‘Why here?’ asked Danni as we approached the hoarding.
‘They pick a location,’ I said, ‘usually one that’s being renovated or left derelict, and move in for a couple of days. I think there’s some underlying pattern to the locations but I’m not sure I’ve figured it out yet.’
I did the police knock, a series of hard slaps with the palm of my hand, on the word CIRCUS and it opened by ten centimetres to reveal a teenaged white girl dressed incongruously in a blue knit twinset and pearls and a blond pageboy wig.
‘George sent me,’ I said.
‘Fuck off,’ she said. ‘We’re rammed.’
‘Alice,’ I said, ‘why do we have to do this every time I come to the fair?’
The girl shrugged.
‘One – you’re the filth,’ she said. ‘Two – you’re still barred from that time in Kentish Town, and three …’ She held up three fingers but managed to give the effect of two. ‘I’m not joking, we’re fucking rammed in here – come back later.’
‘You don’t want us to come back later,’ I said. ‘Let us in and I promise nothing will get broken. Promise.’
‘Swear?’
‘Swear.’
‘Swear on your about-to-be kids’ lives,’ she said.
Christ, I thought, does everybody in the demi-monde know about the twins?
‘I swear I won’t start nothing,’ I said. ‘Unless you don’t let me in.’
The door opened and Alice stepped aside to let us in. Once inside, I glanced down into the basement area and was surprised to see it full of punters. As was typical of the demi-monde, they were mostly white and dressed as variedly as any London street crowd. Maybe more hats than you might see normally – three or four pork pies, some baseball caps and one operatic topper, the last belonging to an elderly gent in a cape and black three-piece suit. Despite the drizzle, they were standing around chatting with drinks in their hands like a bunch of smokers outside a pub.
The actual front door was completely missing, as was the door frame and the exterior casing. Beyond, a generously proportioned hallway ran into the house, with a staircase a third of the way in. This, too, was so crowded that it reminded me of the pound parties I went to in my teens – all that was missing was a massive sound system vibrating our ribcages and clouds of ganja smoke. I asked Alice where the stalls were and she pointed down.
‘Hallo, darling,’ said a white person with an androgynous face, blue-black hair and a raven perched on their shoulder. The bird gave me a suspicious look, although I think the ‘darling’ might have been for Danni. ‘Fancy a drink?’ they asked brightly.
‘Maybe later,’ I said, and squeezed past.
‘Fair enough,’ they said.
Downstairs was much bigger than upstairs, and I realised that house must have been undergoing one of those super basement extensions beloved of all those rich people who think living in London as nothing more than a shopping opportunity. This was obviously going to be a combination gym and swimming pool – making it modestly sized by oligarch standards – and since I nearly once drowned in a basement pool I was quite glad that the builders hadn’t finished it yet. Instead, the pool area had been dug out and lined with cement but not painted or filled. A wooden ramp extended down to the bottom, where half a dozen full-sized market stalls were arrayed. Builders’ lights in metal cages hung from the ceiling and patches of what looked like red soundproofing material had been attached to the walls at random intervals.
At the front of the house, still with its original door out into the area, a makeshift bar had been set up on trestle tables and was keeping a crowd suitably lubricated. I could smell spilt beer and wet coats, but underneath was the piping grind of a fairground automatic organ murdering something baroque by Handel. I knew it was Handel because the older Thames girls are very big on his music for some reason. To fit a decent-sized pool in, the builders had been forced to butt one side right up against the wall. But the other side had what I assumed was going to be a lounging area. Along that area smaller stalls had been arranged and one, near the far end, I recognised. It seemed a good place to start.
I told Danni to check down in the pool area and see if she could see if anyone was selling jewellery.
‘I see someone I know,’ I said.
The stall was tall and narrow, with a miniature proscenium arch elaborately carved with small birds, branches, grinning theatrical masks and frowning moon faces, all painted metallic silver or gold. The stall was topped with a black pointed witch’s hat of a roof made from pleated black canvas. The whole thing looked like a gothic Punch and Judy booth. The sign above the opening read Artemis Vance: Purveyor of Genuine Charms, Cantrips, Fairy Lures and Spells.
I slapped my hand on the side of the booth and called ‘Shop!’
A young white man popped up from somewhere in the recesses of the booth. He had silver-white hair cut short at the sides and gelled up into spikes at the top. He was wearing a blue and red pinstriped jacket over a ruffled white shirt. This was Artemis Vance. I saw, from the widening of his eyes, that he recognised me straight away.
‘No refunds!’ he said loudly.
‘No refunds for what?’ I asked.
In fact, come to think of it, the last time we’d met he’d sold my cousin Abigail a completely worthless charm. But then, had it been truly enchanted I wouldn’t have let her keep it.
‘Just no refunds in general,’ said Artemis – deflating somewhat. ‘As a general principle.’
‘You remember me, right?’
‘I’m not going to forget the Isaacs, am I?’ he said. ‘So what can I, in my humble capacity as purveyor of quality enchantments, do you for?’
‘What do you know about jewellery?’
‘And in what form does your desire for adornment find its expression?’
‘Enchanted jewellery,’ I said. ‘Rings, in particular.’
‘Aha!’ said Artemis, and dropped briefly out of sight before popping up again with a pair of blue jeweller’s trays. He laid them out before me, each with six rings gleaming amongst the velvet. Most of them were gold and half of them had stones. Of the non-gold rings, none appeared to be platinum.
‘Are they enchanted?’ I asked.
Artemis straightened up, puffed out his chest and made a theatrical gesture at the rings.
‘They are as puissant as they are required to be for the purposes for which they have been wrought,’ he said.
‘So no,’ I said.
‘Not so you’d notice,’ said Artemis.
He watched, frowning, as I brushed my fingertips over each ring in turn – it always pays to be thorough. None of them were enchanted, though, and I’m pretty certain half of them were costume jewellery.
‘Got anything with a bit of zing?’ I asked, and Artemis gave me a bland look.
‘Define “zing”,’ he said, and I gave him the police stare. The aim of the stare is to convey cynicism combined with weary patience. I know you’re about to lie to me but because I am a hugely magnanimous agent of state power, I’m willing to give you a moment to think better of it. Seawoll probably gave his midwife that stare just after she smacked him, but it took me years to perfect it.
Artemis licked his lips.
‘Not rings,’ he said. ‘Alas, nobody seeks to enchant jewellery any more.’
Apparently enchantment, as it was practised in these ‘degenerate modern times’, was confined to low-level protective charms cast on door locks, bicycles and family shrines. So I asked who used to enchant jewellery.
‘The Sons of Wayland,’ he said without hesitation.
Of course, I thought. Them again.
‘And where can I find these sons of Raymond?’ I asked, because know-it-alls can never resist ignorance.