The Spell Makers.

Yes, that was it. Memories, until this moment forgotten.

The hook to his own life. This case.

And the fog, as it had closed in all those years ago.

1962

There was a whole gang of officers in a small windowless room, watching a film as it played out on a screen pinned to the wall. The twin spools of a 16-millimetre projector spinning, making a soft clicking sound. The men making lewd comments and nudging each other with their elbows. The air thick with cigarette smoke. Detective Constable Hobbes stood in the doorway. He felt slightly apart from his colleagues and their activity, and although he dearly wanted to enter into the spirit of things, something held him back. He didn’t know what it was: he hoped it wasn’t snobbery, and he hoped it wasn’t hypocrisy. But the simple truth was this: the images on the screen sickened and excited him at the same time, and the clash between the two sensations caused him pain.

This was one of the films picked up from the unlicensed cinema that DC Hobbes had found that afternoon. More than seventy movies hidden in a cupboard, almost all of them illegal. It made him think about the injured woman he had helped: Margery Pollard. She was still in the hospital, but the latest news seemed good. She would live.

‘Rookie! Close the door, mate. You’re letting the smoke out.’

One or two of the men turned to him from the screen, expecting him to join in, to come back with a suitable riposte. He couldn’t think of one. And then a great ribald cheer went up. Hobbes looked at the screen to see why.

For ten seconds, fifteen, his eyes took in what he was seeing.

Then he walked away.

DC Hobbes wrote up his report. His mind wandered in a pleasant way to the usher, the one who had led him to Margery. Glenda, that was her name. Something in her eyes, her face, the way she held herself, despite the blood on her hands, and the nature of her friend’s wounds. Hobbes couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d interviewed her, after the victim had been attended to, just a few questions, and hadn’t gathered much in the way of information. When did you first notice … can you describe the miscreant … what direction did he … Christ, had he actually used the word miscreant? What an idiot! No wonder the lads called him a prig. But, still, it had been good to talk with her. He’d even made her laugh at one point. Or at least smile. What was the line, what had he said, to get that reaction? He couldn’t remember now. Ah, well, there it is.

He finished the report. His colleagues invited him out for a drink, which he agreed to, and they spent the night in the Lamb and Flag, and people kept buying him drinks. Star of the Hour! He downed a couple too many and slipped away without anyone noticing – they were all in their cups by then.