The Moonlight Market: A Novel by Joanne Harris

Author:Joanne Harris [Harris, Joanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 2024-07-02T00:00:00+00:00

5

When his eyes adjusted again, Tom Argent was in daylight. The Midnight Folk, the tunnels, were gone. He was back above ground, on a street he did not recognise. The light was dim and wintry, and there was a heavy fog. This must be an old part of London, he thought: the street was cobbled, the buildings black with soot. Even the air smelt different, somehow: of woodsmoke, and sulphur, and horses…

A carriage went by, kicking up a mixture of mud and manure from the open gutter. Tom stepped back instinctively – and bumped into a young woman wearing a brown silk dress and a hat with what seemed to be a whole stuffed bird on it.

It’s a film set, thought Tom. Ripper Street, or Penny Dreadful, or yet another BBC adaptation of Hard Times or Oliver Twist.

The woman made a sound of annoyance. ‘Sir! Take care!’ Her accent was slightly odd; more clipped than Tom was used to hearing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing back. ‘I was looking for the way out.’

‘Way out?’ said the woman. ‘The river? Whatever your troubles, that’s no way for a Christian to think. Have you been drinking?’ She fixed him with a suspicious eye.

‘No. Of course not.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s only half past ten.’

The woman looked unconvinced. ‘Very well. But if you need help, turn to the Church, and not to the gin, or the river.’

Tom nodded, thinking how real she looked, how at ease in her surroundings. Another carriage trundled past, throwing up a flag of mud. It all looked very authentic, especially as there were no cameras, no lights, no staff to cordon off the street.

He said: ‘What are you filming? I mean, it looks terrific.’

The woman looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Filming,’ said Tom. ‘What show is this?’

‘You are drunk,’ said the woman sternly. ‘Here. Take one of these.’ She reached into her reticule and brought out a yellow paper. Tom took it automatically, then, as the woman went on her way, glanced at it. He saw a woodcut of a hatless man holding a bottle, flanked with the title, in capitals: TEMPERANCE.

It was a tract.

Tom was feeling uneasy. Everything about this place – the narrow street, the unfamiliar smell of the air, the smog, the carriages, the gutter filled with mud and manure – but, most of all, the total absence of cameras, dollies or film personnel – troubled him deeply. He made for the end of the alleyway, which surely led into a main street. There would be cars, pedestrians; the clever illusion of isolation would be broken.

But when he reached the end of the alley, Tom could only stare in shock. It was Piccadilly Circus, but not as it had been the last time he had seen it. Gone were the screens, the Coca-Cola sign, the traffic. Instead, there were carriages of all kinds, and people in hats; and flower sellers, and pie merchants, and a man in a yellow driving coat drinking from the small fountain under the statue of Eros.

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