Novels by Joy Mba

January 11, 2026 — 00:17 Canary Wharf, LondonThe rain had stopped.Not gradually, not tapering into drizzle. It had simply ceased—as though someone very high up had reached over and turned off the tap.The silence that followed was worse than the storm.No wind. No distant traffic hum from the Westferry Circus roundabout. No late-night Deliveroo moped whining through the side streets. Just the soft drip-drip-drip of water falling from the edges of the unfinished tower onto the cracked tarmac below.And breathing.Not one person breathing. Many.James Carter opened his eyes.He was lying on his back on the cold concrete of what had once been the ground-floor lobby of the Skeleton Tower. The ceiling soared above him—thirty-four storeys of unfinished ambition, now lit by a strange, sourceless silver light that came from nowhere and everywhere at once.He tried to sit up.Every muscle screamed.His coat was gone. His Nikon was gone. His phone—when he patted his pockets—

The blue-lit staircase beneath the perfect house in Larkspur Mews descended in a slow, deliberate spiral, each step feeling slightly softer than the last, as though the stone were breathing.James moved carefully, one hand trailing the smooth wall for balance. The light here was the same cold azure that had guided him down from the Skeleton Tower, but now it pulsed—slow, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of something very old and very patient.He counted the steps this time.One hundred and eight.Exactly one hundred and eight.When the final step arrived, it didn’t announce itself with a landing. The staircase simply flattened out and became floor. He found himself standing at the threshold of a long, low-ceilinged corridor. The walls were lined with mirrors—floor to ceiling, edge to edge. Not ordinary mirrors. These reflected nothing of the corridor itself.Each one showed a different James Carter.Not the versions from the candle circle. These were subtler. More intimate. Snapshots of m

The moment James Carter stepped through the second door, the cold concrete smell of the Skeleton Tower vanished.He didn’t fall. He didn’t stumble. The transition was surgical: one heartbeat in darkness, the next in light so warm and honey-coloured it felt like someone had poured late-afternoon sunshine directly into his lungs.He stood on cobblestones that gleamed as though freshly washed. Not the uneven, oil-stained stones of old Covent Garden or Brick Lane. These were perfect—smooth, pale gold, laid in a perfect herringbone pattern that stretched away in every direction. Above him, the sky was the deep, endless blue of a clear September evening, no clouds, no red scar, no bruise of coming storm. Streetlamps—actual Victorian-style ones with frosted glass globes—glowed softly, their light the exact colour of strong tea with milk.He turned slowly.No Canary Wharf towers. No glass-and-steel monoliths stabbing the sky. Instead, low Georgian terraces rose on either side

The staircase didn’t creak. That was the first thing James noticed as he descended. Concrete stairs, poured twenty years ago and left to the elements, should have groaned, cracked, or at least whispered dust with every step. These didn’t. Each footfall landed with the muted finality of a door closing behind him. The blue glow that lit the walls grew brighter the deeper he went—not electric, not fluorescent, but something older. Something that remembered light before London had streetlamps.He counted floors. Or tried to. After the first twenty steps the numbers stopped making sense. The landings disappeared. The walls smoothed until they looked machined rather than cast. The air grew colder, then warmer, then colder again in slow, nauseating waves. His breath fogged, then cleared, then fogged once more. Time felt soft here, like wet clay.He kept walking because stopping felt more dangerous.The older versions of himself had not followed. Their voices had faded almost immediat

London never truly slept, not even on a bitter January night in 2026.At 11:47 p.m. on Saturday the 11th, the city pulsed with its usual restless energy. Black cabs hissed past wet pavements, their yellow lights cutting through the rain like search beams. Late-night Deliveroo riders leaned into the wind on electric bikes, high-vis jackets glowing under sodium streetlamps. Somewhere near King’s Cross a busker played a mournful saxophone riff that drifted up through the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac. The rain had started around seven—first polite, then spiteful—turning the streets into black glass that reflected the neon of late-opening chicken shops, 24-hour newsagents, and the occasional glowing blue sign of a Pret that had forgotten to close.James Carter walked through it with the particular exhaustion of someone who had long ago stopped expecting the weather to be kind.Thirty-two years old. Just under six foot. Dark brown hair beginning to thin at the temples, though he still refuse