The Elsewhere Emporium by Ross Mackenzie

Author:Ross Mackenzie [Ross MacKenzie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782505389
Publisher: Floris Books
Published: 2018-12-08T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

A HOLE IN THE WORLD

London, 1967

It was after one in the morning, and London was mostly still. Occasionally the Rolls Royce Phantom would pass a group of swaying drunks spilling out of a club in their brightly coloured clothes, or meet the lights of a taxi, but for the most part the city slept, the streets and buildings taking time to breathe before the morning brought chaos and traffic and a million hurried pairs of feet.

“Just look at those short skirts,” said Mrs Hennypeck in a disapproving tone as the Phantom sped past the entrance to a trendy club. “You can see their knees! And the men! Some of them have longer hair than the women!”

“It’s fashion,” Flintwitch shrugged. He was ten years old, but he dressed smartly in the mod style, wearing a sharply cut suit and a long, high-collared coat. He was growing his tightly curled black hair out a bit, but kept it very neat.

“Mrs Hennypeck doesn’t get out much.” Mr Ivy smiled and leaned forward. “Kenworth, how much further?”

“Almost there, sir. Just around this corner.”

The car pulled up, and out climbed the investigators. They stood at the centre of a circular junction in the shadow of an impressively tall stone sundial pillar, and from the circle seven narrow streets broke off, winding away out of sight on all sides. This was Seven Dials, a famous London landmark. Mr Charles Dickens himself had written about the colourful characters that had lived in the Seven Dials area back in the 1800s, the scallywags and street urchins and dregs of society. But as much as the great Mr Dickens knew about London, about its back streets and its alleyways, even he would have been astounded by what happened when Mr Ivy approached the sundial pillar and placed his hand upon the column of stone.

Seven Dials.

Seven streets.

But no…

Look again.

When Mr Ivy removed his hand from the pillar, there were eight streets. Another entrance had appeared, narrower than the rest, and smells of roasting chestnuts and paraffin, of cold autumn air and coal smoke drifted from the entrance. This was the way to Salem Road, London’s magic district.

Mr Ivy rushed onwards. “Hurry now.”

Mrs Hennypeck bristled. “In case you’ve forgotten, Mr Ivy, I happen to be deceased.”

“It doesn’t stop your mouth running, does it?” mumbled Flintwitch.

“What? What was that you said?”

“Oh, nothing…”

Salem Road was cobbled and uneven, lined with jaunty shops and buildings all joined together, with the odd alleyway or court leading into some unseen darkness. The road was a series of twists and turns, and in places it doubled back on itself and then carried on in another direction. Even at this late hour (or early, depending on your viewpoint) there were a handful of shops open, and warm light from their windows fell on the pavement in bars of gold.

The carried on until, at last, they saw a worried-looking woman standing half-in, half-out of a doorway.

“Are you from the Bureau?” she asked.

Mr Ivy took the wallet out of his coat, showed her his badge.

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