What Abigail Did Tha Summer, Ben Aaronovitch [if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud txt] 📗

she can think again. ‘But I need you to cover a wide area.’

‘How wide?’

‘All the way around the edge of the Heath,’ I say.

‘The whole perimeter?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘You’re going to need a lot of assets for that,’ says Indigo. ‘I’ll need authorisation from my section chief.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never had to get authorisation for an op that big.’

We’re walking down to the east side of the Model Boating Pond because I reckon there’ll be fewer people to notice that I’m carrying a talking fox around my neck.

‘Normally,’ she says, ‘I just get assigned missions.’

‘Am I a mission?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Why?’

‘Need to know,’ says Indigo.

And obviously I didn’t need to know.

I reach up and prise her off my shoulders and drop her – she lands on her feet like a cat.

‘Go get authorisation,’ I say.

*

I’m sitting outside the café that sits at the bottom of Kite Hill and trying to make the tea I bought with the last of my pocket money last until Indigo gets back. In front of me is Parliament Hill School, which is an all-girls ex-grammar school where parents try to send their girls so they won’t have to mix with roughnecks like me at Acland Burghley. A couple of my ex-friends from primary school go there.

It’s closed for the summer holidays.

The path that runs past the café goes east to west, linking the park entrances on both sides of the Heath. To my right there’s the path that leads down to Gospel Oak Station, and on either side of the café are paths that run up the side of Kite Hill. It’s a good place to watch for any recruited kids and to spot Indigo when she comes back from her meeting.

‘Abigail Kamara?’ says a voice from under my table, and I almost spill what’s left of my tea.

I drop my spoon, which gives me an excuse to bend over and look. And there, sitting primly, is a vixen that is definitely not Indigo. This one is darker red, almost black around her eyes, tail and face. There are flecks of grey along her muzzle and the tips of her ears. Her eyes are a dark emerald green.

‘That’s me,’ I say.

‘If you’d care to follow me,’ she says. ‘Control will see you now.’

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

‘Lucifer,’ she says.

*

Foxes have slit pupils for good night vision, and so their earth15 under the platform of Gospel Oak Station is dimly lit but surprisingly fresh, given that I’m surrounded by a dozen foxes – at least.

The ceiling is so low that I have to sit cross-legged with my back to the wall. One of the foxes, who Indigo calls Sugar Niner, has curled up in my lap and gone to sleep. This is vexing Lucifer because it’s undermining the whole badass fox vibe, but I can tell that Indigo is trying not to laugh. I scratch the fur on Sugar Niner’s back, which winds up Lucifer even more.

Golden sunlight is fighting its way through little squares of thick and dusty glass that line one of the walls just below the ceiling. Through them I can see the railway tracks curving off towards South End Green. I’m guessing that we’re under the GOBLIN Line16 platform but there were some proper zigzags on the way in so I can’t be sure. The tunnels were fox-sized so I had to crawl past what looked like individual sleeping dens, a food store that smelt of spoiling meat and another store that was full of Tupperware boxes – contents unknown.The floor is bare, there are no cushions or straw, and when I ask Indigo why this is Lucifer interrupts to inform me that since this is the ops room, furniture would be inappropriate.

‘Also, people used to fight over the cushions,’ whispers Indigo.

The other foxes are gathered into groups of two or three, heads close together, whispering. Occasionally one will turn to give me a sly look.

‘You’re the first chap we’ve ever had in here,’ says Indigo. The way she pronounces chap makes me think of posh people and period dramas.

Outside the rails begin to sing and a train squeals and rattles into the station. All I can see are the wheels, but I recognise the layout as belonging to the Class 172/0 diesels that do the Barking run.

I turn back to find a new fox sitting in the centre of the room. There is nothing unusual about this fox. It’s a standard rusty brown with white flashes. But it’s looking at me with clever hazel eyes. All the other foxes have shut up and are sitting at attention like a semicircle of statues. Even Sugar Niner has stopped squirming and sat up. But not, I notice, bothered to leave my lap.

I think Indigo winks at me but it’s hard to tell.

‘I take it you’re Control, then?’ I ask to break the silence.

The fox cocks its head to one side and narrows its eyes.

‘I need to track the kids,’ I say.

The fox continues to give me a cool look.

‘Either you’re going to help me or you’re not,’ I say. ‘It’s down to you, innit?’

Real talk – we stared at each other for the most minutes until suddenly the New Fox says, ‘Mission authorised,’ and turns and vanishes into the gloom.

The other foxes all relax and Sugar Niner yawns and snuggles down like it’s going to go back to sleep.

‘Don’t get comfortable,’ I say. ‘You’ve got work to do.’

14 Here in the UK one can legally drink beer or cider at home with meals from the age of 16 onwards and can purchase alcohol at 18 years old. One fears that Abigail is referring to the lower threshold rather than the higher.

15 These are known in America as ‘dens’.

16 The colloquial name for the Gospel Oak to Barking Line. I must say that Miss Kamara seems very knowledgeable about the make of trains that run through Gospel Oak. It takes me back to my youth when my friends and I would