Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(30)

‘Ave, Petre Grande, incantator. Di sint tecum et cum tuis,’ he said and there was a stir amongst the cronies, and a muttering – he’d never spoken to me in Latin before.

‘Tibi gratias ago, Tiberi Claudi Verica,’ I said, which is like from Chapter One of My First Latin Primer. Still, it got the job done and I backed out without engendering a major diplomatic incident or, worse, a major flood.

After that I stripped off, had Beverley slap the sunscreen on my back, and we headed off to do some community outreach. This involves meeting people, listening to their stories and memorising their names and faces in case you had to come back and arrest them at a later date.

Occasionally we’d catch a glimpse of Abigail in her pink, blue and red Nakimuli one-piece.

‘Did you get her that?’ I asked Beverley.

‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I think Fleet did.’

‘I didn’t even know she knew Fleet.’

‘Well, obviously she does,’ said Beverley.

I watched Abigail talking to a pair of kids her own age, a boy and girl, with the sort of patchwork tans that white people get when they spend summer outdoors in a variety of different tops.

She caught us looking and waved, and her two friends turned to stare briefly before returning their complete attention to whatever Abigail was saying.

‘If you’re like this with your cousin,’ said Beverley, ‘what are you going to be like with your own children?’

‘Oh, I’m going to be a tyrant,’ I said.

‘You’re so not,’ said Beverley, and took my hand. ‘Their poor mother’s going to have to do all the work.’

Later that evening we trooped over to an adjacent field where a circle of trestle tables had been arranged into a circle around a bonfire. I was seated next to Isis, three seats around from the Old Man himself. Beverley was on his other side, as befitted a guest of honour. As we ate I counted the sons of the Old Man and came up four short. Ash, I knew, was celebrating with Mama Thames in Wapping, but three of the heaviest hitters, Ken, Cher and Wey were notably absent.

‘We sent Ken to see Sabrina and Avon,’ said Oxley. ‘Cher is in Herefordshire seeing the three sisters, and Wey’s all the way up in Scotland making merry with the Tay.’ His grin was full of mischief. ‘We thought it was time to renew old friendships.’

‘What brought all this on?’ I asked.

‘Oh, that would have been you and your good example,’ said Oxley.

‘Cross-community partnerships,’ said Isis.

I resolved to keep my mouth shut for the rest of my life, or at the very least around Oxley and Isis.

At some point close to midnight, when we’d all drunk way too much, the Old Man of the River stood and silence rolled out across the company, so that even the children fell quiet.

He held up a straight half pint glass filled with something amber that was definitely not beer. We all climbed to our feet and raised our own glasses. He said something in a language that I suspect hadn’t been spoken widely since the Romans left Britain, and we all cheered and drained our glasses.

Once we’d sat down Oxley translated.

‘Roughly,’ he said, ‘eat loads, drink to excess, screw your partner’s brains out and be thankful the bard isn’t singing.’

‘You’re lying about the last bit,’ I said.

‘How dare you,’ said Oxley, and grinned.

After that, the toasts started in earnest and I couldn’t leave until I’d delivered mine. I’d been warned in advance, so I’d given it some thought. When it was my turn and I stood up and called for life, liberty and peace and managed to sit down before I added a hard-boiled egg to the list.

Shortly afterwards Beverley came and rescued me by dragging me off to her boat.

‘Before you’re too pissed to be useful,’ she said.

I was in the early stages of proving my worth when the first of the youths thundered past on the pontoon bridge. Five minutes later the next group sneaked past with exaggerated care and the giggling and clink of what sounded to me like underage drinking.

‘You think it’s an accident they’ve got their one fed moored alongside the kids’ field?’ said Beverley. ‘They’ll be sneaking and giggling past us all night.’

Later, at a fairly crucial moment, Beverley stopped moving and shushed me. I stifled a frustrated yelp with great willpower and lay perfectly still and listened.

It was more giggling and furtive movement, only this time one of the voices was far too low to be one of the teens. I was trying to work out who it might be when a woman laughed nearby – low, throaty, distinctively dirty.

‘Isis?’ I whispered.

I felt Beverley’s suppressed laughter as a ripple along her stomach and thighs.

‘Quiet,’ said the man, who I was reasonably sure was Oxley. ‘Or the Isaacs will get thee.’

This from a man who’d been around at the coronation of ?thelred the Unready, for all that he claimed he couldn’t remember the details.

Isis said something that was probably rude and there was a slow splash, which I recognised as a water deity falling into the river. I’ve watched Beverley do that, the water sort of rises up to cushion the blow and she goes in with just a ripple.

‘Bumptious fool,’ said Isis.

I was about to shout out something, just to startle them, when Beverley kissed me and I decided that I had better things to do.