“Come on now,” said Broadsides, “no one’s looking to misbehave.” He laid a hand across Oyster’s chest.

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Bomber Jacket’s voice was a deep baritone, “steppin’ all over our turf. Guaranteed upset. Way I hears it, you lot have been leanin’ on us all over. Kickin’ over our games. Hurting on our business. Enough is enough. Message needs to be sent.”

  Broadsides shook his head.

  “I dunno where you wallads get your information, but it’s all fucked. Things have been peaceable between us. For the most part.”

  Oyster took a step forward. The Stick Up Kidz issued a chorus of mocking hoots.

  “Just trying to rile you,” Broadsides hissed to Oyster.

  Memories stirred and Oyster pushed them down deep. He released the knife and pulled his hands out of his pockets. He cracked his knuckles. He had to do something to save face. But maybe not what they wanted.

  “Stay tight,” he whispered to Broadsides, gently pushing his friend’s restraining hand aside.

  Oyster inhaled deeply, trying to push his anger away along with his memories. He lurched towards the gate and gave his knuckles another crack. Shoving one hand deep into his other pocket, he fished out four coins. A two-pence piece, a fifty-pence piece and two tens. It wasn’t great, but would have to do.

  For all his bravado, the fat kid flinched as Oyster approached. Bomber Jacket intercepted him, his arms folded.

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  Fat Kid recovered his composure. “What you got to say for yourself?”

  Bomber Jacket retreated, but reached his hand into his pocket, no doubt fingering his own knife. Oyster took a breath and stepped through the gate. He shook his shoulders, felt the air rolling across his temples. The sun was setting. All across the city it was getting dark. He sensed its raw earth under his feet, felt the stars turning unseen overhead and took a breath. Everything – him, Broadsides, the Stick Ups, the rotting bones in the ground beneath his feet – were all part of the same thing; the same mechanism, like a clock that had been wound too tight.

  He held the coins in a stack in the tips of his right hand, and with a practised movement used his right thumb to spread them so that each was held between adjacent fingertips. A four-coin flourish, Deano had called it.

  “Watch,” he said, voice cracking. He held up his hand, brandishing the coins. The yellow flicker of streetlights turned them to slivers of gold.

  “Fool’s going to tug us off with some David Blaine shit?” said the smallest of the Stick Ups. “You seeing this, Tanks?”

  Oyster ignored him and dug in with his patter. This was the most dangerous moment. Bomber Jacket could stick him easy enough now, but if he kept the crew distracted, he and Broadsides might stand a chance of getting away.

  Silently, Oyster performed the first two of the four sleight-of-hand tricks he knew: Coin through the Hand and a French Drop. The first was always a guaranteed way of getting attention, sending a couple of the coins tumbling though the back of his hand only to make them reappear from behind his ear, while Le Tourniquet or French Drop was one of the oldest tricks in the book. You held a coin by your fingertips, only to make it vanish with a twist of the fingers and a theatrical puff of breath. Oyster supercharged it using all the coins to hand. By the end of the second trick, he knew he had them. He could feel the temperature of the situation dropping, but he was running out of repertoire.

  He went into another flourish and then into the setup for a Three into Two. He needed to get the muscle off guard. He tapped Bomber Jacket’s hand to get him to put it out for the trick’s finale. By now, the Stick Ups were engrossed in the illusion despite themselves. The boy complied without thinking, but Oyster caught Fat Kid’s eye and he knew he’d been made.

  Instantly, Oyster whipped his hand back and let the coins fly at Bomber Jacket’s head, but Fat Kid pushed him out of the way before they made contact. Oyster spun around and ran. Broadsides’ long legs had already carried him a quarter of the distance back the way they’d come. He galloped over gravestones like he was a prize steeple-jumper. Oyster didn’t look back. He wasn’t sure who, if anyone, was behind him, but his trick had given them a head start. He ran as fast as he could, bearing away from the gate at an oblique angle. The sound of his feet on the grass and his breathing were his world.

  A memory came to him. Him and Lucas running across the park not far from here. It had been a Saturday. Lucas had come home from the crew with a football autographed by the entire Chelsea squad. Even then he had already learned not to ask how such a priceless artefact might have come into his dad’s possession. Cécile had still been a toddler, young enough that she could only run a flurry of steps before toppling backwards onto her bum. She had sat in the grass and watched and clapped as he and Lucas had chipped and flicked the ball back and forth between them, using their jumpers as goal posts. Another jagged breath and the memory evaporated.

  Bomber Jacket streaked past him on the right, heading straight for Broadsides. They were after the money, and fast as he was, the bag was slowing him down. Bomber Jacket was gaining ground. Oyster’s lungs were at the top of his throat as he swung towards Broadsides’ pursuer and pumped his arms as fast as he could.

  A burst of muscle-burning speed and he was directly behind him. Bomber Jacket was already reaching a hand out towards Broadsides. Oyster gulped in a final breath of air and dived at Bomber Jacket’s ankles in a flailing, desperate rugby tackle. Bomber Jacket twisted in surprise and kicked back, but it was already too late. Oyster had him. He clung to his legs, wrapping himself around them, and closed his eyes. The two of them fell for what seemed like a long time and then there was a bright, sharp pain as a thick-soled trainer caught Oyster in the stomach.

  They rolled to a stop. Oyster was breathless and paralysed. Shards of light flickered behind his clenched eyelids. He rolled to his knees, forced a breath into his rigid stomach, and then he was up and running again. He risked a glance back. Bomber Jacket lay sprawled among the grass. His temples were stained black in the yellow light. He must have head-butted a gravestone on the way down. The other members of his gang gave up the chase and turned back to check on their fallen comrade.

  Oyster ran wide, heading to the gate furthest from them, but they’d no interest in him anymore. He caught sight of Fat Kid’s face in the streetlight. The boy’s expression was the face of a child, knitted with worry.

  Broadsides caught up with him as he got back on their territory, out of breath but jubilant.

  “Rep-res-ent.” He offered a fist bump.

  Oyster’s hands were still shaking, but his breathing was returning to normal. He was elated at their escape. Something like pride unfurled in his chest. Then he remembered the boy’s face. There was a caw from the nearest tree. With a flap of wings, the crow flapped up into the night.

  It was dark now and they hurried deeper into home turf. Oyster felt the comfort of the neighbourhood wrapping around him as his shuddering breathing returned to normal. They walked a block in silence. After all the excitement Oyster was suddenly empty.

  “Right,” said Broadsides, patting the football bag. “Gotta skadoosh.” He offered Oyster a fist bump, before turning and slouching into the city.

  CEREMONY

  Oyster dreamed he was being chased. The lifts in the block were out and he ran up the stairs, pursued by some sort of faceless dread. Hands trembling, he got the key into the lock, burst into his flat and slammed the door. It was then he was faced with the sickening certainty that whatever he’d been running from was already inside with him.

  He raced to Paris’s room and shut himself in a wardrobe, listening as the house was ransacked. Light seeped in around the doorframe. At his feet was a small enamel box. This was what his pursuer was after. He reached down to it and froze as he heard the sound of sniffs at the wardrobe door.

  The thing outside wanted him to open the box, but he was seized by the certainty that its contents were more terrifying than what was searching for it. He dropped the box, held his breath and closed his eyes. Where was Paris? Why wouldn’t she make all this go away?

  The light went out and the sniffing stopped. Oyster waited for what seemed like an age and then opened the wardrobe door. He was in a wood. Blue light danced ahead of him through a thicket of naked branches.

  Oyster pushed on towards the centre of the wood, skin crawling but drawn on by the flashes of lightning. The night was suddenly cold and his fingertips were numb. He pressed through a final clawing tangle of branches and into a broad clearing, dominated by a single oak.

  On the muddy ground, centred on the tree, was a swirling symbol composed of three interlocking spirals which glowed with an unnatural fire. At the centre of each of these spirals stood a figure. The nearest, grasping a spear, had his back to Oyster. Lightning lanced down from the sky and danced around the weapon, energy coursing into the ground and illuminating the spiralled scrub in which he stood. The acrid smell of ozone stung Oyster’s nostrils.

  The second figure, on the far side of the tree, was tall, antlered and cloaked in shadow; the third, to Oyster’s left, was a young woman. She looked to be a few years younger than he was and was barefoot, clad in a simple robe. The most disturbing thing about her was her face, which had been stained a shocking midnight blue. He felt as though he was witnessing something he shouldn’t be, and as much as he wanted to keep out of sight, a feeling deep in his stomach compelled him to creep forward.

  The antlered figure barked in a language Oyster couldn’t understand, before emptying a leather purse at the foot of the tree; three coins glittered in the strobing darkness. As they hit the ground, some ancient circuit was completed and the spiralling symbol caught fire, crowning the antlered figure with a silvery halo. An ominous bass growl pressed in on them, so powerful that Oyster felt it in his chest.

  The woman advanced stiffly like a doll and knelt before the tree. She scooped up the coins and stood. The low throbbing rose to a crescendo. Pausing for what seemed like an age, she stepped towards a terrified Oyster who, for a second, thought he’d been made. Panicking, he tried to hunker down into the foliage but found himself unable to move.

  The woman was unseeing, though, totally tranced out. She faced the spear carrier and reached up. With a flash of metal, she pressed the coins to his forehead. The deep vibration became almost unbearable, making it hard for Oyster to think and shaking his lungs so much that it was difficult to breathe.

  As the coins were placed, the man with the antlers threw up his arms and roared with hysterical laughter. Lightning came down again and again, striking the spear carrier, making him swell in size and strength. Then with a flash Oyster was knocked on his back again, staring up at the unfamiliar stars that gazed at him coldly.

  THE BRIDGE

  Cécile shook Oyster awake. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

  “Come on bruv-bruv,” she said. “Rise and shine an’ all that.”

  She was dressed in her school uniform, her bag slung over her shoulder.

  “You pull an all-nighter or something?” she said. Oyster’s mouth was dry. Cécile pulled the curtains open, searing him with early morning sunshine. He grumbled and covered his eyes. The nightmare still had him in its grasp.

  “You need a girlfriend,” she said.

  Oyster grunted.

  “Or a boyfriend.”

  Oyster grunted again.

  “Or any sort of friend at all. You need to get out of this house and get some sort of life. Other than work.”

  Oyster assumed what he hoped was a winning smile.

  “What, and miss out on all this love and attention?”

  Cécile rolled her eyes.

  “I dunno what your malfunction is,” she continued, “but you were dribbling all sorts of nonsense while you were asleep.”

  Oyster shrugged. Cécile shook her head in exasperation.

  “Well, it is a school day, so you know, girl’s gotta shift.”

  “Hey, hold it.” He looked around to make sure that Paris hadn’t got up yet. He padded to his bedroom and returned with a thin roll of tens.

  Cécile pocketed the money.

  “I’ll do a shop on the way home, we got nothing much in. Again,” she said.

  Oyster rubbed his eyes and nodded. Cécile snapped the front door shut behind her and was gone, leaving Oyster alone and uneasy. He felt small, as though he was being watched. Chalking it all up to the strange dream, he showered, dressed and ate in a trance, then made his way to the bridge.

  The queasy, disembodied feeling haunted him all morning, throwing off his game so much that Deano stepped in for him and packed him off for an early lunch. Oyster improved a little when he came back, but the emptiness inside him had sucked up all of his patter and he couldn’t get warm. He found himself turning the images from his dream over and over in his head: the ceremony, ritual or whatever it was; the tripped-out, stained face of the young woman.

  He was jumpy, and every now and then he thought he saw the blue-faced woman: suited and booted and on her way to an office job; or as a uniformed attendant at the Underground turnstiles. A second look and she wasn’t there. A breeze whistled across the bridge and Oyster pulled the zip of his puffer vest up higher around his throat. He leaned forward, flexing his toes in his trainers and lifting the arches of his feet off the floor to stop them going to sleep.

  It was then that he spotted the shiny brogues and trench coat of the weird dude who had challenged Deano a few weeks ago. The coat was undone, revealing worn woollen trousers and an Ed Sheeran T-shirt that still showed the creases from its packaging. Oyster’s stomach prickled and he realised the pain was coming from his tattoo. He scratched it with fingers that were suddenly numb.

  Before he even opened his mouth, the wellspring of patter within him sputtered. He knew what was going to happen next. He realised that he’d felt like this before, on the night Lucas had disappeared. His mouth felt dry and there was a sickly sensation spinning around in his stomach. He shut his eyes and made a conscious effort to put it out of his mind.

  He tried to picture something else. He thought of last Wednesday: he’d picked Cécile up after school, and flush with his earnings from the bridge they’d gone for Happy Meals. A ritual from an earlier, simpler life, they’d taken their time over the food and improvised a sweary puppet show with their crappy plastic toys as they fought over who got the last fruit bag.

  His tattoo fizzed with pain, breaking him out of his reverie. The happy memory was chased away by an overpowering sense that he was falling; that there was an inevitability to everything that was about to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. The man pulled a crisp fifty from his pocket and laid it on the makeshift table. He sniffed loudly and a too-small tongue wet his lips. Several other people gathered around to watch the game.

  “Now we’ve challenged,” said the man, “you have to play. Those are the rules. After all, a game of chance is a sacred thing.”

  Oyster wanted to refuse but he couldn’t, not without blowing it entirely. He looked for Deano, hoping his captain would signal to tell him what to do, but he’d disappeared.

  “Okay! People, let’s go. Geez here wants to play. Let’s see if he’s got the juice!” shouted Oyster, but he knew he sounded forced and unconvincing.

  Oyster dropped a stone over the fifty to hold it in place and the man nodded, moving in closer. A choking collection of smells emanated from him: cut grass and blood, plus the merest suggestion that he might have shat himself. Oyster winced.

  He threw the cards down onto the deck and did his practice runs, calling out the black queen and flipping her over with his index finger.

  “You still up for this, mister?” he said.

  The man’s almost-a-face creased into a lupine smile. Oyster did a quick scan for Deano, but there was still no sight of him. Broadsides’ comforting bulk, however, lurked like an oak tree on the horizon.

  Best to nip this one in the bud, thought Oyster.

  He went in quick with a perfect hype pass and nodded to the man to choose where the queen lay.

  “Well, let us see,” he replied. “We’re new to all this, but,” he sniffed ostentatiously, “we think it may be this one.” He touched the leftmost card. Oyster flicked it over. The queen stared back up at him. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He’d made the hype and was sure the card should have been in the middle.

  “That means we’ve won, doesn’t it?” said the man, his maggot tongue poking through his lips again. His mouth twisted into a smile which failed to reach his unblinking, birdlike eyes.

  For a second, Oyster was sure he saw something small and black emerge from the man’s left ear and crawl into his hair. It was such a disconcerting sight, he looked away as he handed over the man’s winnings.

  “You’re supposed to ask us if we want to play again,” he sniffed. “Double or quits.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. That’s it,” said Oyster trying to recover. “Double or quits!”

  The man put three hundred down in fifties. The crowd oohed in approval.

  Oyster smiled mirthlessly and ran another perfect hype; the man picked the correct card again. And again. And again. Oyster felt sick. He was cleaned out. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  “Cops!” screamed Broadsides, charging in and belatedly breaking up the game.

  He scattered the crowd and kicked over the cardboard deck.

  “Game over!” shouted Oyster, running past the end of the bridge for a few hundred yards, just for appearance’s sake.

  He stopped and looked back for the rest of the crew. The squat shape of Deano beckoned him to return. He ambled back, biting the inside of his mouth. His legs and lungs ached from the sudden exercise. Looking over Deano’s head, he caught sight of the man heading west over the bridge, walking at a steady pace. It was late in the day and passersby threw long shadows onto the bridge’s low parapets. Oyster shook his head and looked again, his brain unable to process what he was looking at. He squinted. It must be a trick of the light, but he was as certain as he could be that the retreating figure had a pair of shadowy antlers.