Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(49)

She gave me a sceptical look and took another couple of swigs.

‘I appreciate the cleaning, though,’ she said. ‘The effort involved, your valuable time expended in, let’s be honest, a futile gesture. Next heavy rain and this will be hip deep in shit once more.’

Another swig.

I said nothing because I knew she wasn’t finished.

‘It’s not the intrinsic value of the gift that makes the sacrifice. It’s what it’s worth to you personally.’

‘Well, I was going to bring Toby,’ I said. ‘But Molly would have objected.’

Lady Ty gave a dismissive wave with her left hand while draining the last of the bottle. When she was sure it was empty she waved it at the staff where it hung below the plaque.

‘Now that is a different matter,’ she said. ‘Pass it over.’

She smiled when I hesitated – a wide lazy grin.

‘I want it from your own hand,’ she said and dropped the bottle, which bounced rather than smashed. ‘Come on, chop-chop, the goddess is in.’

I lifted the staff from the shelf and, turning, went down on one knee. I held out the staff to Lady Ty as if it was a sword. She looked down at me and her smile became crooked and she shook her head.

‘You’ve always got to push it, haven’t you?’ she said, and put her hand on the staff.

Her eyes closed and her mouth turned down.

‘Who do you think I am – Athena?’ she said, but her hand curled around the staff and she lifted it from my hands. ‘Still, this is a proper gift for all that you don’t appreciate its true value, either.’

As I got to my feet she shifted her grip to the end of the staff and held it upright so that the iron-shod tip rested on her shoulder.

‘So what is all this in aid of?’ she asked.

‘I want to talk to Sir William,’ I said.

‘Really? What for?’

‘Intelligence gathering?’

Lady Ty snorted.

‘Sir William?’ she said. ‘He’s not what you’d call plugged into the mainstream.’

‘Historical witness,’ I said.

‘What makes you think I can help you with that? Our relationship’s not what you’d call close.’

‘Close enough that he put half a metre of imaginary sword through that sniper,’ I said. ‘You might not be on talking terms, but I reckon you’re still family.’

‘Where is it you think you go when you talk to him?’ she asked.

‘I think I stay right where I am. I think I’m tapping into the memory of the city.’

‘You think too much for a policeman,’ she said. ‘Do you know that?’

‘I get that a lot.’

‘I’ll bet you do.’

‘Can you grant my boon or not?’

‘Why not,’ she said, and – as fast as an old-time preacher fleecing his flock – she leapt forward, slapped the palm of her right hand against my forehead and pushed.



Have you ever had that sensation, just as you’re going to sleep, that a bomb has gone off inside your head? It’s a real medical phenomena called, I kid you not, exploding head syndrome. It’s what’s known as a parasomnia, which is Greek for ‘we don’t know either’. Anyway, that’s what it felt like as I pitched backwards into the black – like a big painless bomb going off in my head.

Generally speaking Exploding Head Syndrome is harmless, but should you experience the further symptoms of finding yourself talking to the avatar of a river goddess, please contact Dr Walid, who collects that sort of data as a hobby.

‘Bruv!’ cried William Tyburn as he dragged me to my feet and hugged me.

He smelt of kebab and wet wool and hunting and woodsmoke.

He let go of me and held me at arm’s length.

‘I knew you couldn’t stay away.’

I was standing on the bank of a river, too narrow to be the Thames proper and choked with reeds. It was a warm overcast day and away from the water the land rose up to be crowned by a couple of thatched roundhouses. Around them spread a confusion of herb gardens, drying racks, woodpiles, small animal pens and stretches where the ground had been worn away to dusty brown tracks.

On the far bank of the river the reeds gave way to trees that might have been oak and ash and alder, and all the other varieties that Beverley says would cover the lowlands of England if given half a chance.

‘Welcome to Thorney Island,’ said William Tyburn. ‘Much better without that pseudo-Gothic monstrosity, isn’t it?’

Not as monstrous as his yellow and red check trousers, I thought, although the matching red and brown check tunic had faded to the point where it no longer hurt the eyes. He had grass stains at the elbows and his front was wet with sweat. The lowly man of the soil look was undone by the torc around his neck – a thick braided coil of gold terminating in clusters of what might have been snakes, or perhaps ropes or tangles of tree roots.

‘Checking the bling, right?’ said Tyburn. ‘Nice, isn’t it? Got it totally tax free too.’

The humidity was stifling and I tried to catch my breath.

‘I’d offer you a beer. But since you’re not actually here that would be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it?’ He grinned and stepped back and opened his arms. ‘How else may I serve you, or are you stuck under another pile of rubble?’