There was a crack of light ahead of them. “There we go,” said the marquis. “Bank Station. Good place to start looking.”
“You’re out of your mind,” said Richard. He did not mean it to be heard, but the most sotto of voces carried and echoed in the darkness.
“Indeed?” said the marquis. The ground began to rumble: an Underground train was somewhere close at hand.
“Richard, just leave it,” said Door.
But it was coming out of his mouth: “Well,” he said. “You’re both being silly. There are no such things as angels.”
The marquis nodded, said, “Ah. Yes. I understand you now. There are no such things as angels. Just as there is no London Below, no rat-speakers, no shepherds in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“There are no shepherds in Shepherd’s Bush. I’ve been there. It’s just houses and stores and roads and the BBC. That’s all,” pointed out Richard, flatly.
“There are shepherds,” said Hunter, from the darkness just next to Richard’s ear. “Pray you never meet them.” She sounded perfectly serious.
“Well,” said Richard, “I still don’t believe that there are flocks of angels wandering about down here.”
“There aren’t,” said the marquis. “Just one.” They had reached the end of the tunnel. There was a locked door in front of them. The marquis stood back. “My lady?” he said, to Door. She rested a hand on it, for a moment. The door opened, silently.
“Maybe,” Richard said, persisting, “we’re thinking of different things. The angels I have in mind are all wings, haloes, trumpets, peace-on-earth-goodwill-unto-men.”
“That’s right,” said Door. “You got it. Angels.” They went through the door. Richard shut his eyes, involuntarily, at the sudden flood of light: it stabbed into his head like a migraine. As his eyes became used to the light, Richard found, to his surprise, that he knew where he was: they were in the long pedestrian tunnel that links Monument and Bank Tube stations. There were commuters wandering through the tunnels, none of whom gave the four of them even a first look. The perky wail of a saxophone echoed along the tunnel: Burt Bacharach and Hal David’s “I’ll Never Fall In Love Again,” being played more or less competently. They walked toward Bank Station.
“Who are we looking for again, then?” he asked, more or less innocently. “The Angel Gabriel? Raphael? Michael?”
They were passing a Tube map. The marquis tapped Angel Station with one long dark finger: Islington.
Richard had passed through Angel Station hundreds of times. It was in trendy Islington, a district filled with antique shops and places to eat. He knew very little about angels, but he was almost certain that Islington’s tube stop was named after a pub, or a landmark. He changed the subject. “You know, when I tried to get on a Tube train a couple of days ago, it wouldn’t let me.”
“You just have to let them know who’s boss, that’s all,” said Hunter, softly, from behind him.
Door chewed her lower lip. “This train we’re looking for will let us on,” she said. “If we can find it.” Her words were almost drowned out by music coming from somewhere nearby. They went down a handful of steps and turned a corner.
The saxophone player had his coat in front of him, on the floor of the tunnel. On the coat were a few coins, which looked as if the man had placed them there himself to persuade passersby that everyone was doing it. Nobody was fooled.
The saxophone player was extremely tall; he had shoulder-length dark hair and a long, forked dark beard, which framed deep-set eyes and a serious nose. He wore a ragged T-shirt and oil-stained blue jeans. As the travelers reached him, he stopped playing, shook the spit from the saxophone mouthpiece, replaced it, and sounded the first notes the old Julie London song, “Cry Me A River.”
Now, you say you’re sorry . . .
Richard realized, with surprise, that the man could see them—and also that he was doing his best to pretend that he couldn’t. The marquis stopped in front of him. The wail of the saxophone trailed off in a nervous squeak. The marquis flashed a cold grin. “It’s Lear, isn’t it?” he asked.
The man nodded, warily. His fingers stroked the keys of his saxophone. “We’re looking for Earl’s Court,” continued the marquis. “Would you happen to have such a thing as a train schedule about your person?”
Richard was beginning to catch on. He assumed that the Earl’s Court he referred to wasn’t the familiar Tube station he had waited in innumerable times, reading a paper, or just daydreaming. The man named Lear moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. ” ‘S not impossible. What’d be in it for me, if I did?”