Free Graveyard Shift by Chris Westwood Page A

million or more voices whispering in a hundred languages. Then the sudden shocking screech of metal against metal, and something like a small explosion.
    â€œThere,” he said, taking my arm. “That’s what we were waiting for. By my calculation it’s central, not far from Oxford Street.”
    â€œWhat was it?” I said.
    â€œLater. Go call the elevator while I get ready for work.”
    I ran across the roof, past the black benches and shrubs and plants, and hit the button above the service shaft. The elevator rose with a deep-sea groan.
    At the far side of the roof, Mr. October seemed locked in a strange kind of wrestling match with himself, his whole body quaking, his hands pulling at his face. He stood mostly in shadow, but I knew what was happening: He was flippingthrough personalities the way I might flip through a deck of collectible superhero cards.
    The bell pinged. The elevator doors opened wide.
    Mr. October caught up, now in the shape of the old man I’d met in Highgate. He wore the same crumpled off-white suit with a red tie and looked every bit as exhausted as he had the first time. Beads of sweat sparkled across his brow.
    â€œGo,” he said, ushering me inside. “Go go go!”
    â€œAre you OK?”
    â€œI’ll be fine. Sometimes the upheaval of changing takes it out of me.”
    The elevator dropped us down so fast, my ears were popping before we were halfway to ground level.
    â€œWhat did I hear up there?” I asked.
    â€œSomething bad,” he said. “Somebody needs us right away.”
    â€œWhy the old man?”
    â€œAlways the questions. He doesn’t look like much, but you’ll see why when he goes to work. He’s the empathizer, the one who takes the pain away.”
    â€œAlways the riddles,” I muttered. “Never a straight answer to a simple question.”
    â€œSome answers to simple questions can be very complex,” he said.
    â€œSee what I mean? You did it again.”
    We stepped into the service area in the gray dark under-belly of the high-rise, a hallway filled end to end with carts, packing crates, and cleaning equipment. At one end thewords EMERGENCY EXIT glowed red above a large metal door. Mr. October strode toward it, mopping his brow. He grabbed the bar with both hands and pushed. The door scraped open and we tumbled out into the street.
    â€œThis way,” he said. “We have to hurry before she wanders off.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œWho do you think?”
    â€œMarilyn Jasper, the name on the card?”
    â€œYou’re learning, young man. See, I don’t have to explain everything .”
    As we rounded the base of the building and crossed the parking lot, I noticed him hobbling. Each step seemed a tremendous effort, and the pain showed clearly on his face.
    â€œCurse these old bones,” he sighed. Without show or commotion, he reached off to his right, closing his fingers around the shaft of a walking stick that hadn’t been there a moment before. The stick was made of polished light wood and had a hooked brass handle. “That’s better.” He stumbled on.
    â€œWhy didn’t you change later?” I asked.
    â€œOnce we get where we’re going, there won’t be time to change.”
    â€œThere’d be time if we got there sooner.”
    â€œSmart kid, but lippy,” he said irritably. “And there’ll be even less time if we spend all evening arguing about it.”
    We followed the snare of winding backstreets to Oxford Street. The lights there were overpowering, the noise nearly deafening. The traffic crawled past at walking pace.Pedestrians clogged the sidewalks, gathering around bus stops and bright storefronts. I couldn’t see any way we could go from here in a hurry.
    â€œWell, this is no good,” Mr. October said. “Looks like we’ll need company transport.”
    His fingers crept to his earlobe and gave it a