Free Graveyard Shift by Chris Westwood

Mr. October, raising himself up to full height.
    I didn’t wait for him to finish. Dry mouthed, I crept downstairs and past the living room where Mum was still sleeping. Then I let myself out.
    There was no moon out, and with the streetlights at his back, Mr. October was nothing more than a silhouette. The raspy sound of his breathing reached me on the air, and Iheard the crack of his knuckles at his side. His ragged weather-beaten outline suggested he’d returned to the swarthy pirate guise.
    A sudden blast of headlights on Lansdowne Drive caught his shiny stud earring, and one silver tooth gleamed out of the black.
    â€œGood work,” he said. “You’re right on time. You’ve kept your part of the bargain, now I’ll keep mine. Are you ready?”
    I nodded, too nervous to speak.
    â€œThen it’s time,” he said. “But before we begin there’s something you simply must see.”
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    Watching the lights from a roof garden forty-six stories above the city, I felt I was standing on top of the world.
    â€œI’ve only ever seen things like this in photos and films,” I said. “It’s so far away. The lights are like stars.”
    â€œA city of tiny stars, yes.”
    â€œMillions of them.”
    If I’d known he was bringing me to this high spot, I might have expected him to do it by magic — to bundle me up and sprout wings and fly. But Mr. October never did the expected thing. Instead we’d traveled by Tube and taken two elevators to the top.
    Now he paced slowly around the edge, his ragged clothing flapping in the wind, sweeping his arm in a wide arc that took in the city.
    â€œAll this can be yours, son,” Mr. October said. Then hestopped and laughed drily. “Just joking. In fact, none of it will ever be yours, and most of what you do in this life will go unnoticed. But it’s often what’s unseen that matters most.
    â€œI’ve been many things in my time,” he went on. “I’ve traveled far and wide and seen sights beyond your wildest dreams. I’ve been a teacher, a preacher, a salesman, a doctor, a gravedigger, a circus performer, a master magician, a beggar, and a thief. Everything I’ve ever done has led me to this. It’s all been preparation for nights like tonight. There are great things in store for us, Ben, things we’ll never take credit for. But like the atoms in the molecules that make up the tiniest speck of the most infinitesimal part of the smallest bit of your little fingernail, just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
    He waved for me to join him at the edge. The barrier was low, less than waist-high, and I was nervous about moving closer. I took a couple of steps toward him, and he put out a hand to steady me. There was warmth in the wind, but a sudden gust might yank both of us off into space in a flash.
    â€œTake a look at this,” he said.
    He took out a plain white index card and pressed it into my hand. There was nothing on it except a name, Marilyn Jasper , a local address, and below that some kind of reference number: 5821. I handed it back, waiting for an explanation, but he simply tucked it back into his pocket. Then, gripping the barrier with both hands and leaning forward into the wind, he said, “Now listen.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œJust listen.”
    I half closed my eyes, trying to concentrate.
    â€œListen harder,” he said.
    From the dull throb of the city below, I began to pick out separate sounds: a train trundling over a bridge, the blast of a car horn. An aircraft passed over us on its way to Heathrow, drowning everything out for a minute. We waited for it to fade, then listened again.
    â€œHarder,” Mr. October said.
    The endless hum of traffic. The whoop of emergency vehicles here, there, and everywhere. Drums and bass in a distant park, a baby’s cry, the night song of blackbirds, a