She has no destination in mind. She has no sense of time passing. She feels no sense of achievement at having run so far, so fast. The best she can possibly hope for, she knows, is the oblivion of exhaustion. And so she runs with her backpack through the broad, bare London streets in her running shoes that do not match her leggings or her T-shirt: runs past the displays of jewellery, of toys and household objects; feet pounding the pavement slabs; running, as if from a predator.
And yet, there is something different tonight. Something in the air, perhaps. She remembers that it is Michaelmas, the end of the harvest season. Even the city knows it somehow, in its ancient, forest heart. The shadows will lengthen after this: the city will swing into darkness. The leaves are already falling fast; there is a change in the sound of the wind. And tonight, the sky is cold and clear, with the full moon standing sentinel.
There are no stars in London. The city is too bright for their pure, cold light to compete. But the moon is full for the second time this month, and larger than she remembers. They call that a blue moon, she tells herself. She does not recall how she knows this. The blue moon rises above Shaftesbury Avenue, luminous as a jellyfish. She moves to get a better view, and as she does, her foot catches on something. Only on looking down does she realize that the paving stone on which she is standing is cracked right down the middle. For a moment she is still, looking down at the paving stone. It must be a trick of the moonlight, but in that moment it looks as if the stone is illuminated from below; as if there is a crack in the world, through which a light is shining.
She does not know for how long she stands, pinned by that mysterious light. But it is in that time – seconds, or hours, she does not know – that Fay slips through the crack in the Worlds, into another story.
Two
She must have blanked out for a moment, she thought. Wasn’t the blue harvest moon supposed to have magical properties? Fay did not believe in such things. But there was something magical here. She felt it like an ache in her teeth; her mouth was filled with sweetness.
She looked down, but the light at her feet had been replaced by a shadow so dark that she could not see the ground. The lights from the theatres and billboards were gone, overlaid with darkness. And there was a scent, too; a distant scent of woodsmoke. Woodsmoke, on Shaftesbury Avenue? Looking towards Piccadilly, she saw that all the streetlights were out. On Regent Street; on Coventry Street; around the Shaftesbury fountain. The Coca-Cola sign was dead; and over Piccadilly Circus there was nothing but moonlight…
A power cut, she told herself. Or maybe a cost-cutting measure. At this time of night, who would even know? And yet it made her uneasy to see the familiar landmarks darkened. It made her imagine all kinds of things hiding in the shadows. She made her way slowly down the street towards Piccadilly Circus. The scent of woodsmoke was stronger now, mingled with something else; a scent of cedar and spices and sandalwood. Looking up, there was another surprise: she could finally see the stars.
Three
Her eyes took a minute or two to adjust, but the moonlight was surprisingly bright; bright enough to cast shadows, and the stars formed an astonishing bridge of light, spanning the city skyline. There was no light at all from the streets: no shops, no billboards; no street lamps. Even Centre Point was dark. The power cut must be city-wide. Except for a dim and flickering glow around the entrance to the Tube, a glow that looked like firelight.
Slowly, Fay moved closer. The scent of smoke was stronger still, making her think of Bonfire Night, and fallen leaves, and fireworks. As she reached the statue of Eros, she saw a group of people huddled around a burning container, which might have been a galvanized pail. They looked like homeless people; their faces bright with reflected fire. Fay counted five; a pale man with long hair; a teenage girl in a wheelchair; a woman in a long coat and two others of ambiguous gender, one slender and purple-haired, the other heavily tattooed, and wearing a patch over one eye. They turned towards her as she approached: even in that moment of calm, they looked ready for battle or flight. They could have been storybook travellers, she thought, sitting around a campfire; pirates, on the deck of a ship; adventurers in a hostile land.
She raised a hand in greeting. ‘What happened to the lights?’ she said.
The pale man, who was closest to her, gave her an appraising look. His eyes were dark and pinned with gold, like spinners in the firelight. Looking at the Tube entrance, Fay saw that the gate was open, and there was a haphazard pile of tents all the way down the stairs and beyond.
Daisy had a tent, she thought: midnight-blue, and embroidered with stars. She used to sleep there in summertime, on a bed of cushions, surrounded by stuffed animals – cats and bears and elephants; tigers and dogs and unicorns. The animals were supposed to stop the Shadowless Man from getting in. But the Shadowless Man always got in. However many mirrors they placed, or animal guardians, or strings of lights. The Shadowless Man would always come, with his sackful of dreams. Fay wondered if she was dreaming now. And she realized, with a little jolt, that for the past ten minutes or so, she had not thought of Daisy at all.
‘You’re limping,’ said the pale man. ‘Sit down.’ He indicated a fishing chair set up by the side of the fire pail. His voice was gently accented, but she could not tell the region. Now Fay could see him more clearly, she saw that his dark hair had been shaved along one side and left to grow long on the other. A sickle of diamond studs in one ear gave him a corona of fire.
‘What you run for, anyway?’ said the girl in the wheelchair. Her voice, too, was accented – more so than her companion’s – and her face was broad and brown, her eyes as bright as a bird’s. ‘You a fitness freak, or what?’
Fay shook her head.
‘So what do you do?’
‘I used to sing.’ It was true, though now it seemed like a story to her, a montage from another life. She remembered singing Daisy to sleep with songs from Assassins and Company: remembered how Daisy slept on the couch in the dressing room at the Palace, or watched her from the wings at the Queen’s, her eyes drowned in reflected lights.
‘You famous, then?’ said the girl. ‘Done anything I might’ve heard of?’
Fay shrugged. That’s what they always ask. They always imagine it’s glamorous. A few stage roles in the West End, back when Allan was alive. Some concert tours, with songs from the shows. There was even a CD or two. Then mostly ensembles, and character parts, then panto and adverts, and audiobooks. Then nothing. It had been years since she sang. She wondered if she still knew how; what would happen if she tried.
‘I quit. I lost my voice,’ she said.
‘Too bad,’ said the girl in the wheelchair. ‘Where did it go? Down the back of the sofa, I’ll bet, or over the sea to Norroway.’
Did she really say that? thought Fay. Or did I just imagine it? Since Daisy died she has been finding it hard to separate dream and reality. Dreams are supposed to be unreal, filled with fantastic details. But now it is reality that seems like make-believe to Fay; a world turned on its head, in which Daisy no longer has a part.
‘Quiet, Cobweb,’ said the man. ‘Mind your manners. We have a guest.’ Once more addressing Fay, he said: ‘Don’t mind her. She means no harm. Sit with us awhile, and rest. These are my friends. Cobweb, you met. Here’s Mabs, and over there are Moth and Peronelle.’ He indicated the other two; Moth with the tattoos and the eyepatch; Peronelle with the purple hair. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Alberon.’