In the light of the window, he consulted his watch. Three—forty: the day was almost gone. Bartimaeus had not yet returned.
As dusk fell, men with hooked poles emerged from the shops opposite and pulled the night—grilles down in front of their display windows. For several minutes, the rattles and crashes echoed along the road from both directions, like portcullises being dropped at a hundred castle gates. Yellow streetlights came on, one by one, and Nathaniel saw thin curtains being drawn in the windows above the shops. Buses with lit windows rumbled past; people hurried along the pavements, anxious to get home.
Still Bartimaeus did not come. Nathaniel paced impatiently about the cold, dark room. The delay enraged him. Yet again he felt powerless, at the mercy of events. It was just as things had always been. In every crisis, from Lovelace's first attack the year before, to the murder of Mrs. Underwood, Nathaniel had been unable to respond—his weakness had cost him dearly every time. But things would change now. He had nothing holding him back, nothing left to lose. When the djinni returned, he would—
"Evening edition! Latest news!"
The voice came faintly to him from along the darkening street. Pressing his head against the leftmost window, he saw a small weak light come swinging along the pavement. It hung from a long pole above a wobbling handcart. The paperboy, back again.
For a few minutes Nathaniel watched the boy's approach, deliberating with himself. In all probability, there was no point in buying another paper: little would have changed since the morning. But The Times was his only link with the outside world; it might give him more information—about the police search for him, or the conference. Besides, he would go mad if he didn't do something. He rummaged in a pocket and checked his change. The result decided him. Treading carefully in the half—light, he crossed to the staircase, descended to the ground floor and squeezed past the loose plank into the side alley.
"One copy, please." He caught up with the paperboy just as he was wheeling his cart round a corner, off the main street. The boy's cap was hanging from the back of his head; a sprig of white hair spilled out onto his brow. He looked round and gave a slightly toothless grin.
"You again. Still out on the streets?"
"One copy." It seemed to Nathaniel that the boy was staring at him. He held his coins out impatiently. "It's all right—I've got the money."
"Never said you hadn't, chum. Trouble is, I've just sold out." He indicated the empty interior of his cart. "Lucky for you, my mate will have some left. His pitch isn't so lucrative as mine."
"It doesn't matter." Nathaniel turned to go.
"Oh, he'll be just along here. Won't take a minute. I always meet him near the Nag's Head at the end of the day. Just round the next corner."
"Well…" Nathaniel hesitated. Bartimaeus could be back at any time, and he'd been told to stay inside. Told? Who was the master here? It was just round the corner; it would be fine. "All right," he said.
"Dandy. Come on, then." The boy set off, the wheel of his cart squeaking and shaking on the uneven stones. Nathaniel went beside him.
The side road was less frequented than the main highway, and few people passed them before they arrived at the next corner. The lane beyond was quieter still. A little way along it was an inn, a squat and ugly building with a flat roof and gray pebbledash walls. An equally squat and ugly horse was depicted on a badly painted sign, hanging above the door. Nathaniel was disconcerted to see a small vigilance sphere hovering unobtrusively beside it.
The paperboy seemed to sense Nathaniel's hesitation. "Don't worry; we're not going near the spy. It only watches the door, acts as a deterrent. Doesn't work, mind. Everyone at the Nag's Head just goes in the back. Anyway, here's old Fred."
A narrow alley ran off from the lane at an angle between two houses, and at its entrance another handcart had been parked. Behind it, in the shadows of the alley, a tall youth wearing a black leather jacket lounged against the wall. He was eating an apple methodically and regarding them from under lowered eyelids.
"Hello, Fred," the paperboy said heartily. "I've brought a chum to see you."
Fred said nothing. He took a giant bite out of the apple, chewed it slowly with his mouth slightly open, and swallowed. He eyed Nathaniel up and down.
"He's after an evening paper," the boy explained.
"Is he?" Fred said.
"Yeah, I'd run out. And he's the one I was telling you of and all," the paperboy added quickly. "He's got it on him now."
At this, Fred straightened, stretched, tossed the remains of the apple down the alley and turned to face them. His leather jacket squeaked as he moved. He stood head—and—shoulders taller than Nathaniel and was broad—chested too; a sea of spots on his chin and cheeks did nothing to detract from his slightly menacing appearance. Nathaniel felt a little uneasy, but drew himself up and spoke with as much brusque confidence as he could. "Well, do you have one? I don't want to waste my time."
Fred looked at him. "I've run out of papers too," he said.
"Don't worry. I didn't really need it." Nathaniel was only too eager to depart.
"Hold on—" Fred stretched out a large hand and grabbed him by a sleeve. "No
need to run off so quick. It ain't curfew yet."
"Get off me! Let me go!" Nathaniel tried to shake himself free. His voice felt tight and high.
The paperboy patted him on the back in a friendly manner. "Don't panic. We're not looking for trouble. We don't look like magicians, do we? Well then. We just want to ask you a few questions, don't we, Fred?"
"That's right." Fred seemed to exert no effort, but Nathaniel found himself drawn into the alley, out of sight of the inn along the street. He did his best to quell his mounting fear.
"What do you want?" he said. "I haven't got any money."
The paperboy laughed. "We're not trying to rob you, chum. Just a few ques
tions, like I said. What's your name?"
Nathaniel swallowed. "Um… John Lutyens."
"Lutt—chens? Aren't we posh? So what are you doing round here, John?
Where's your home?"
"Er, Highgate." As soon as he said it, he guessed it was a mistake.
Fred whistled. The paperboy's tone of voice was politely skeptical. "Very nice.
That's a magician's part of town, John. You a magician?"
"No."
"What about your friend?"
Nathaniel was momentarily taken aback. "My—my friend?"
"The good—looking dark kid you were with this morning."
"Him? Good—looking? He's just someone I met. I don't know where he's gone."
"Where did you get your new clothes?"
This was too much for Nathaniel to take. "What is this?" he snapped. "I don't have to answer all this! Leave me alone!" A trace of imperiousness had returned to his manner. He had no intention of being interrogated by a pair of commoners—the whole situation was absurd.
"Simmer down," the paperboy said. "We're just interested in you—and in what you've got in your coat."
Nathaniel blinked. All he had in his pocket was the scrying glass, and no one had seen him use that, he was sure. He'd only taken it out in the library. "My coat? There's nothing in it."
"But there is," Fred said. "Stanley knows—don't you, Stanley?"
The paperboy nodded. "Yup."
"He's lying if he says he's seen anything."
"Oh, I ain't seen it," the boy said.
Nathaniel frowned. "You're talking nonsense. Let me go, please." This was insufferable! If only Bartimaeus was to hand, he would teach these commoners the meaning of respect.
Fred squinted at his watch in the gloom of the alley. "Must be getting on to curfew, Stanley. Want me to take it off him?"