He worked in a company, Bob guessed, with ‘consultancy’ in its name somewhere.  He had the look of someone who was so ahead of the trending curve he was virtually behind it again.  The young man with him may have been a client or a co-worker.  Either way the consultant was treating him to a liquid lunch.
 
“Do you do food?” the punter asked, passing the vodka Red Bull to his associate and taking a sip of his G&T.
 
Bob indicated the hot and cold bins at the end of the counter.  “Hot pies and pasties, ham or cheese rolls.”
 
“Do you do anything, you know…”
 
Bob raised his eyebrows in confused innocence.  “Anything…?”
 
The punter leant forward and lowered his voice.  “Ethnic.”
 
Bob looked both ways and, seeing they were clear of eavesdroppers, leant over the bar and beckoned him closer.  The punter leant forward into whispering range.
 
“I’ve got a scotch egg behind the counter.”  Behind his poker face Bob delighted in the confusion on the man’s face.
 
“But if you’re after Fae food, Brick Lane’s the place.  Don’t believe the stories about what goes into Dwarf food, and the Elf nosh is a bit on the pricey side, but worth it if that’s what floats your boat.  Me, I do pub grub that involves nothing more complex than a microwave.”
 
Brick Lane was indeed the place to go, if you were a tourist and wanted to walk on the Fae side, but most places doctored their dishes to appeal to a more traditional London palate.  If you were in the know, if against all the odds you were friends with a proprietor, and if you were happy eating in the kitchen, the real deal could also be found in Brick Lane, but that had always been the way, whether it was kosher, halal or Fae you were after.
 
“I’d have thought you’d be friendlier to your own people,” said Dawn, as the consultants made their way to a table to discuss virtual cyber visibility profiles, or whatever passed for buzz phrases nowadays.
 
“My people?”
 
“Sure.  I mean, we all hate you.  I’d have thought you’d at least want to curry favour with your own sort.”
 
“You hate me?”
 
“Oh, I didn’t mean me per se, I meant the Fae generally.”  She grinned.  “But now you come to mention it, yeah, me too.”
 
“Is that why it’s so quiet?”
 
Dawn shrugged.  “I don’t know.  It’s a funny time, right now.  God knows what goes on in the minds of the Elves.  I don’t think even they know most of the time.  Maybe they just found an Elvish place to drink.  But people are getting a bit restless, you know?  Even here, they’re staying home more.  The Ministry is pulling people’s chains, the papers are having a go and there’s all that business in parliament.  It’ll either drive you to drink or away from it.”
 
“Whatever it is, I hope it blows over soon.  It’s not good for business.”
 
Both pub doors opened at the same time and in strode officers in Ministry uniforms.
 
“Talking of bad for business,” muttered Dawn.
 
Two officers flanked each door as others filed into the pub.  Finally Inspector Wilson entered, followed by a man Bob didn’t recognise, but who oozed authority.
 
Wilson held up a paper and said in a voice that carried around the bar, “We have a warrant to investigate all Fae on these premises.  All Fae are to stay exactly where they are.  Ladies and gentlemen, if you are not of a Fae persuasion, I strongly advise you to leave now.  The Ministry of Fae Affairs apologises for any inconvenience.”
 
“I haven’t finished my drink,” complained Mr. G&T.
 
Wilson stood over him.  “If you pardon my presumption, sir, you have that manly look about you that says you can neck a drink and still close a million-pound deal before tea time.  Am I correct?  By all means take your time if you prefer, though.”
 
The punter looked around as the other humans stood and shuffled past the officers at the door.  He muttered something, took a gulp of his drink and left, his glass still half full.
 
Bob pulled his phone out and started hitting the keys.
 
“You can put that away,” said Wilson.
 
“Your warrant applies to Fae, not me,” said Bob, still hitting the keys.
 
“Oh, a barrack-room lawyer, are we?” asked Wilson’s companion.
 
“Ex ministry,” said Wilson.  “Reneged on his oath, turned his back on his own people.”
 
“Really?  And who are you texting?  Your Fae friends?”
 
“No.”  Bob hit the send button and looked up at the stranger.  “A human friend.”
 
The man held out his hand for the phone.  Bob pointedly put the phone in his pocket.
 
“Well, if a lawyer can be said to have any friends.”  Bob treated the man to a broad and entirely false smile.  “Robert Andrews, proprietor of this fine establishment.  And you are?”
“The man who wants your phone.”
 
“Won’t do you any good.  It’s locked, and by the time you can crack it you will be neck deep in injunctions.  Besides, the Ministry holds no sway over me.  I’m not remotely Fae.”
 
The two stared at each other for long seconds.  The pick-axe handle under the bar was out of the question, of course, but nevertheless Bob’s hands itched.  Instead, he held out his hand.
 
“Still don’t know who you are.”
 
“Under-secretary Boyce.”  The man made no attempt to shake Bob’s hand.
 
“Oh, a politician.  I thought you didn’t smell like a copper.”
 
“Oi, watch your mouth,” barked Wilson taking a step forward.
 
Bob raised his hands and stepped back, smiling.  “No offence, I’m sure.”
 
Boyce stared at Bob for a moment longer, then appraised the bar.
 
“Where are the elves?” he asked.
 
“Haven’t a clue,” said Bob.  “I was asking the same question myself only seconds before you arrived.”
 
“But elves drink here, correct?”
 
“Sure.  It’s a pub.  It’s what people do in a pub.”
 
“Which elves in particular?”
 
“Most people pay cash.  Most Fae don’t have debit cards.”
 
Boyce turned to Bob and raised an eyebrow.
 
“What I mean to say,” said Bob, “is that I don’t ask for people’s names when they order drinks.”
 
“Which clans?”
 
Bob shrugged.  “Beats me, pal.  They all look the same to me, know what I mean?”
 
Boyce shook his head.  “I would have thought you would have been more cooperative, given your history.  Especially since they vandalised your pub.  You know it was Elvish, of course.  The graffiti I mean.”
 
“Well, the script was Elvish.  Doesn’t mean to say it was elves, though.”
 
“I notice you’ve painted it over.  That could be held as destroying evidence.  The ministry’s reach could certainly stretch that far.”
 
“Inspector Wilson suggested that course of action,” said Bob.  Boyce snapped his head around to Wilson, who had the decency to look embarrassed.  “In fact, he recommended I go to B and Q to get the paint.  Very helpful, he was.  I say, can I put in a recommendation for his helpfulness yesterday?”
 
It was all Bob could do to not giggle.  Wilson’s face was worth whatever agro this was going to cost him.
 
“I photo’d the vandalism,” said Wilson.  “We didn’t realise the import of the message till today, it being Sunday yesterday.”
 
Boyce took a deep breath.  “Question them,” he said.  “Every one.  I want names and clans of any elf who’s drunk here.”
 
“Pardon me for asking,” said Bob.  “It’s been a while since I was in the firm.  But why would an elf vandalise the very pub he drinks in?”
 
Boyce swept an arm to encompass the bar.  “Clearly they don’t drink here now,” he said.
 
“Right!” bellowed Wilson.  “Line up.  Against that wall there.  Well? I know you speaka da English.  Move your arses or I will kick you into line.”
 
“Please do as he says,” said Bob.  “I’m sure this will all be over soon.”
 
Wilson whirled on Bob.  “I said shut it.”
 
“Bob spread his hands wide.  “Just trying to be helpful.  I know I’ll have to pay for any breakages if you get too enthusiastic in your work.”
 
The Fae started to rise and either moved or were moved towards the far wall.  It wasn’t as if there were that many to organise.  Bob prayed none of them would try to make a stand.  Even with witnesses, any court in the land would believe that a Fae, hands cuffed behind him, had assaulted a dozen Ministry officers, rather than the ridiculous notion that the officers had clubbed an innocent Fae for being too slow to stand against a wall.
 
“You too.”  Wilson pointed at Dawn.
 
Bob nodded at her.  “It’ll be okay,” he muttered.  “Trust me.”
 
Dawn lifted the flap of the bar and started towards the rest of the Fae when Boyce held out his arm preventing her from preceding.
 
“You work here?” he asked.
 
“Yes.”
 
“Yes, sir!” prompted Wilson.
 
“Yes sir,” said Dawn, looking at the beer-stained carpet.
 
“We’ll start with you then.  Inspector?”
 
Wilson strode over to her, grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her to a table in the far corner.  He placed a pad and pen on the table.
 
“Names and clans of elves,” he said.  “You can write, yeah?  English, I mean, not fairy gobbledegook.”
 
“Yes.”
 
Wilson slammed his hand on the table, causing Dawn to jump.  A couple of officers moved to stand between Dawn and the bar, facing Bob.
 
“Yes what?” shouted Wilson.
 
“Yessir.”
 
“Well?”
 
Dawn glanced up at Bob but Wilson grabbed her hair, forcing her to look at the pad.  Bob stepped forward but the officers placed their hands on their batons.
 
“Don’t look at him,” said Wilson. “ You gonna look at anyone, you can look at me.  Now write their names and clans.”
 
Boyce looked at Bob and smiled, ignoring the interrogation.  “When’s your licence due to be renewed?” he asked.
 
“Don’t know their names,” said Dawn in a low voice, staring at the pad in front of her.
 
“You got a dog licence?” asked Wilson.
 
“What?”
 
“Show me your dog licence.”
 
“I don’t understand.”
 
“Your Fae registration,” said Bob.  “He’s asking for your I.D.”
 
“In my purse.”
 
“You’re meant to keep it on you at all times!  You want to be put into one of the camps?  We can do it, you know, if you don’t have your dog licence on you.”
 
“For Christ’s sake!”  Bob grabbed Dawn’s handbag from behind the bar and tossed it across to her table.  “You’d have complained if she’d stopped to pick up her bag when you told her to move.”
 
Dawn grabbed her bag and scrabbled through the contents.
 
“Well?  I don’t have –”
 
The door opened and in burst Amanda Gordon, breathless and flushed.
 
“Stop,” she cried, drawing herself up and wrapping herself in righteous indignation.
 
Boyce sighed.  “And who are you?  Mr. Andrews’’ solicitor?”
 
“What?  No. No, I am Amada Gordon.”  When that failed to achieve any result she added., “Of the AETF.”
 
“Ah yes, Fae-loving hippies, as far as I understand it.  My secretary tells me you write to me a lot.  Such a waste of paper.  Go away, little girl, and hug a tree somewhere.  We are busy.  You have no authority here.”
 
The door opened again, and two men entered, suited and clutching briefcases that looked as though the bearers meant business.
 
“No, but my lawyers might,” said Amanda, thrusting out her chin.