The radio crackled ceaselessly as we drove. 'Edgar Allan Poe to H. P. Lovecraft,' said the driver. 'Come in, H. P. Lovecraft.'
'H. P. Lovecraft to Edgar Allan Poe,' said the voice from the radio. 'H. P. Lovecraft to Edgar Allan Poe. What's your position?'
'Approaching Harrow Road,' said the driver. 'Update on the situation, please.'
'Marylebone Road is no go. Repeat. Marylebone Road is no go.'
'What do you suggest?'
'Stay out of the West End. Repeat. The West End is a war zone. Your best bet is the North Circular. Repeat. The North Circular is your best bet.' The speaker sounded curiously jovial.
'Camden? Finsbury Park?' asked the driver.
'Dodgy. Very dodgy. Repeat. The North Circular is your best bet. Over and out.'
The driver grinned over his shoulder at me. 'Don't worry, lady. We're taking the scenic route, but we'll get you there.'
'I'm not worried,' I said, and I wasn't. I had one silver bullet left, and it wasn't for me.
We headed north. There were people out on the streets here, but the action was elsewhere, and they weren't hanging around. There was a lot of traffic, but my driver didn't let it put him off his stride. He wasn't sticking to the rules; he drove up on pavements, barged through red lights, and demolished a couple of sign-posts and a flower-stall. There were other sticky patches, but our car came off better than most of the others we encountered en route.
It was easier once we'd hit the North Circular, because most of the traffic was headed in the opposite direction. The driver relaxed, exchanged a few more words with H. P. Lovecraft, and fiddled with the radio dial until he was tuned into a music frequency. Presently he was whistling along to a disco version of the Anvil Chorus.
We were forced to take a minor detour through Palmers Green, but otherwise it was all plain sailing. I lit the last of Duncan's cigarettes and gazed through the tinted windows at the flickering light show in the skies to the south. It was Tottenham providing the fireworks now, but in a couple of hours it would be bonfire night all round town. And by then, I'd be swigging champagne at the Crillon.
As we swung south-east towards Wanstead, I felt the tiniest twinge of regret. But it soon passed. In a couple of months, Grauman had said, everything would be back to normal. Back to normal, if not quite the same as before. There would no longer be a train service during the day, he'd said. From now on, the trains would be running only at night.
But at least they'd be running on time.
THE END
About the Author
Anne Billson is a film critic, novelist and photographer whose work has been widely published.
Her books include horror novels Suckers, Stiff Lips and The Ex, as well as monographs on the films John Carpenter's The Thing and Tomas Alfredson's Let the Right One In.
In 1993 she was named one of Granta's 'Best Young British Novelists'.
She has lived in London, Tokyo, Cambridge, Paris and Croydon, and currently lives in Brussels.
She has three blogs:
multiglom.com (the Billson blog)
catsonfilm.net (a blog about films that have cats in them)
lempiredeslumieres.com (a blog about Belgium)