The Biscuit Boy stood by the Templars' grave. He let freezing digits trace an outline in the mosaic of moss and stone. Remembered Brinsley's sage past advice and lit a cigar, blowing some banishing smoke to the still air. It had been only a week back in the economic wastes of the north and already he was feeling a tug in a direction other than inward to his old manor of pubs, bookies, odd rituals and self-defeating humour. Patrick the Tip refused to pass on tips beyond Portobello Road. It was the locus of that magic that he possessed, outside of that domain everything was sullied and beyond his scope. Biscuit Boy had even forgotten his own family links here, always on the move, concentric circles around London, New York, Helsinki, anywhere but the home that sucked him into her stone circles and arcane grave messages. He punched out the tattoo of Brinsley's number on his mobile and waited for the familiar message. The roofless chapel bled light onto his sober and electrically charged synapses, it was just after 3 and time was not on his case. Time was irrelevant as was much else. The White Mage had reminded him as he left Bayswater that the language of real magic was 99% humour and 1% luck. The skies looked clear, a herald of a day stretching to a horizon yet seen. BB walked the stiff gait walk to the station and caught the sounds of birds from the nature reserve, creatures that often kept him company in many a fraught pre-dawn tense morning. The station revealed little beyong its timetable and a deserted platform. He waited for 5 minutes and then headed for a pint. A solitary stout. Small beer on a silent wake. The Templars' grave revealed little beyond a patina of green. Nature never sleeps. BB smiled and anticipated that first magical slug of white cream. The White Mage in Bayswater lay in wait. Not quite dead, yet, boy, you really do take the biscuit. Convenient death, the mere shutting off of the infernal mobile idiot box. The Baird folly lay silent. Marconi's wave machine mute. The clock stopped on 3. The ritual had worked. He was at once gone from the world of the quotidian and out there in the London ozone, breath molecules carrying good intent on the northwards course. The Biscuit Boy had to root somewhere,he can't dissipate with nods from Patrick the Tip and more nights on his circular geometric leyline of light dispersal around W2, boozers, insomniacal derives. Those days have to be gone. Brinsley took his briar rod and headed for the door. One last walk out in the air, one last outing around the tombs of my properties and failed marriages. The Castle awaits. The Cock and Bottle's stale fumes of spilled beer were all but olfactions whistling up Moorhouse Road. Brinsley sucked in stale oxygen in his resting place and tapped his divining rod on the floor. Another stay of execution. Another day on the globe. Rheumy eyes cleared and he saw his face for the first time in months. A road map of ten years damage. Broken veins and the telling proboscis of one-too many waters-of-life, the cratur was a stern master. His halo of white follicles still framing a life force. He patted the hair and stroked the beard, shaking mitts betraying the mild panic. The front door was always a liminal boundary between the worlds, between magic and harsh reality. The cold gust of February echoed under the sills and the uninsulated doors. One more day, three or four more pints. Minor shafts of light in the London murk.