* * *
In the milling group waiting beside the stairs, Sefton had managed to strike up conversations with a few people, by just rudely butting in. It seemed to be the sort of interaction they were used to. He was being the classic undercover — not asking questions, but instead, annoyingly, moving the conversation away from the subject, making people focus on it again, while listening to what was said in the background. It turned out that what was most on the minds of these people was what was going to change about this venue. They mentioned a number of other pubs they might try, and Sefton made a mental note of them. Then there was the issue of whether or not the Ripper murders were going to be pinned on ‘their lot’. These people were unsure if there was anyone aware enough of ‘their lot’ to be doing any such pinning. There was a little bit of a paranoid streak to them; they seemed pretty certain that soon enough bad things would happen. He caught whispers from people who’d look in his direction, and when he noticed and returned the gaze, look away: too many outsiders, too many changes. He heard someone refer to the Ripper as ‘proper London’, but there were urgent denunciations of that until the person who’d said it had to admit that they didn’t know anything about what was going on now, that they’d been talking about the Ripper as part of London history.
The people who were doing the talking here, all in all, seemed to need to gossip about everything surrounding the Ripper murders but appeared not to have any idea how or why they were being committed. They were as scared and puzzled as any other slice of the general public. Like the general public, they were in general much more concerned about their own patch. But there were also those here who weren’t talking. Sefton saw a couple of sighing expressions, a couple of looks that suggested that what might be the Sighted members of this community had seen what Quill’s team had seen when they’d watched the news on television. Those were the ones who didn’t gossip so easily.
He found himself making surprised eye contact with Costain when both the non-undercover members of his team suddenly took it upon themselves to do what they themselves had decided was beyond their operational parameters and move on down to the next level, without even consulting them. He lost the expression swiftly as he looked back to beardy waistcoat, who was beside him, now looking nervous.
‘I can’t see anything there,’ he said, nodding towards the stairwell. ‘Can you?’
Sefton didn’t know how to answer him. Here was a surprise: beardy waistcoat was someone Privileged, who knew how to at least make a start at using the occult power of London, or so he’d indicated, but who wasn’t himself one of the Sighted. Seeing that look on Sefton’s face, he looked suddenly crestfallen. ‘I know you’re able to — I can tell when someone can; I mean, I pick up on the body language-’
‘Mate, I’m just learning about this stuff too-’
‘But there’s nothing to stop me trying to go down there, is there? To support you, if nothing else. Whether or not change is coming to the Goat tonight, we ought to be allowed access to … whatever that man is guarding. Come on, we succeed or fail together.’ Suddenly he was off, taking his place in the actual queue which was now forming out of the vague one, and Sefton could only feel he should go with him. The abusive woman had just gone down the stairs, and in front of them now was one of the angrier-looking young men of the hipster crowd. The man with the book invited him to step forward, making that checking gesture again with one hand. The youth did so, and walked straight over the top of the stairwell, his feet walking on what looked to Sefton like empty air, keeping going until he’d covered the space to the far wall. Then, furious, he whirled, looking back at the gatekeeper.
Who stared calmly back at him.
The bouncer took a concerned step from his corner.
After a moment of considering his options, the young man turned on his heel and marched for the door. The gatekeeper looked back to Sefton and beardy waistcoat, and visibly sighed when he saw Sefton. Here came more trouble.
Sefton’s instinct as an undercover was to avoid confrontation. He really should just walk forward, deal with the man’s gesture, get down the stairs, if being able to block the gesture and see the stairs was enough, if there wasn’t actually full-on apartheid in place. But in character — maybe in reality too — he didn’t feel like being allowed to go anywhere.
‘What are you reading?’ he asked the man. His first question of the night. Actually it was more of a challenge.
The gatekeeper looked surprised. He held up his book, which had a blank cover. Blue, tatty, like an ancient library book. Sefton had wondered if there was a list of people inside it, to go with the gesture and the ability to see what you were walking down. To get a look at that list might be valuable. He plucked the book out of the man’s hands and opened it. He could feel beardy waistcoat behind him, going with it, craning to look at what was revealed inside these pages. Sefton realized, in that second, that he’d already handled books that could have done him considerable harm, that he’d just been unprofessionally reckless. That was where playing this character had led him. No, there was nothing inside this book to harm him. Indeed, there was nothing. The fine dusty pages were blank. Genuinely blank. It was just a prop, something to shore up this man’s authority. If there were rules, they weren’t written down. Sefton flicked all the way through to make sure, then he gave it back to the man, who was now smiling patronizingly at him. ‘Thanks,’ said Sefton, ‘didn’t like the ending.’ The look on the man’s face said that Sefton had really pushed it, that now it would be touch and go whether to let him in. Finally, the man made the gesture and Sefton bounced his silent question away and he was allowed to proceed.
He was about to go down the stairs, but from behind him came an odd, awkward laugh. ‘A book of rules?’ It was beardy waistcoat, looking baffled at Sefton. ‘I could see they’re written in a very tight hand, but I didn’t get a good look at a single one of them. What was that you said about the ending? Come on, did you see how to do this?’
The gatekeeper looked despairingly at the young man. He didn’t even bother to make the gesture. He just slowly shook his head.
‘Oh, come on, this isn’t fair. Tonight we were told we were going to be allowed…’ Beardy waistcoat looked pleadingly to Sefton, who could only look steadily back in return. Anger made the young man’s face suddenly flush. The oppressed minority he’d thought he was doing a favour to had progressed further than he had. ‘I’ve worked so hard…’
The gatekeeper looked towards the diffuse, impatient queue that was standing all around, and by implication to the bouncer, who was even now sauntering over.
Beardy gave Sefton a look that could kill. A look like a mask falling that Sefton felt he would remember for a long time. Then he was pushing his way back through the crowd, heading for the door.
Sefton turned and calmly walked down the stairs.
* * *
Costain had noted the reaction to the bouncer from the guy who hadn’t been allowed down the stairwell. So the bouncer could be seen by everyone, not just the Sighted. He wandered over and found himself casually standing next to the man. If this was a man, a real person. He looked real enough.
‘Excuse me, kind sir,’ he said, ‘I was thinking I might head downstairs. May I?’ Asking questions in this circumstance was something his character, the newbie, would certainly do.
The bouncer barely reacted. ‘Depends,’ he said. He sounded like a clichéd comedy bouncer too, brutal vowels and hardly opening his mouth. ‘Are you on the list?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Then you’re not on the list.’
‘Where is this list?’
‘You can’t see the list.’
‘Who else is on the list?’
‘Are you on the list?’