The Grade IV White Witch and leader of North London’s Coven of St James the Elder was spattered in pink paint, not a nice pink, either, but a shade that could best be described as Tired Marshmallow. “I was preparing a philtre for Deirdre,” she explained, “because her sex life has taken a turn for the worse again. She met a Polish bus driver with a habit of calling round at three A.M., and the trouble is he’s on nights, so he’d park a bus full of passengers outside her house while he came in.”
“That must have been inconvenient.”
“Not really. His route goes past her house.”
“I meant for her.”
“Oh, yes, that was the problem. She’d wanted to meet a man with his own transport, but technically of course he doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t what?”
“Own it. So I needed fennel for the potion. And cheese-and-onion crisps.”
“You put crisps in a love potion?”
“No, I was just hungry. So I put some bacon into the eye-level grill and went to the shops.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, you layer crisps on either side of the bacon and it makes a wonderful sandwich.”
“No, I mean why did you leave the grill unattended?”
“You know how my concentration has been since I fell off my bike.”
“No, how?”
“It wasn’t a question. Anyway, when I came back, the kitchen was on fire. Luckily I’d left a plastic washing-up bowl full of water on the rack above the grill, and when it melted it put out the flames.”
“That was a piece of luck,” said Bryant with heavy sarcasm. “Just think, things could have turned out quite badly.” He surveyed the dripping, blackened remains of the kitchen.
“Well, they did,” said Maggie. “The Polish bus driver went back to his wife. And some of his passengers tried to sue him.”
“I don’t think you should make any more love potions.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a love potion. It was something to make him sleep so he’d go back on days. Unfortunately it worked too well. He fell asleep at the wheel and went through the window of a lap-dancing club in Liverpool Street. Which is why I’m painting the room pink. Because I can’t get the bacon smoke off.” She raised the chain of her spectacles and squinted at him through polka-dot lenses.
Talking to Maggie was like using some kind of malfunctioning space communicator. Bryant decided to get to the point and keep it simple. “I know you’ve got a memory like a sieve, but I did ask you on the phone whether you knew anything about odd happenings in underground stations. I can be more specific now. Magnetism.”
Maggie peered over the top of her paint-spattered spectacles and frowned at him. “Oh, you know about that, do you?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“No, I asked Yu.”
“Me?”
“No, Mrs Yu. I asked her to pop round. She’s in the garden.”
Maggie’s garden was a makeshift pet cemetery with a few desperate bluebells thrusting out of cracked paving stones. The goldfish had shuffled off its mortal coil in an earth-filled chimney pot, and even the budgie had embraced the light in a coal scuttle. Bryant looked out of the kitchen window and got a fright. For a moment he thought the moon had come out. Mrs Yu had a perfectly round white face and was peering in. She looked frozen.
“Sorry, love, I didn’t realise I’d locked you out,” said Maggie, opening the door.
“It’s bloody perishing in your yard,” said Mrs Yu. Although she was very Chinese in appearance, she had a strong cockney accent. “I was chatting to your dog.”
“Her dog’s dead,” said Bryant.
“Yes, he’s buried under the fishpond. Bolivar says he’s very happy, but he’s not so happy about being so near Happy.”
“I’m sorry?” said Bryant. Things were becoming confused again.
“Happy was my cat,” Maggie explained. “She’s buried near the dog, Bolivar. Mrs Yu knows a lot about atmospheric disturbances, so I invited her over. Plus, I wanted her to return my wok.”
Mrs Yu laughed a lot. She tittered at the end of every utterance. When she wasn’t laughing she was at least chuckling, and even when the chuckles faded she was still smiling. She plumped her big round frame down in the widest, most comfortable chair and elucidated. “So you want to know about magnetism. There was a story going around a few years ago about the tube. The guards started saying that the addition of extra metal floodgates throughout the system created some kind of supercharged atmospheric whirlpool. It was only supposed to happen when trains passed through the tunnels with great frequency, during rush hours. See, before that, electrical particles ionised the atmosphere and escaped upwards on the air currents. But the iron flood doors slowly became magnetized, creating differences in pressure that made passengers feel sick and dizzy.”
“I’m not sure I put much store in that,” said Maggie. “I mean, electrical whirlpools – it sounds a bit like those adverts for shower gel with ginseng extract to wake you up. You know, pseudo-science.”
“That’s good, coming from a woman who believes you can find water under the ground just by wandering about with a stick.”
“Dowsing is scientifically proven,” Maggie insisted. “I can always find water.”
“Of course you can,” said Bryant. “You’re a Londoner; it’s impossible to get away from the bloody stuff. So, no likelihood of someone becoming disoriented and passing out in the underground due to magnetic forces, then? Because I’ve heard there are powerful ley lines passing through King’s Cross.”
“That’s true,” said Mrs Yu, “but ley lines are just pathways between ancient sacred sites. There are other hidden powers at work under London. Wherever all four elements interact, you create conflict. King’s Cross is one of the very worst sites – ”
“What are you talking about?”
“The electric trains and power cables – fire. The underground rivers and pipelines – water. London clay – earth. The winds in the subway system – air. There are storms down there that disrupt the psychic atmosphere.”
“Meaning what exactly, you get headaches? You catch the wrong train? You start seeing dead people?”
Mrs Yu happily wagged a finger at him. “Ill humours are not such a crazy concept. The Victorians believed germs were transported through miasma – the air itself. That’s why they built Victoria Park in Mile End, as a barrier to protect the city’s rich property owners from working-class diseases. They thought the germs would float across to them on the breeze.”
“Yes, but they were wrong, weren’t they? John Snow discovered that cholera was water-borne. You think there’s such a thing as bad air?”
“Well, we know that electromagnetic disruption can actually make people ill, and the jury’s still out on radio masts, isn’t it? There’s still no proper air-conditioning in the London Underground system. Back when the trains were pulled by steam engines, the engineers tried everything to clear the air. They built ventilation shafts that came up behind fake house-fronts in Bayswater. Later, when the Victoria Line was built, a structure called the Tower of the Winds was constructed in a garden square up in Islington. It was meant to introduce cool breezes into the tunnels, but wasn’t much more successful.”
“I was just reading about plans to chill the subway system during heat waves by using water from the lost rivers,” Bryant interjected.
“Nothing ever works,” Mrs Yu said, tittering. “The air beneath King’s Cross remains old and stagnant. It’s polluted with all kinds of toxins, and its composition changes all the time.”