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on the side of the cart. It was as if part of me had been snatched away to fulfil some presumed role on the public stage. As if, while the mind of John Dee was absorbed in the contents of his library, the
conjurer
strode the streets, dispensing darkness.
    ‘How do we know these are Dr Dee’s predictions?’ A woman, sounding scared. ‘How came you by them?’
    ‘How do we
know
, mistress?’ the pamphlet man screamed. ‘How do we
know?’
    Evidently playing for time.
    ‘Indeed,’ another said, a man in a long gaberdine. ‘What proof have you that the renowned Dee is the author of these prophecies?’
    A moment’s silence as the pamphlet-seller clawed the air for inspiration, and then he sniffed loudly, puffed up his chest like a cock bird on a bough.
    ‘Dr Dee, sir, is a man who must needs guard his privacy. Myself, however, as his secretary and publisher, am given leave to make public those of his words what he considers might help men and women prepare for their fate. These being not
his
words, you understand, for he is a humble man, but the very utterings of messengers of God who communicate with him through his
intelligent devices.
’
    ‘I’ll take two,’ a man said.
    ‘That’ll be four pence.’
    I could stand it no more and stepped out of the alleyway.
    ‘So you’re –’ a sickness in my gut, for I’ve ever hated confrontation – ‘you’re Dr Dee’s publisher.’
    No reaction. My words lost in the chittering. I called out louder.
    ‘You work for Dr Dee?’
    ‘For many years,
friend
.’
    Speaking from out of the side of his mouth. He wasn’t looking at me, handing over a pamplet with one hand, taking the money with the other. The pamphlet was displaying a smudged engraving of a dark-robed man with a beard to his chest, his hands raised to the planets aswirl about his wide-brimmed hat. I ask you!
    ‘What sort of man is he?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘This Dr Dee.’
    ‘A man of deepest learning and erudition.’
    ‘Does he resemble this picture?’
    ‘It’s a fair likeness. I’d—’
    The pamphlet-seller broke off, turning to observe me. His skin was oily-sallow and he had a stubbly black mole on one unbarbered cheek. He clearly did not know me and seemed quickly to lose interest in a man in plain clothing and no hat.
    ‘So,’ I ran a hand across my fresh-shaven jaw, ‘he’d be an old man, would he, with that long beard?’
    ‘If you don’t have the money to buy, my friend, then pray clear the way for those who do. Life – as you may read within – is too short for wasters of time.’
    ‘You haven’t yet answered the question. How do we know that these… stories are come from Dee?’
    ‘And how do you know that they are
not?’
    ‘Because I didn’t—’
    It just happened that no-one else spoke, a random hush.
    ‘—write them,’ I said.
    Speaking quietly, but in that moment I might as well have bawled it from the rooftops.
    ‘Who
are
you, cocker?’ the pamphlet-seller said.
    I would have walked away but was tight-pressed now, on all sides. I’d seen this before. Warnings of the end of time could produce a near-riot in the street, fear filling the air like a choking smoke.
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Says he is Dr Dee,’ someone said.
    It had begun to rain again, and the high buildings echoed the clitter-clatter of horses’ hooves. The only space was in front of me, and the pamphlet-seller was leaning into it, a fat forefinger levelled at my chest.
    ‘Harken to the scoundrel! “
I am John Dee!
”’
    Some laughter, but it was flittery and uncertain. I said nothing, looking quickly among the circle of faces. There seemed to be nobody here I knew. I brought out a handful of small coins.
    ‘I’ll take a pamphlet, then.’
    The seller leaned towards me, holding out a pamphlet but then, as I reached for it, pulled it sharply back, his eyes alight with an energy of malice and glee.
    ‘If you’re Dr Dee,’ he said, ‘you’ll already know what’s in here.’
    Someone laughed.