What Abigail Did That Summer (Rivers of London, #5.3)

by Ben Aaronovitch

I hate it when people ask me stupid questions. You’re chatting about something and they say something like, ‘Photosynthesis? What’s that?’ with that stupid look on their face like they is proud of their ignorance or something. I’m thinking, you’ve got a phone, right?

You don’t want to start a beef with something until you know what it is – that’s just common sense, isn’t it?

You should always have more cake than you’ll think you need. Last time I had a birthday party, half the cake was left over and we ended up feeding it to the old dears that live on the estate.

A white man walks into the library. He’s dressed in an old-fashioned charcoal-grey suit, has an old-school haircut and grey eyes. He’s got that effortless posh style that Simon’s mum only wishes she had. His name is Thomas Nightingale, he is a detective chief inspector and is at least a hundred years old, though he don’t look it. He is also Britain’s only licensed, fully qualified wizard.

I‘ll take that over Dumbledore any day of the week…

I point at the lead. ‘Are you wearing a collar?’ ‘Good, isn’t it?’ says Indigo. ‘I’m undercover as a dog. Lets me move about in the Brick in daylight.’ What she looks like is a big fox wearing a collar. If she isn’t on Facebook in the next hour I’ll be really surprised.

‘For operational reasons,’ says Indigo, ‘you should call me Gaspode.’ ‘Gaspode?’ ‘That’s my cover name,’ says Indigo. ‘Part of my legend.’ ‘Def going to be legendary if you don’t get off the street,’ I say.

‘Are there aliens?’ Simon asks Indigo. ‘Not that I know of,’ she says. ‘Unless you count cats.’

It’s noon on another hot day and the paths are full of sweaty dogs and panting joggers.

In 1893 the Highgate Men’s Pond on the other side of the Heath was opened, and there fine strapping Edwardian men could show off their legs to their fellow men without having any females around to harsh their squee.

Peter says we’ve got to be careful about making assumptions because people come in all shapes and sizes, anyway. And thinking you know what somebody is is worse than not knowing anything at all.

Truer words…

I’m getting bare vexed with the whole Dumbledore teaching approach here.

‘If you could do anything,’ asks Simon, ‘what would you do?’ Simon likes to ask these questions at random intervals. The last one was if you could be any superhero, and I said Dr Manhattan and then had to explain what that was all about.

Ha! I know that one!

She memorised it first time – they’re good at remembering stuff, these foxes are. On account of them not being able to write shit down.

But you don’t grow up small, mouthy and mixed race in North London without picking up a few tricks.