Neverwhere

"Anyway. Like anything that's not cared for," continued Mr. Stockton, "it decayed, fell apart under the stresses and strains of modern times. Went rotten. Went bad. Well, it's taken a shitload of money," he paused, to let it sink in—if he, Arnold Stockton, thought it was a shitload, then a shitload it certainly was—"and a dozen craftsmen have spent a great deal of time restoring it and fixing it up. After this the exhibition'll be going to America, and then around the world, so it maybe can inspire some other little penniless brat to start his own communications empire."

He looked around. Turning to Jessica, he muttered, "What do I do now?" She pointed to the pull-rope, at the side of the curtain. Mr. Stockton pulled the rope. The curtain billowed and opened, revealing an old door behind it.

Again, there was a small flurry of activity in Clarence's corner of the room. "No. Him," said Clarence. "For heaven's sake. Are you blind?"

It looked like it had once been the door to a cathedral. It was the height of two men, and wide enough for a pony to walk through. Carved into the wood of the door, and painted with red and white and gold leaf, was an extraordinary angel. It stared out at the world with blank medieval eyes. There was an impressed gasp from the guests, then they began to applaud.

"The Angelus." Door tugged at Richard's sleeve. "That's it! Richard, come on." She ran for the stage.

"Excuse me, sir," said a guard to Richard. "Might we see your invitation?" said another, taking Richard firmly but discreetly by the arm. "And do you have any identification?"

"No," said Richard.

Door was up on the stage. Richard tried to yank free and follow her, hoping that the guards would forget about him. They didn't: now that he had been brought to their attention they were going to proceed to treat him as they might any other shabby, unwashed, somewhat unshaven gate-crasher. The guard who was holding Richard increased his grip on his arm, muttering, "None of that."

Door paused on the stage, wondering how to make the guards let Richard go. Then she did the only thing she could think of. She went over to the microphone, went up on tiptoes, and she screamed, as loudly as she possibly could, into the public-address system. She had a remarkable scream: it could, with no artificial assistance, go through your head like a new power drill with a bone-saw attachment. And amplified . . . It was simply unearthly.

A waitress dropped her tray of drinks. Heads turned. Hands covered ears. All conversation stopped. People stared at the stage in puzzlement and horror. And Richard made a break for it. "Sorry," he said to the stunned guard, as he yanked his arm out of the man's grip, and fled. "Wrong London." He reached the stage, grabbed Door's outstretched left hand. Her right hand touched the Angelus, the enormous cathedral door. Touched it, and opened it.

This time no one dropped any drinks. They were frozen, staring, utterly overwhelmed—and, momentarily, blinded. The Angelus had opened, and light, from behind the door, had flooded the room with radiance. People covered their eyes then, hesitantly, opened them again, and simply stared. It was as if fireworks had been let off in the room. Not indoor fireworks, strange crawling things that sputter and smell bad; nor even the kind of fireworks that you set off in your back yard; but the kind of industrial-strength fireworks that get fired up high enough to cause a potential menace to the airways: the kind of fireworks that end a day at Disney World, or that give the fire marshals headaches at Pink Floyd concerts. It was a moment of pure magic.

The audience stared, entranced and amazed. The only noise to be heard was the gentle, gasping almost-groan of wonderment that people make when they watch fireworks: the sound of awe. Then a grubby young man and a dirty-faced girl in a huge leather jacket walked into the light show and vanished. The door closed, behind them. The light show was over.

And everything was normal again. The guests, and guards, and serving staff, blinked, shook their respective heads, and, having dealt with something entirely outside of their experience, agreed, somehow, without a word, that it had simply never happened. The string quartet began to play once more.

Mr. Stockton walked off, nodding brusquely to various acquaintances as he did so. Jessica walked over, to Clarence. "What," she asked, quietly, "are those security guards doing in here?"

The guards in question were standing among the guests, looking around as if they were themselves unsure what they were doing there. Clarence began to explain just what the guards were doing there; and then he realized he had absolutely no idea. "I'll deal with it," said Clarence, efficiently.

Jessica nodded. She looked out over her party and smiled benignly. It was all going rather well.