Arvin?”
And there they are, and Joe realises in this curious moment how very binary they are: an upright, narrow one and a rotund zero, side by side.
Arvin Cummerbund nods. “You were, Mr. Titwhistle. Just this morning.”
“And alas, Basil—you don’t mind if I call you Basil? I don’t mean to be rude … thank you, my dear fellow—yes, friend Basil, I’m afraid we must take Mr. Spork from you at this time. He has a pressing appointment. It absolutely will not wait, and if he should miss it the consequences would be … well, all manner of chaos and confusion to the nation as a whole. Lest your duty to the mundane conventions of the law supravene, Basil, I did bring the necessary …”
And with this salvo, he removes from his inner pocket a long, pale document folded upon itself, and passes it to Patchkind. Patchkind unfolds it and peers, then snorts, then peers some more.
“It’s not signed,” he says, at last.
“No,” Mr. Titwhistle says blandly, “these ones never are.”
Patchkind sighs.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to confess, Mr. Spork? To the murder, I mean?” He seems to be offering it as an escape.
“No. I’m afraid I wouldn’t.”
“Well, you know best, I suppose.” Patchkind sighs and folds the paper up again. “He’s all yours.”
“Indeed, he is,” Mr. Titwhistle replies. “I would say we were never here, but alas, that’s not a fiction I imagine we can maintain. So never mind. See you soon, Detective Sergeant Patchkind.”
At which, to Joe’s outrage and amazement, Arvin Cummerbund steps lightly behind him and fastens his wrists together in the small of his back with a pale nylon strip. Joe gives a startled shout of “Hey!” and turns his head to Patchkind in mute appeal. Do something!
Patchkind looks very grey, and quite deliberately turns to face the scene of the crime.
“DC Topper,” he says, as if through a mouthful of dust, “tell me about our corpse.”
“You’re not under arrest,” Arvin Cummerbund murmurs into Joe Spork’s ear, “because we don’t do that.”
The fat man drives, and Rodney Titwhistle sits next to Joe in the back. His earlier chattiness has evaporated, and Joe’s bewildered affront has lost its edge, so that a sad, nostalgic quiet settles on the car as Cummerbund guides it through London’s complex tangle, each man thinking his own thoughts in a curious kind of fellowship.
The traffic light turns red again in front of them, and Mr. Cummerbund tuts. Rodney Titwhistle sighs.
“Arvin, my apologies, I’m going to start the conversation. You’ll just have to join in from the front. You can multitask, can’t you?”
“Certainly, Rodney.”
“Thank you, Arvin.”
“Thank you, Rodney.”
“In that case, let us proceed. I wonder, Mr. Spork, if you could tell me just one thing?”
“You could tell me who the hell you are. Not the bloody Loganfield Museum, I know that.”
“Oh, dear me. No. Let us say, we are the embodiment of an unpleasant necessity of the global reality, specifically concerned with the well-being of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And let us further say, in accordance with convention, that I will be asking the questions.
“I should also remind you that you are not in the custody of the police. The usual rules, as so often referenced in popular television programmes, do not apply. Our mandate is not justice. It is survival. In that context, you will understand when I say you should not attempt to ‘take the fifth.’ The U.K. no longer recognises a right to remain silent, you know. We protect the nation’s future, rather than its conscience. I find this noble.” Mr. Titwhistle smiles apologetically, then, as the car stops at a set of traffic lights, gazes out of the window to a small horde of teenaged girls in fishnet who are whooping and bouncing up and down. After a moment, he goes on.
“Suppose I were to ask you ‘What is the Apprehension Engine?’ What would you say?”
“ ‘I don’t know.’ ”
“And if you were to speculate?”
“A device which makes people afraid.”
Rodney Titwhistle gives a soft cough. “Which you conclude from the use of the term ‘Apprehension’. Indeed. Well, Mr. Spork, in a way you are quite right. It is indeed a device, and it certainly scares the bejeezus out of me. Tell me, instead, about the Magic Beehive of Wistithiel.”
“How do you know about that?”
Rodney Titwhistle sighs. “Very shortly, Mr. Spork, everyone will know about that.”
“Why? It’s just an automaton. What’s any of this got to do with Billy, anyway?” Joe sees Billy’s corpse beneath the blanket, smells the room, and swallows bile.
“Everyone will know because everyone will see. In the beginning, the bees will fly around the world. They will awaken further hives. The device is intended to encompass the globe. There will be—shall we call them ‘outbreaks’?—during which the machine will function at its lowest level where the swarms are concentrated. Then, when they are all in position, it will activate. I would conservatively estimate that three or four million people will die shortly thereafter by ordinary human action. Murders and so forth. If the machine moves on to the second and third stages, as I understand them—and I will grant you that this certainly is not the notional purpose of the device—the fatality rate rises dramatically. In the worst case, it approaches one hundred per cent of the world’s population. So you understand why I feel a little unwilling to let this slide?<
br />
“In retrospect, it should have been dismantled years ago, but governments do so hate to throw things away, especially dangerous things. Did you know, incidentally, that ‘retrospect’ can be an adjective? One might say ‘Joshua Joseph Spork is retrospect; he’s a man who learns from his mistakes.’ In any case, Mr. Spork, the beehive is not just some clockwork toy. It is a scientific advance of ludicrous complexity, so secret that no one who knew about it could understand it and no one who would understand it could be allowed to know about it. A game-changer. And consequently in many ways we might also call it a time bomb. It is the Apprehension Engine to which I referred earlier. We are, as you see, somewhat nervous about what will happen now that it’s active. So I must ask you: how do we switch it off again?”
An opportunity to come clean—perhaps without prejudice. Very attractive. Except that, on diverse occasions, unscrupulous persons have been known to use this line of argument to lure a suspect into unwise confessions.
Deny. Hedge. Evade. Play stupid. Which, in any case, is what you are.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I just … I have no idea.”
“No, I am almost sure that you don’t.” Mr. Titwhistle sighs. “Ted Sholt’s the fellow I need to talk to, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he may be.” A pleasant vision: urbane Rodney Titwhistle in his clean car, struggling with Ted of the foul-smelling sandalled feet, the burlap smock and the sou’wester pressed against the window and the weird battle cry sounding: Angelmaker! Although … no. Ted Sholt might not fare so well in that engagement.