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By Mark Pearson

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Asked Siobhan, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘Ah now …’ explained Delaney, although he was quite aware that Siobhan knew full well what it was. ‘It’s an ancient story,’ he continued. ’ said Siobhan in feigned wonder. ’ said Jack, his own eyebrows raising as if in mutual astonishment and his voice slipping into a softer, lyrical brogue. ‘I like that! Why, is the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow magic? Is the music that the fairies’ fluttering wings make magic? ’ ‘Then you’d better believe it is magic, Siobhan.

Curled up like rimed leaves, their eyelashes white and brittle, their lips blue. Not that Bible Steve had friends, as such. Just people like him. Living rough. Inner-city flotsam and jetsam. Human beings washed up on the tide of indifference, to seek shelter where they could and oftentimes finding none. Their bodies like the frozen statues in Narnia, only no shaggy lion’s breath was going to bring them back, thought Bible Steve. Then he blinked and the notion had gone from his mind. He shook his head again angrily and grunted, looking behind him suspiciously as if some thief of thoughts had stolen his memories.

She’d have to run to make the connection at Marylebone to catch the fast overland. If she missed it, it was another half-hour wait. She shivered and turned around, suddenly getting the feeling she was being watched. There were a few other people on the platform: a group of young women in their twenties, giggling and dressed more for summer than winter! A girls’ night out, by the look of it, and quite a drunken one. An office party or a hen-night. An older man further along the platform was pretending to read a poster on the wall, but she could see he kept flicking sideways glances at the group of laughing women.

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