Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(60)

I took a deep breath, created the werelight and floated it into the centre of the pentagram. I adjusted my light and started to read the conjuration from my notebook. The original had gone on for four manuscript pages, but with Nightingale’s help I’d managed to shave it down some.

‘Nicholas Wallpenny,’ I said. ‘Hear my voice, accept my gifts, rise and converse.’

And suddenly he was there, as shifty-looking as ever.

‘I knew you was special as soon as I laid eyes on you,’ he said. ‘Your governor not around, is he?’

‘Over there,’ I said, ‘beyond the gate.’

‘Mind you keep him there,’ said Nicholas. ‘I was right about the murdering gent, weren’t I?’

‘We think it’s the spirit of Pulcinella,’ I said.

‘You what?’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Punch? I think you must have had one too many. Get thee to a lushery. ’

‘You wanted my help last night,’ I said.

‘Did I?’ asked Nicholas. ‘But that would make me a blower and a slag, and ain’t nobody ever said that Nicholas Wallpenny ever put the jack on a cove, lest he get a visit from the punishers.’ He gave me a significant look. A ‘blower’ was old London slang for an informer, and ‘punishers’ were likewise slang for men hired to beat people up – presumably for ‘blowing’.

‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘How’s … death treating you?’

‘Fair enough,’ said Nicholas. ‘Can’t complain. Certainly a lot less crowded than it once was. This being the Actor’s Church and all, we’re never short of an evening’s entertainment. We’ve even had the occasional guest artiste for our further edification. We had that famous Henry Pyke – that’s Pyke with a Y – mind you, he’s very particular. He’s popular with the ladies on account of his long nose.’

I didn’t like the way Nicholas looked; tense, nervous and as if he would be sweating if he could still sweat. I considered backing off, but the cruel fact is that informants, dead or alive, are there to be used if necessary.

‘This … Henry Pyke, is he planning a long run?’ I asked.

‘Best to say that he’s bought the theatre,’ said Nicholas.

‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘Any chance of me catching a show?’

‘Well, Constable, I wouldn’t be so damned keen to get on the bill if I was you,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mr Pyke can be strangely hard on his co-stars, and I daresay he’s got a role in mind for you.’

‘Still, I wouldn’t mind getting to meet …’ I said, but suddenly Nicholas was gone.

The pentagram was empty, with just my werelight burning at its centre. Before I could snuff it out I felt something grab me by the head and try to drag me bodily into the pentagram. I panicked, pulling and twisting frantically to try and escape. Nightingale had been emphatic about not stepping into the pentagram, and I had no intention of finding out why. I yanked my head back, but I felt my heels scrape in the turf as I was dragged forward – towards the pentagram. Then I saw it. Below my own werelight, in the centre of the pentagram, was a dark shadow like the mouth of a pit dug into the earth. I could see the roots of the grass and the worms frantically trying to burrow back into the sides, the layers of topsoil and London clay fading into the darkness.

I was almost on the brink when I realised that whatever was dragging me was working through my own spell. I tried to shut down the werelight but it stayed lit, glowing now with a sullen yellow colour. I’d pushed my shoulders so far back that I was practically lying vertical, and still my heels ploughed forward.

I heard Nightingale yelling and looked over to see him running flat out towards me. I had a horrible feeling that he wasn’t going to make it in time. In my desperation I had one more thing to try. It’s not easy to concentrate when you’re being dragged into oblivion, but I forced myself to take a deep breath and make the correct forma. Suddenly the werelight burned a fiery red. I made the shape with my mind that I hoped would pour in the magic, but I couldn’t tell whether it was working. My heels ploughed through the edges of the pentagram and I felt a rush of excitement, a hunger for violence and a whole ocean of shame and humiliation and lust for revenge.

I dropped the fireball half a metre and let go.

There was a disappointingly quiet thump, like the sound a heavy dictionary would make if you dropped it. Then the ground lifted up underneath my legs and knocked me tumbling backwards. I hit the branches of the cherry tree behind me and caught a glimpse of a column of earth shooting upwards like a freight train leaving a tunnel, before I fell out of the tree and the ground got its licks in.

Nightingale grabbed my collar and pulled me away as cherry blossom and clods of earth rained down around us. A big chunk landed on my head and shattered, sending dirt trickling down the back of my neck.

Then there was silence; nothing but the sound of distant traffic and a nearby car alarm going off. We waited half a minute to catch our breath, just in case something else was going to happen.

‘Guess what,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a name.’

‘You’re damned lucky still to have a head,’ said Nightingale. ‘What’s the name?’

‘Henry Pyke,’ I said. ‘Never heard of him,’ said Nightingale.