Peter's Job

“Peter?  Good morning.”
 
“Hm?”  He had been dreaming of the old country: green fields, thimbles of poteen and fresh-baked bread on windowsills, tricks and favours traded with the big folk.
 
“I’ve made you some tea.”
 
“Good on you.  What time is it?”
 
“Seven o’clock.”
 
“Seven in the morning?”  He groaned and rolled over to face the wall.  “Make another one in an hour, okay?”  He could almost taste the poteen.  He tried to chase the dream.
 
“Peter.”
 
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what?”
 
“I’ve made you tea.  We have to get up.”
 
“Do we now?  And why’s that?”
 
“We have to see Creteus at eight.”
 
Peter sighed.  “Okay, okay.  Just give me a minute, okay?”  He closed his eyes, but the dream had evaporated like fairy gold.  He threw the covers back and sat up, turning to sit on the edge of the bed.  It was oddly reassuring to sit on a bed where his feet could reach the ground.
 
“Sorry.  Sorry.  Not much of a morning person.  You okay?”
 
“Yes, thank you,” said George who,as far as Peter could make out, was behind the bedside table.  “Did you sleep well?”
 
“Yeah,” replied Peter, and then realised that, in fact, he had slept well.  There was something about sleeping underground, with the comforting weight of soil all around him, no chink of daylight or the cursed rumble of traffic.  He had slept within a minute of his head hitting the pillow to George’s wake-up call.  When had he last slept so well?  Not since leaving Ireland, that was for sure.  “Yeah, I slept really well, thanks.  You?”
 
“Yes.  You breathe loudly.”
 
“Jeez, sorry.  Just give me a kick if I snore.”
 
“No, no, I like it.  It’s good to know there’s someone on the bed.”
 
“Um, okay.”  He was, he acknowledged to himself, still not entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but if his nocturnal breathing soothed George, it was worth it for a bed so deep underground.  Peter leant over and picked up the mug.  No milk again, but it was hot and wet.  “Slainte.”  He sipped the scalding tea.  “So, Creteus?”
 
“Yes.  He likes to start at eight.”
 
“You work for him too?”
 
“Sort of.”
 
“Doing what?”
 
“Just odd jobs.”
 
“What does he do, Creteus?  For a living, I mean.”
 
“Mostly looks out for us.  For the Fae.”
 
“Ah, a politician.”  Peter’s lack of personal experience with that particular breed didn’t stop him having an opinion about politicians.  Too concerned with other’s morality, not enough about their own.  They were on a par with priests and taxmen, not that Peter had had any dealings with those either.  “What does he do for money, though?”
 
“I don’t know.  He’s a good person, though.”
 
“I’m sure he is.  Good enough to slip me a tenner on a Sunday night, anyway.”  And maybe a little more for whatever odd jobs he might have for a leprechaun down on his luck.  To be honest, his morality didn’t really come into it.  A ten pound note from a good man bought just as much as one from a bad man.  He reached for his trousers where he had hung them on the floor the night before.  He rooted around in the pockets and looked at the contents.  Ninety-three pence.  What would that get him?  A croissant maybe?  A chocolate bar?  Certainly not a full English.
 
“Is there somewhere cheap I can get a spot of breakfast round here?”
 
“Creteus has bacon sandwiches for those who get there early.”
 
“Bacon sandwiches and a tenner.  By God, the man’s a saint.  I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” said Peter, pulling on his trousers.  
The address George had given him was a lockup off Brick Lane.  It looked as though it might have been a sweatshop, back when the Bangladeshis were corralled here.  A troll lounged in the doorway, his face in shadow.  Peter tried to remember what he knew about trolls.  Something about bridges and sunshine.  Was that right, or was it just the stupid stories humans made up?
 
He squared his shoulders and walked forward.  The troll made no attempt to stand aside.
 
“Hi, I’m Peter.  I’m here to see Creteus,” he said, trying to exude confidence.  The troll stared at him in silence, still blocking the doorway.
 
Damn George.  He should have come with him, but apparently he didn’t do daylight, streets, people or anything else.  He had his own way of moving around the city in the day, ways that excluded Peter.
 
“He’s expecting me.”
 
“Who is it?” called someone from inside.
 
“Dwarf,” said the troll.
 
“Leprechaun,” called out Peter.  “Not a fecking dwarf,” he muttered.
 
“He’s okay,” came George’s unmistakable voice from inside.  Damn, how the hell had he got there so fast?  He was still in the sub-basement when Peter had left.  “He’s with me.”
 
The troll backed into the doorway, and Peter squeezed past.
 
It was a single room, small windows high in the walls, corrugated roof for a ceiling.  Creteus stood at one end, head bowed, talking to a couple of figures with dog-like heads.  Two elves stood a few metres from him, exuding ‘bodyguard’ from every pore.  A few fae stood around in ones and twos.
 
“Over here,” said George.
 
Peter could just make out a darker shadow under a trestle table on one side of the room.  Peter walked over.
 
“I saved you a bacon sandwich.”  A blur of movement and a bacon sandwich on a paper plate vibrated to a stop on the table.
 
“Thanks.”  Peter picked it up and bit into it.  It could have done with a spot of brown sauce, but it was heaven on the tongue.  Peter wolfed it down, suddenly realising how hungry he had been.  He resolved to get here earlier next time.
 
“What now?” he asked around the last of the sandwich.
 
“We wait for Creteus to give us our tasks.”
 
There didn’t seem to be a queuing system.  After the dog people left a succession of Fae stepped forward.  Some handed Creteus pieces of paper or packages.  Some received the same.  Some left happy, some upset.  One, a dwarf, left vibrating with anger.  All the while Creteus wore a half smile, listening a lot, speaking occasionally in a voice too low to carry.
 
Peter was on the point of leaving, the bacon sandwich buying only so much patience, when Creteus beckoned him over.
 
“Peter, so glad to see you.”  He treated Peter with his half-smile.  He sat on a chair and leant forward, bringing his head level with Peter’s.  “How was the Lion and the Lamb?”
 
Peter shrugged.  “It was okay.”
 
Creteus said nothing, staring at Peter with a question on his face.  Peter felt compelled to fill the silence.
 
“It was a bit quiet, to be honest.  I mean, I was only there an hour or so, but it was quieter than a usual Sunday.”
 
“In what way?”
 
“I don’t know.  Just quiet.  Not as many fae as normal.”
 
Creteus remained silent, looking expectant.
 
“Um, there were a couple of fairies, because of Dawn, I guess.  She works there.  She’s a fairy.  Birds of a feather, you know?  Um, a couple of others.  No trolls, but they normally drink in Eastcheap.”  Still Creteus waited.  “No humans, not on a Sunday, but that’s normal.  That was it, really.  No one else.  No elves, no trolls, no dwarves.  Oh wait.  A couple of dwarves as I left.”
 
“No elves?”
 
“What?  No.  Not when I was there, anyway.”

“Is that normal?”
 
“At the Lion?  No, I guess not.  There’s normally a few.  I mean, they stick to their own clans, but there’s normally a few.”
 
“Why’s that, do you think?”
 
Peter shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I can’t normally pass for one of them, you know.”
 
Creteus nodded.  “Anything else?”
 
“Not that I can think of.  I told you I wasn’t any good as a spy.”
 
Creteus pulled a face.  “Not a spy, Peter.  A correspondent at most.”  He looked past Peter and beckoned.  “Peter, as an organisation we survive on the generosity of other Fae.  I want you to go on one of the rounds, collect subscriptions, learn the route.  Meet Elmwood.”
 
Peter turned.  A fairy stood behind him.  He looked as pleased to be with Peter as Peter was to see him.
 
“Elmwood will show you the ropes,” said Creteus, smiling.
 
“Oh hell, no,” said Peter.
 
“There are other Fae doing the rounds,” said Elmwood.  “He can go with them.”
 
Creteus gave them a sad look and slowly shook his head.  “Gentlemen, are we not Fae?  Don’t we have one common enemy?  Do we really need more?”
 
“You don’t understand,” said Peter, but then he saw past the smile.  Of course he understood.  He knew leprechauns were the shunned genetic accidents of the fairy folk.  So why would he do this?  Was it a lesson?  We’re all Fae, let’s hold hands and sing protest songs?  No, there were better ways than that.  What then?  A test?  But who was he testing, Peter or Elmwood?
 
“He won’t be able to keep up,” said Elmwood.  “He certainly won’t be able to fly.”
 
“Then walk,” said Creteus.
 
“But that will add an hour to the route.”
 
“Possible two,” said Creteus.  “After all, he is learning.  Introduce him to our brothers and sisters.  Let him be known.”
 
So if it was a test, then maybe they were both being tested.  Elmwood didn’t seem to see it as anything more than a royal pain in the arse, though.  That at least offered some prospect of entertainment.  To hell with it.  If he was going to do this, he might as well play the game.  It was not as if he had anything better to do with his day, and Creteus had offered him some pay, no matter how little.
 
“Pleased to meet you,” said Peter, offering his hand.  “Sorry about that.  Just habit, but one we should all learn to break, right?  We’re all Fae, after all, and we’re both from fairy stock.”
 
Elmwood looked furious.  He made a silent appeal to Creteus, then his shoulders sank.  “Fine.”  He treated Peter’s hand to the briefest of touches and then wiped his hand on his trousers.  “Just keep up and don’t be too much of a cretin.”
 
Elmwood turned on his heel and, with a happy nod to Creteus, Peter trotted after him.  “So, were your people ever from Ireland?” he asked.  “Maybe we’re related.”  He grinned at the sudden tension in Elmwood’s body as he strode out of the hall.  Oh, this might even be fun.