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He had been strolling slowly in the streets near Covent Garden, which had been associated with actors and the theaters for centuries. These days, you didn't have to prowl the area surreptitiously, what with Heaven being the most famous gay club in all London. He'd wanted to go to Heaven, had long thought about going, but the bitter experiences of his youth taught him unbreakable caution. There was nothing gay about being homosexual even until the later 20th century. It was illegal and dangerous as hell if someone caught you out. Even saving his country hadn't stopped the country from killing Alan Turing.
It had only stopped being illegal in 1967. But David was dead by then, had been since shortly after the war. If he hadn't committed suicide, possibly they could have found a way.
They were all dead, though—men of his association at Casterbrook, the twenties, the thirties; Ettersberg. Only a strange miracle or curse kept him alive. And being alive, becoming younger, had revived both hope and longing in him. That, simply, was why he'd begun frequenting Covent Garden. It was associated with many homosexual men, and pleasant anonymity. He didn't allow himself to go very often. The anonymity these days was a function more of who he was, what his career and service in life was, than for any lack of desire for a relationship. No civil partnership, no long term boyfriend was in the cards for him. Not possible. Simply, as the last wizard in Britain, he could never even bring anyone home.
Now there was an odd duck, standing near the Actor's Church. What was he doing here, all alone? He looked as if he were watching for someone. He was young—why wasn't he clubbing? He was a good looking light-skinned black man, taller than his own six feet. (One hundred eighty centimeters, that was. Metric hadn't been his first language.) No, these days you weren't supposed to say that, only identify skin tones by numbers. He was required to take all the police further education courses, no matter how far removed from regular police work he was these days, and these classifications had been reviewed. IC1 was pale white, IC3 was black, IC6, which was was this man appeared to be, was Arabic or North African.
The man was nicely dressed for a youngster; long coat over dark jeans, trim haircut. His shoes were heavy boots, not unusual for young men. But not attractive shoes. Nothing about him signaled gay dress or behaviour. Young gay men who chose to stand alone around churches would, when they spotted him, surely shown themselves in some mannerisms, to attract a companion they wanted. He was definitely not out on the pull.
In fact—in fact the man methodically scanning the piazza looked in a measuring way at him, no smile or frown on his face. His glance was thorough and bland, not at all lascivious. It was almost as if the young man himself were recording, “One eighty centimeters, IC 1, light brown hair in side parting, very nice suit, possibly gay looking to hook up” the way he had. His posture was casual, but he couldn't hide the way his eyes carefully tracked the piazza. In fact, he looked like a policeman on a stakeout. Very interesting.
He strolled up to the stranger.
“Hello. What are you up to?”
Ambiguous enough. It could be read as invitation or simple curiosity, and when the stranger replied, he knew curiosity had been rewarded beyond his dreams.
“I'm ghost-hunting.”
He felt a shiver. Was this possible? As far as he knew, he was the only man in London who could see ghosts. It might well be some new slang, though.
Cautiously he replied, “Any particular ghost?”
“Nicholas Wallpenny.”
That was not code of any kind. If he were a new ghost-spotter—if he were new—the world had just shifted.
He demanded, as any police officer would, “What's your name and address?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. Displaying his warrant card, he said, “Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale.”
His assessment was rewarded when the young man said in a startled tone, “Constable Peter Grant.”
“Out of Charing Cross Nick?” The closest.
“Yes sir.”
He could not repress a twisted smile, even as he said, “Carry on, Constable,” and resumed a visually unconcerned stroll into the night. He heart was pounding inside, though.
A ghost-spotter! If he'd found a member of the public sensitive to the occult, he'd have had to insist strongly to Seawoll that he needed to assess further and if at all possible take him, or even her, as a new apprentice, no what agreements had been reached before.
A ghost-spotting police officer was an amazing and pure gift from a different kind of heaven. He could simply request the boy as his apprentice and the rest of London's police force would have to lump it. The first such apprentice since before the second World War, to be guided, if he would accept it, through the ten years of training to full wizard status. He could become a mentor, instead of a lonely old man waiting for the magic to disappear completely, followed by personal oblivion.
An apprentice at long, long last, when he'd stopped even thinking of any such thing. Someone to share the Folly with, besides Molly. Someone to teach—he instinctively began to review the order of the first formae to teach. Seawoll would be furious, but Nightingale would pursue the matter to the commissioner, if needed.
He laughed out loud at the thought of the next day's work.
Life had become fascinating again, sunnier, glowing.
And so it would begin, with light.
“Lux.”