Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(90)

That was tested when a number of rioters slunk past the windows. Judging from the torn suit jackets and dirty white shirts, these were members of the audience, not the cast. I held my breath as they paused outside, calling to each other in their guttural stockbroker accents.

Strangely, I found I wasn’t frightened. Instead I was embarrassed – that this nice family of Von Trapp impersonators had come to my city, and instead of being gently relieved of their money they were facing violence, injury and bad manners at the hands of Londoners. It pissed me off no end.

The stockbrokers loped off towards the west.

‘Right,’ I said after a minute, ‘I’m just going to check the coast is clear.’

I slipped out of the shop door and looked around. On the plus side, there were no rioters in sight but on the minus side this was probably because everywhere I looked was on fire. I ran a little way towards the closest exit but I got no more than a few paces before the heat started singeing my nostril hair. I quickly ducked back into the shop.

‘Beverley,’ I said. ‘We’re in deep shit.’ I told her about the fire.

The mother frowned. She was the linguist in the family. ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.

The flames were clearly reflected in the shop windows and the blank silver faces of the manikins, so it seemed pointless to lie. She looked at her children and then back at me. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

I looked at Beverley.

‘Can’t you do any magic?’ she asked.

It was definitely getting hotter. ‘Can’t you?’

‘You got to say it’s okay,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘That’s the agreement,’ said Beverly. ‘You’ve got to say it’s okay.’

One of the window panes cracked. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Do what you have to do.’

Beverley threw herself down and pressed her cheek to the floor. I saw her lips moving. I felt something pass through me, a sensation like rain, like the sound of boys playing football in the distance, the smell of suburban roses and newly washed cars, evening television flickering through net curtains.

‘What is she doing?’ asked the mother. ‘She is praying for us, yes?’

‘Sort of,’ I said.

‘Sshh,’ said Beverley, sitting up. ‘I’m listening.’

‘What for?’

Something flew in through the window, pinged off the wall and fell into my lap – it was the cover off a fire hydrant. Beverley saw me examining it and gave me an apologetic shrug.

‘What exactly have you done?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve never actually tried this before.’

The smoke thickened, forcing us face down onto the mercifully cool stone of the shop floor. The middle German child was crying. His mother put her arm around him and pulled him close. The youngest, a girl, seemed remarkably stoical. Her blue eyes were fixed on mine. The father twitched. He was wondering whether he should at least get up and try do something heroic, however futile. I knew exactly how he felt. The last of the window panes shattered, glass pattering down on my back. I breathed in smoke, coughed, breathed in more smoke. It didn’t feel like enough of a breath. I realised that this was it – I was going to die.

Beverley started laughing.

Suddenly it was a hot Sunday morning under unexpectedly blue skies. There’s a smell of hot plastic and dust as the paddling pool is rescued from the garden shed and the kids, dressed in swimsuits and underwear, are bouncing up and down with excitement. Dad is red-faced from blowing up the pool and Mum is yelling to be careful, and the hose is run in through the kitchen window and jammed onto the cold tap. The hose gives a dusty cough and all the children stare at its mouth …

The floor began to vibrate, and I had just enough time to think What the fuck when a wall of water hit the south side of the shop. The door was smashed open and before I could grab hold of something I was lifted by the surge and slammed against the ceiling. The air was blown out of my lungs by the impact, and I had to bite down on the instinct to draw in a breath. For a moment the flood cleared enough for me to catch sight of Beverley floating serenely amid the debris before the water drained out of the shop fast enough to slap me into the floor again.

The father, with more presence of mind than I’d shown, had wedged himself and his family against the counter. They assured me they were all okay, except for the youngest who wanted to do it again. Beverly stood in the middle of the shop and did the air punch.

‘Oh yeah,’ she said. ‘Let’s see Tyburn do something like that.’

*

Beverley’s euphoria lasted long enough for us to get our German family to the nearest ambulance. As far as I could tell from looking around while we walked out, Beverley’s wave of water had started somewhere near the centre of the covered market and rolled outwards to flood the Piazza to a depth of ten centimetres. I reckoned that at a stroke Beverley had quadrupled the amount of property damage done that night, but I kept that thought to myself. She hadn’t managed to extinguish the fire on the roof, but even as we sidled away, the London Fire Brigade were moving in to finish it off.

Beverley got strangely agitated when she saw the firemen, and practically dragged me up James Street and away from the market. The riot seemed to be all over bar the media witch hunt, and TSG officers in full riot gear stood around in groups discussing baton technique and reattaching their ID numbers.