Debris & Detritus Page 9

  “Of course,” Tony patted the breast pocket of his black wool trench coat. “Calfskin.”

  “That’s all right then.” With her left hand, she hefted the handbag back to her face and stumbled away from Tony toward the concourse.

  Within two steps, his right hand rested on the small of her back to guide her through Tottenham Court Road tube station, past the construction barriers, and into the queue for the escalator.

  She remained unusually silent throughout.

  “Just showin’ ’im I’m ’ard enough.” In spite of hours of dedicated practice his new accent had more in common with Dick Van Dyke singing jolly songs with a broom than any East End wide boy.

  Moira jerked her arm free of from her bag and held the Oyster up toward the overhead lights. “Found you,” she said under her breath and stepped onto the escalator. “I don’t remember waking up this morning with a fucking chav. A pompous ass . . . ”

  “Oi!” He stepped onto the escalator one riser below her, leaned forward, hooked his chin over her left shoulder. His posh accent purred in her ear. “Is this better?”

  “Yes.” She spun to face him, seized the lapels of his coat, and jerked him forward. Her lips brushed his as she said, “I don’t sleep with chavs.”

  “Never?”

  “Not ever.” In one graceful motion, she turned, stepped off of the escalator, and flicked the hood of her black wool coat over her head.

  “Whose Oyster card’s that?” Arm looped across her shoulders, he kept her close and his face hidden from CCTV as they queued for the turnstile.

  “How do you know it isn’t mine?”

  “Yours has a picture of St. Paul’s and The Gherkin. That one has a picture of Kate and Wills.”

  He was rewarded with the beginnings of a smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “It’s Hunter’s alibi.”

  “Is that today? Too bad for Simon. We’ll have to do flowers or somfing for the funeral.”

  “It’ll be your funeral if you don’t stop it with the Jason Statham-Guy Ritchie nonsense.” She veered out from under his arm, cut into the queue to her right, and slapped the alibi-generating Oyster card against the reader. Careful to keep her face turned away from the CCTV cameras, she pushed through the gray plastic barriers and let them flap closed behind her.

  Tony ducked his head into his scarf and pulled his driving cap low over his ears as he sidled through the barriers to rejoin Moira.

  Buzzers sounded behind them. A wave of British Transport Police jogged past in a beeline toward the locked barriers. The low murmur of the crowd turned to the disgruntled roar of a mob as more people realized they were trapped inside the station. As Tony turned to look back over his shoulder, Moira snagged his right arm and dragged him toward the Oxford Street escalators.

  “Don’t look,” Moira’s whispered with a shake of her head. “We’ve struck again.”

  “You don’t know that. Could be anything: system failure, hackers, strike.”

  “That’s our fault,” She threw off the hood and hooked her right thumb over her shoulder toward the station as they stepped out onto the pavement at Oxford Street. “We just broke the transport center of the Universe.”

  “Not this again.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll stop with the Cockney if you promise not to bang on about our being cursed.”

  “You have yet to sound Cockney—like the Queen having a stroke, but not Cockney.” She tugged at his arm with a tilt of her head toward Neal’s Yard. “Come on.”

  “No.” Tony set his feet. “I’m not going down there. I’d rather starve than eat another organic, vegan, three-bean and dirt salad, I don’t care how good it is for me. Never again. No.” His eyes lit up. “Look, Burger and Shake. Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “After our appointment.”

  “You lured me away from the office with the promise of food, not mysterious appointments.” His eyes narrowed. “Is it something to do with the wedding?”

  “You’ll see” failed to shift him toward Neal’s Yard. She heaved a sigh and said, “I swear to God there will not be salad, three-bean or otherwise.” There was a tight smile on her face, but the deep furrow between her eyebrows said, “I’m going to give you a kicking.”

  “Maybe this time the place won’t burn down.” Her brow smoothed, and she relaxed her stranglehold on his arm as they walked.

  “That wasn’t our fault.”

  “Their solicitor disagrees.” She led him down the twisting passage, past the scattering of café tables on the pavement to where the brickwork for Neal’s Yard Remedies met with Walk-in Back Rubs. “This is us.”

  “Which one?”

  “Here.” Moira pointed toward a narrow, arched doorway wedged between Walk-in Back Rubs and Neal’s Yard Remedies. The hobbit-sized blue door stood open below a beaten wood sign which squeaked in the winter wind. Upon the sign were the words, “Madame Charisma’s Psychic Services, Love Found and Fortunes Told.” Below the telephone number, in small Gothic script which followed the curved bottom of the sign were the words, “Curses Removed Upon Request.” Beyond the door, a flight of stairs climbed into darkness.

  “That door wasn’t here before.” He did slow sweep of the street with his eyes from right to left.

  “The door’s always been here.” She started up the narrow staircase, turned half-way up, and bent over to look back at Tony through the open door.

  “That door,” He leveled his index finger at the offending portal, “wasn’t there two minutes ago.” Hands balled into his trouser pockets, he rocked back on his heels, eyes fixed on the sign. “Where in the bloody hell did it come from?”

  A broad grin spread across her face. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  The office was covered in an array of rainbow-hued cushions, scarves, and throws and packed to the rafters with crystals, fairies, and other New Age baubles. Four uncurtained windows the height of the small room ran along one wall, allowing a weak winter haze to cast a gray pall over the blinding décor. The only surface not covered in cushions or crowded with fairies were the two bright orange fiberglass 1950s waiting room chairs upon which Tony and Moira perched.

  “Completely ordinary office, is it?” The stale patchouli and sandalwood incense trapped in the room’s thick air stung his eyes. He brushed tears with his knuckle and sniffled.

  “Yep.” From her handbag, she pulled a palm-sized, blue leather journal, a stainless steel Sharpie, and a tissue, which she passed to Tony. With the journal and the Sharpie safely gripped in her right hand, she pulled the bag’s cross-body strap over her head and let it land on the carpeted floor between their chairs.

  “You don’t think there’s something odd?” He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and then slid forward to balance on the lip of the chair’s seat. Resigned to twenty minutes of physical misery, he slid back into the beach ball-shaped seat indentation and tried to blink the incense out of his eyes.

  “Could do with a clear-out.” Her uncapped Sharpie hovered in expectation over a fresh page in the journal balanced on her right thigh. “The fairies look a bit evil.”

  “The fairies. Right.” He stared at a small pewter figure on the corner of the desk, certain it was either Ian McKellen as Gandalf or Merlin as, well, Merlin.

  A wisp of a middle-aged woman in full West End-costume-shop gypsy regalia, from her aubergine turban with gold lamé stars to her bedazzled slippers, slid into the room. Each of her pale arms was covered to the elbow in enough bangles to outfit a harem, which clattered as she moved across the room. She glided past them in a cloud of rosewater and threw open the window at Moira’s right.

  “I’m your psychic, Phyllida. Sorry about the smell, the place doesn’t half-reek. It’s all the hippies, you know, trying to dispel ghosts or spirits or some such shite.”

  “Where did she come from?” Tony scowled at Moira, his arms crossed tight against his chest.

  Moira blinked at him once, twice, then said, “Through the door in the panelin
g, you nonce.” She turned to Phyllida and asked, “Don’t you believe in ghosts?

  “Of course I do, pet, but a load of good it will do to try to gas them out of the place. That’ll never work. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “We have an appointment with Madame Charisma,” Moira tapped her pen on her journal, “at 1:15.”

  A cheeky grin spread across Tony’s face, and he raised his eyebrows as he peeked at Moira out of the corner of his eye.

  “I bought the business from her years ago now, flower; kept the name for continuity like. Keeps the older ones coming round, if you know what I mean. So, why are you here, luv? Is it ’cause of him?” There was an amused glint to her eyes as her sharp glaze flicked to Tony. “£150 to know the true love of your life. Small price to pay to be shot of shifty here.” She blinked and vanished for an instant, reappearing as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

  Tony shot forward in his chair, eyes riveted on Phyllida. Startling shades of neon pink, teal, and yellow eyeshadow were slathered across Phyllida’s eyelids, each blink a testament to the effectiveness of urban camouflage.

  To Moira, Phyllida said, “Special discount rate of £75, flower. He’s pretty enough—” she leaned forward across her desk and said in a conspiratorial stage whisper “—but he’s got some issues, dear.”

  “We’re cursed,” said Moira.

  “He’s not as bad as all that, like I said . . . ”

  “Your sign says, ‘Curses Removed Upon Request.’ Well, we would like to be uncursed.” Moira’s pen ratta-tat-tatted against the journal page. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Stunned, Phylllida’s head bobbled about on her neck. “Why do you think you’re cursed, dear?”

  Tony scratched his nose to hide his widening grin from Moira.

  “Well . . . ” Moira launched into a blow-by-blow account of the past twenty-four hours, starting with the morning’s accidental stoppage of the London Eye and ending with the Oyster card failure at Tottenham Court Road.

  Phyllida blinked in the silence, her brows knit over her nose.

  Tony flung his right hand up in mock exasperation and began to stand. “Fantastic. We can go now. I wonder if Burger and Shake is still serving lunch?”

  “You’re not going anywhere without me.” The tight look of certainty on her face brooked no further argument. Moira sat back in her chair and studied her nails. “And then there is the wedding to think of.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want that address, flower? I’m sure you can get most of your deposits back, and the dress will keep for the right one.”

  Tony dropped back into the chair and turned to Phyllida, all humor wiped from his face. “We’re cursed. Fix it.” He caught Moira’s eye and said, “I’ve paid a plum for this wedding, and I’d like to see it go off.”

  “And it’s affecting our work.” Moira turned to Tony, “Like that thing with Petrov’s video files.”

  “Oh, no—” Tony definitely waved his right index finger in the air “—that had nothing to do with me. He wanted the jump drive. I got him the jump drive. Not my fault the damn thing was blank. Just bad luck’s all.”

  “You can’t blackmail someone with a blank jump drive; now he wants us to—” Moira lapsed into a slurry Russia accent “—make it right.”

  “Oh, so you’re police then?” asked Phyllida.

  Both Moira and Tony’s eyes locked on her.

  “Ah, no,” said Moira.

  “Not exactly,” said Tony.

  “But . . . ” Phyllida’s voice trailed off. “Oh. Right. So, no blackmail for Mr. Petrov. Okay, I take it that’s bad. Right, uh . . . right.” She nestled back in her chair with a waggle of her hips, pressed her palms together in front of her chest, closed her eyes, and began to hum. Mere seconds later, her left eye flew open and fixed on Tony. “I have consulted with the spirits.”

  “Really?” was Moira’s incredulous answer.

  Phyllida’s shoulders relaxed and her right eye opened; with a dismissive wave of her hand, she said, “Of course not, luv. It’s just what the punters expect. Got to give the people what they want.”

  “Well, that was £200 well spent. Right then, let’s . . . ” Tony tilted his head toward the door.

  Moira bent down to retrieve her handbag.

  “Have you consulted the London Guild of Minor Gods?”

  “Pardon?” said Tony, who thought Phyllida looked a little smug for someone who talked complete bollocks.

  “Sorry?” Asked Moira as she sat up with her bag in her hand.

  “The London Guild of Minor Gods.” Phyllida’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my, that’s what the problem is. Well—” her left hand fluttered to her chest “—that explains everything.” She dove under her desk and, after much bangle-clanging, reappeared and heaved a massive leather tome onto the desk.

  On impact, two crystals, a pendulum, Gandalf/Merlin, and an untold number of fairies all jumped two inches to the left into the cloud of dust which exploded from between the book’s frayed leather covers. Several small, weathered pieces of paper were blown from between the book’s pages, fluttering to the carpet like dead moths.

  Phyllida dropped into her chair and threw open the book’s cover, the poison green nail of her right index finger flying down each page. The finger stopped. She gnawed her bottom lip as her index finger tap-tap-tapped on the ancient paper.

  “1832. Well, it has been a while, hasn’t it?” Elbows propped on the pages of the open book, she leaned forward to say to Tony and Moira, “Debris and Detritus are two halves of the same whole. But now you have met. Lovely. And you won’t stay the hell away from each other. Perfect. We have gone 183 years without you two showing up. Let your reign of destruction begin.”

  “What in god’s name are you on about?” Slack-jawed, Moira gawped at Phyllida.

  “Oh, you two are Debris and Detritus, darling, Greek gods of destruction or chaos or something or other. I knew it the minute you came through the door. Now, being invited to join the London Guild of Minor Gods is quite an honor. There are a number of gods who have fallen out of fashion during the past few years, but everyone is going to want to know about the two of you, yes, they are. Now—” a dash of smugness crept into her voice “—I am, myself, the Romanian Goddess of General Bookkeeping and the guild’s registrar, but you won’t know it by looking at this lot.” She smacked the ledger with the open palm of her left hand as her guffaw turned to a snort.

  “You’re a fucking nutter,” Tony whispered in awe.

  “Now—” Phyllida swayed back and forth in the universal signal for ‘bad news.’ “There is a small fee to register.”

  “Of course there is,” said Tony. Money was firmer ground for him, at least until he glanced at Moira, who tilted her chin up—her way of saying “yes” to something he wanted to say “no” to. “Which I am happy to pay?”

  “Excellent! The sooner we have contact information for the two of you, the better. You can start by signing here.” Phyllida spun the book around to face them.

  Tony stood and took the bright pink quill pen Phyllida thrust his direction. On a blank line near the bottom of a page labeled “Gods: Greek: DETRITUS” wrote, “Tony Johns” and watched as “Johns” morphed into his actual surname of “Carlton-Wheeler.”

  “Nice try, shifty.” She took the quill from the stunned Tony and offered it to Moira. “It’s your turn, flower. Right here under the label ‘DEBRIS.’ Lovely, dear. Now, there are a few things you need to know.” From her right-hand desk drawer, Phyllida pulled a pamphlet made from a single sheet of tri-folded A4 and laid it on the desk between Tony and Moira.

  “You and Your God-Like Powers: A Guide for Modern Deities,” read Tony aloud then bit down on his tongue to keep his laughter at bay.

  “Pull up your chairs, and we’ll go through it together,” said Phyllida. She took them through it line by line, placing a tick mark next to each point as though they were opening a high-yield checking account. Once she was satisfied
the perfectly silent pair understood each of the salient points, which included: monthly meetings (mandatory), a direct debit membership fee (mandatory), and registration with the Ministry of Small Gods within the next 30 days (also mandatory), Phyllida collected the £175 registration fee and sent them on their way. Albeit with a reminder that the next Guild meeting was the following Thursday at 8:00 p.m. at the Neal’s Yard Meeting Rooms. They would not want to be late.

  They remained silent as they climbed down the steps and walked through the twisting passage of Neal’s Yard and to the intersection of Monmouth and Shaftesbury Avenue.

  In front of The Diner, Moira pulled the carefully folded pamphlet from her handbag and read out, “At no time shall any deity carry out an unauthorized (i.e., rogue) smiting. See Section A, Paragraph 16c for instructions on acquiring an Application for General Smiting, Type A22.”

  “My particular favorite is Item 14a, Paragraph 2g, Guidelines for the Proper Care and Feeding of Hellhounds.”

  “Worth every pound,” she gasped out between bursts of giggles.

  “Talk about commitment to the part. Jesus.” He wiped away his tears of laughter with the back of his hand. “I didn’t think I was going to make it.”

  “I am never getting rid of this; it’s worth it just for the laugh.” She jammed the pamphlet back into her handbag. “Do you know where I could get a gypsy rig? Don’t think I would need it for long.”

  “Are you kidding? You in that outfit, with a few copies of that pamphlet, we would make all our Christmas money in one go.”

  They crossed Shaftesbury Avenue enraptured with the economic opportunities provided by a cheap room, a piece of tri-folded A4, and a gypsy costume so did not notice the signal failures in their wake.

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Moira padded barefoot down the front hall and ripped open the door to a stupidly tall, lanky git in an ill-fitting suit holding a beaten briefcase and leaning into the buzzer. She cocked her head to the right, took in his too-wide tie, white button-down, and plastic rimmed glasses, and pegged him for either a low-level clerk or a missionary.