protection and safety and movement and freedom, and tumbled into the station even as the guard started to close the gates. “Hey, there’s been a—” he began.
“He’s got a gun, fucker!” Oda screamed at him.
The station manager looked from me, to Oda, to Mo. Oda, to prove her point, pulled out her own gun, fired two shots in the air and shouted, “Run for your lives!”
They ran, guard, manager, passengers and all. I loaded the full weight of Mo into Oda’s arms and staggered towards the ticket machines, fumbled for ever in my bag, looking for coins, anything, found some, bought a ticket for him, pulled out my own, handed Mo’s to Oda and snapped, “Get him through!”
We passed through the barrier and nearly fell into the hall inside, Oda crudely dragging Mo as she held their two tickets in her teeth. “Down, down!” I snapped, waving at the stairs. I felt movement behind me, turned back towards the half-open grille on the entrance; and there he was, Mr Pinner, walking in calmly out of the rain, shaking the droplets off his umbrella, which wasn’t even scratched, he wasn’t even scratched, the illusion of skin back on his face, all hint of paper gone, nothing torn, not even a thrown stitch in all his suit. He smiled at me and started to walk towards the barrier. I raised my travelcard, bracing myself for the spell, and began the incantation.
“These are the terms and conditions of carriage: ‘If you do not have an Oyster card with a valid season ticket and/or balance to pay as you go on it, you must have with you a valid printed ticket(s) . . .’”
He hesitated, seeing what I was doing, seeing the air thicken between us as I threw myself into the protective spell, invoking all that was sacred about the Underground.
“‘. . . available for the whole of the journey you are making. You may use your printed ticket in accordance with these conditions. All printed tickets remain our property and we may withdraw or cancel . . .’”
Then, he turned his head towards the nearest ticket machine, and walked towards it. The spirit went out of me; I nearly fell under the weight of my own travelcard. He pressed a button, chose a ticket, started to dig into his pocket for change, couldn’t find any, looked up at the empty glass where the station manager should have been selling, then smashed it with the end of his umbrella in a single swipe and reached through for the cash till.
I screamed at Oda, “It’s not going to work! Move!”
She’d already dragged Mo down to the bottom of the stairs. We took the steps two a time after her, skidded on the dirt-engrained tiles at the bottom, grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her towards the platform.
“What do you mean it’s not going to work?” she shrieked. “I thought that spell of yours stopped everything!”
“It stops everything that doesn’t have a right to be on the Underground,” I replied, looking up for the indicator board, “and he’s buying a fucking ticket as we speak!”
And there was the indicator -1. High Barnet via Bank - 3 mins
2. Edgware via Bank - 9 mins
3. Edgware via CharingX - 15 minsGIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME
“Can we use the train?”
“Depends how much change he can find for the ticket,” I snapped, shoving her towards the further end of the platform. We dumped Mo on the concrete floor, and I turned to look back, searching for inspiration, protection, anything. I felt in my satchel, found a can of blue spray paint, started to draw the symbol of the Underground; then I thought better, switched to a can of red and drew the twin crosses, one inside the other, muttering, “Domine dirige nos, please, please, domine bloody dirige nos . . .”
The paint began to burn on the concrete in front of me.
“Sorcerer!” shrilled Oda.
“Not right now!”
“Matthew!”
I glanced back.
Mo was lying on the floor, and he was blinking.
“He’s awake!”
GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK MY HAT GIVE ME BACK
“I’m glad for him!” I snapped. “Seriously!”
“Matthew!!”
I glanced back and Mo was pointing; he had raised one hand the colour of a spilt biro and was pointing at the indicator. “‘Give me back . . .’” he whispered, and his voice was full of popping bubbles; little spurts of black ink ruptured