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I looked round sharply as the Collector’s security staff arrived, pattering across the bright blue floor towards us. Gleaming humanoid robots from some future Chinese civilisation, graceful and deadly with steel-clawed hands, and stylised cat faces complete with jutting metal whiskers. Their slit-pupilled eyes glowed green. A dozen of the robots moved swiftly to surround us, and I gestured quickly for Bettie to stand still. The robots hadn’t been sent to kill us, or I’d never have heard them coming. Bettie stood firm, glaring about her.
“Call them off, Collector,” I said, in a loud and carrying voice. “Or I’ll turn them into scrap metal.”
“You never did have any respect for other people’s property, Taylor.”
The cat robots fell back silently, to allow the Collector to approach. A pudgy, middle-aged man with a flushed face and beady little eyes, wearing a wraparound Roman toga, white with purple trimmings. There were knife holes and old blood stains on the toga’s front. Lots of them.
“Do you like it?” he said, stopping a respectful distance away. “A new acquisition. The robe the Emperor Caligula was wearing when he was assassinated by his own security people. Partly because he was a monster, but mostly because he embarrassed the hell out of them.” He looked at me, then at Bettie, who I now noticed was wearing a deep burgundy evening gown, with her long dark hair tumbling in ringlets to her shoulders. Her curved horns gleamed dully under the bright lights. The Collector smiled suddenly. “They’ve been feeding that T. rex too much; he’s getting slow and sloppy. I shall have to have words with that little snot Percival. What do you want here, Taylor?”
I looked around, evading the subject for the moment. Some things you need to sneak up on, and ease into. Especially when you’ve known the Collector as long as I have.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said. “Up on the Moon, you had everything packed away in boxes. You thinking of opening up to the public?”
“They wish,” said the Collector. “What’s mine is mine, and not for other eyes. But I had something of an epiphany during the Lilith War; it reminded me of how short life can be, and the necessity for enjoying things while you still can. It’s not enough just to own things, any more; I need to be able to walk amongst them, enjoy them, savour them. And I do. What do you want, Taylor?”
“I need a favour,” I said. “And you do owe me, Mark.”
He looked at me for a long moment, but in the end he looked away first. He seemed suddenly older, and tired.
“How much am I expected to pay for my sins against you?”
I could sense Bettie’s ears pricking up, as she realised we were talking about secret, important things, but I didn’t feel like enlightening her.
“Only you can answer that,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to know, and I’ll leave.”
“I should kill you,” he said, almost casually.
“You could try,” I said, easily.
“This is about the Afterlife Recording, isn’t it? I haven’t got it. Heard about it, of course. The whole damned Nightside is buzzing with news of it, mostly inaccurate, and all the little collectors and speculators are driving themselves crazy running in circles, chasing down every rumour…”
“But not you?” I said.
“I want it. And when I’m good and ready, I’ll go and get it. But right now I’m busy with something…something important. I have yet to be convinced that the Recording is the genuine article. But whether it’s the real deal or not, I will have it, because it’s a unique item, and it belongs here with me, as someone who will appreciate it…What is that woman doing?”
I looked around. Bettie had a small camera in her hands. I reached out and took it away from her.
“Give that back!” she said hotly. “It belongs to the paper! I had to sign for it!”
“Restrain yourself,” I said. “We’re guests here.”
“Oh, but look at all the lovely things he’s got,” said Bettie, pouting in a very winning way. “The world deserves to know what’s here!”
“No they don’t,” said the Collector. He gave me a thoughtful look. “Is she your latest?”
“No,” I said. “I’m still with Suzie.”
“Oh. Nice horns.” He gave me a hard look. “You always were more trouble than you were worth, Taylor. You know how long it took me to regrow my leg after those insects gnawed it off? All because of you? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have my lovely cat robots kill you, stuff you, and put you on display?”
“Because I’m my father’s son.”
“You always did fight dirty, John.” He smiled briefly. “The sins of the father…”
“And the mother,” I said. “And the man who put them together.”
“Walker had sons,” said the Collector. “Charles had you. And I…have my collection. Funny how things turn out. Get out of here, Taylor. I don’t have the Afterlife Recording, and I don’t know who has. Leave. And don’t come looking for me again. I won’t be here.”
He turned and walked away, followed by his cat robots. Bettie looked at me.
“What was that all about?”
“The past,” I said. “And how it always ends up haunting the present. Let’s go.”
“You’re sure he doesn’t have it, hidden away somewhere?”
“He wouldn’t lie to me,” I said.
We headed back to the door. Bettie was still frowning thoughtfully.
“Once we’re back in the artificial jungle, we’ve still got to face one very pissed-off Tyrannosaurus rex. How are we going to get past it this time?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll think of something.”
And I did.
FIVE -
The Devil’s in the Details
Back out on the Nightside streets again, we still carried the smell of the jungle with us. A harsh and murky mixture of sweat, rotting vegetation, and T. rex musk. It could have been my imagination, but people on the street seemed to be giving me even more room than usual. I felt like buying half a dozen air fresheners and hanging them round my neck. I did my best to rise above the situation, while debating what to do next with the delightful Bettie Divine.
“I still don’t get it,” she said, a bit pettishly. She was holding my arm again. “Why isn’t the Collector out chasing round the Nightside, trying to grab the Afterlife Recording for himself? He said he wanted it.”
“He also said he was busy with something,” I said. “Odd, that; he didn’t say what with. He’s never been bashful with me before; usually can’t wait to boast about what he’s up to…Still, he’s the Collector. Which means he’s always busy with something.”
“Unless…he’s scared of someone else who’s after the Recording,” said Bettie. “You, perhaps?”
“I’d like to think so, but no. It would have to be someone really bad, and really powerful. The Collector is a Major Player in his own right, and he doesn’t scare easily.”
“Walker?”
“You have a point there,” I admitted. I was getting used to walking arm in arm with Bettie. It felt good, natural. “Could Walker have been lying to us, to hide the fact he already had the DVD? No, I don’t think so. He would have told me if he’d had it, if only to put me in my place. And his reasons for wanting me to find it before anyone else sounded pretty good to me.”
“You mean the angels?” said Bettie.
“Please,” I said. “Let us not use the a-word in public.”
“All right, if it isn’t Walker, then who? Razor Eddie?”
I shook my head. “He might be the Punk God of the Straight Razor, but Eddie’s never been very interested in religion. In fact, he’s pretty much the only god all the other Beings on the Street of the Gods are afraid of.”
“How about the Lord of Thorns, then?”
“You have been doing your homework, haven’t you? No, he’s still recovering from the Lilith War and the trauma of finding out he’s not who he thought he was.”
“You know everyone, don’t you?” Bettie said admiringly. “Who did he think he was?”
“Overseer of the Nightside.”
Bettie thought about that. “If the Lord of Thorns isn’t watching over us, who is?”
“Good question,” I said. “Lot of people are still arguing about that.”
She gave me a sly, sideways look. “Lot of people say you could have been King of the Nightside, if you’d wanted.”
I smiled. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
“Don’t be silly, darling! That’s my job!”
“Damn,” I said, as a thought occurred to me.
“You’re frowning, John, and I do wish you wouldn’t. It usually means you’ve suddenly thought of something unpleasant, spooky, and probably downright dangerous.”
“Right on all three counts,” I said. “There is one man the Collector is afraid of, and quite rightly, too. Anyone with any sense is afraid of the Removal Man.”
Bettie pulled her arm out of mine and stopped dead in the street. I stopped with her. She gave me a hard look.
“Hold everything, reverse gear, go previous. Are you having fun with me, John? Thinking I’ll believe anything simply because it’s you saying it? The Removal Man is just an urban legend. Isn’t he?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I said.
“But…I don’t know anyone who’s seen him, or even claimed to have seen him! The Unnatural Inquirer’s been offering really quite serious money for a photo…No-one’s ever come forward.”
“Because they’re too scared,” I said. “You don’t mess with the Removal Man; not if you like existing.”
“Have you ever met him?” said Bettie, her voice carefully casual.
“No,” I said. “And I was hoping to keep it that way. I don’t think he approves of me. And people and things the Removal Man disapproves of have this unfortunate tendency to disappear without a trace. The Removal Man has made it his personal crusade to wander the Nightside anonymously, removing all the things and people that offend him. Removing, as in making them vanish so completely that even really Major Players have been unable to confirm exactly what it is he’s done with them.”
“He removes people from reality because they offend him?” said Bettie.
“Pretty much.” I started off down the street again, and Bettie came along with me. Not holding my arm. “Basically, the Removal Man drops the hammer on people if he considers them to be a threat to the Nightside, or the world in general…or because who or what they are offends his particular moral beliefs. Judge, jury, and executioner, though no-one’s ever seen him do it.”
“Like…Jessica Sorrow?” said Bettie, frowning.
“No…Jessica made bits of the world disappear because she didn’t believe in them, and her disbelief was stronger than their reality. Very scary lady. Luckily she sleeps a lot of the time. No, the Removal Man chooses what he wants to disappear. No-one’s ever been able to bring any of his victims back; and a whole lot of pretty powerful people have tried…I’ve never heard a single guess at his name, or who he used to be before he came here and took on his role. And this in a place that runs on rumours. He’s a mystery, and all the signs are he likes it that way.”
“You are seriously spooking me out, sweetie,” said Bettie. “Are you sure he’s involved with this?”
“No; but it sounds right. The Afterlife Recording is exactly the sort of thing that would attract the Removal Man’s attention. Rumour has it he only ever reveals his identity to those he’s about to remove, and not always then. There’s some evidence he can work close up, or from a distance. Certainly he doesn’t give a damn about celebrity, or notoriety, or even reward. He works for his own satisfaction. It’s hard to be a shadowy urban legend in a place full of marvels and nightmares, but he’s managed it. I’m almost jealous.”
“I did hear one rumour,” Bettie said carefully. “That he once tried to remove Walker…but it didn’t take.”
I shrugged. “If it did happen, Walker’s never mentioned it. I suppose it’s possible that Walker secretly approves of the Removal Man. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Removal Man did the occasional job for him, on the quiet, disappearing people that Walker considered a threat to the status quo…No…No, that can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“Because Walker would have sent the Removal Man after me long ago.”
Bettie laughed and took my arm again. “You don’t half fancy yourself, John Taylor. Any idea where the Removal Man might have gained his power?”
“The same way everybody else does,” I said. “He made a deal with Someone or Something. Makes you wonder what he might have paid in exchange…I suppose it could be the Removal Man, or his patron, who’s been interfering with my gift. I really do hope it isn’t the Devil again.”
“I could ask Mummy for you,” said Bettie. “She still has contacts with the Old Firm.”
“Think I’ll pass,” I said.
Bettie shrugged easily. “Suit yourself. You know, if we don’t get to Pen Donavon before the Removal Man does, we could lose both him and his DVD. And my paper has paid a lot of money for that DVD.”
“It might not be the Removal Man,” I said. “I was thinking aloud. Speculating. I could be wrong. I have been before. In fact, this is one time I’d really like to be wrong.”
“He worries you, doesn’t he?”
“Damn right he does.”
“Tell you what,” said Bettie, snuggling up against me and squeezing my arm companionably against her breast. “When you want the very latest gossip on anything, ask a reporter. Or better yet, a whole bunch of reporters! Come with me, sweetie; I’m taking you to the Printer’s Devil.”
Luckily, the Printer’s Devil turned out to be a bar where reporters congregated when they were off work; printer’s devil being old-time slang for a typesetter. The bar catered almost exclusively to journalists, a private place where they could let their hair down amongst their own kind and share the kinds of stories that would never see print. Situated half-way down a gloomy side street, the Printer’s Devil was an old place, and almost defiantly old-fashioned. It had a black-and-white timbered Tudor front, complete with jutting gables and a hanging sign showing a medieval Devil, complete with scarlet skin, goatee beard, and a pair of horns on his forehead that reminded my very much of Bettie’s, operating a simple printing press. Reporters can be very literal, when they’re off duty.
Bettie breezed through the door like a visiting princess, and I wandered in after her. The interior turned out to be equally old-fashioned, with sawdust on the floor, horse brasses over the bar, and a low ceiling with exposed beams. A dozen different beers on tap, with distressingly twee olde-worlde names, like Langford’s Exceedingly Old Speckled Hen. Taste that albumen! A chalked sign offered traditional pub grub—chips with everything. And not a modern appliance anywhere in sight, including, thankfully, a juke-box. There was a deafening roar of chatter from the mob of shabby and shifty characters crowded round the tables and filling the booths, and the atmosphere was hot, sweaty, and smoky. There was so much nicotine in the air you could practically chew it. A great clamour of greeting went up as Bettie was recognised, only to die quickly away to a strained silence as they recognised me. Bettie smiled sweetly around her.
“It’s all right,” she said. “He’s with me.”
The reporters immediately turned their backs on us and resumed their conversations as though nothing had happened. One of their own had vouched for me, and that was all it took. Bettie headed for the crowded bar, and I moved quickly after her. She smiled and waved and shouted the odd cheery greeting at those around her, and everyone smiled and waved and shouted back. Clearly, Bettie was a very popular girl. At the bar, I asked her what she was drinking, and she batted her heavy eye-lashes and asked for a Horny Red Devil. Which turned out to be gin, vodka, and Worcester sauce, with a wormwood-and-brimstone chaser. To each their own. At least it didn’t come with a little umbrella in it. I ordered a Coke. A real Coke, and none of that diet nonsense. Bettie looked at me.
“Never when I’m working,” I said solemnly.
“Really? It’s the other way round with me, darling. I couldn’t face this job sober.” She smiled happily. “I notice the bartender didn’t ask you to pay for these drinks. Don’t you ever pay for anything?”
“I pay my way at Strangefellows,” I said. “The owner is a friend.”
“Ooh; Strangefellows, sweetie! Yes, I’ve heard about that place! There are all kinds of stories about what goes on in Strangefellows!”
“And most of them are true. It is the oldest pub in the world, after all.”
“Will you take me there after we’ve finished with this assignment? I’d love to go dancing at Strangefellows. We could relax and get squiffy together. I might even show you my tail.”
“We’ll probably end up there, at some point,” I said. “Most of my cases take me there, eventually.”
The bartender slammed our drinks down on the highly polished wooden bar top, then backed away quickly. I didn’t care for the man, and I think he could tell. He was one of those stout jolly types, with a red face and a ready smile, always there to make cheerful conversation when all you want is to drink in peace. Probably referred to himself as Mine Host. I gave him a meaningful look, and he retreated to the other end of the bar to polish some glasses that didn’t need polishing.
“Can’t take you anywhere,” said Bettie.
Behind the bar hung a giveaway calendar supplied by the Unnatural Inquirer, with a large photo featuring the charms of a very well-developed young lady whose clothes had apparently fallen off. At the bottom of the page was the paper’s current slogan: ARE YOU GETTING IT REGULARLY? Some rather shrunken-looking meat pies were on display in a glass case, but one look was all it took to convince me I would rather tear my tongue out. A stuffed-and-mounted fox head winked at me, and I snarled back. Animals should know their place. Not a lot further down the bar, an old-fashioned manual typewriter was being operated by the invisible hands of a real ghost writer. I’d met it once before, at the Night Times offices, and was tempted to make a remark about spirits not being served here, but rose above it. I leaned over towards the typewriter, and the clacking keys paused.
“Any recent news on the whereabouts of the Afterlife Recording?”
Words quickly formed on the page, reading Future’s cloudy. Ask again later.
I persuaded Bettie to hurry her drink, politely evaded her attempts to chat, bond, or get personal, and finally we moved away from the bar to mingle with the assembled reporters. With Bettie as my native guide, we passed easily from group to group, with me doing my best to be courteous and charming. I needn’t have bothered. The reporters only had eyes for Bettie, who was in full flirt mode—all squeaky voice, fluttering lashes, and a bit of laying on of hands where necessary. Bettie was currently wearing a smart white blouse with half the buttons undone, over a simple black skirt, fish-net stockings, and high heels. Her horns showed clearly on her forehead, perhaps because she felt safe and at home here.
All the journalists seemed quite willing to talk about the Afterlife Recording; they’d all heard something, or swore they had. No-one wanted to appear out of the loop or left behind in company like this. Unfortunately, most of what they had to tell us turned out to be vague, misleading, or contradictory. Pen Donavon had been seen here, there, and everywhere, and already all sorts of people were offering copies of the DVD for sale. Only to be expected in the Nightside, where people have been known to rip off a new idea while it was still forming in the originator’s mind. Rumours were already circulating that some people had managed to view what was on the DVD and had immediately Raptured right out of their clothes. Though whether Up or Down remained unconfirmed.
Bettie stopped at a table, and greeted one particular reporter with particular cold venom, along with a stare that would have poisoned a rattlesnake at forty paces. He seemed bright and cheerful enough, in an irredeemably seedy sort of way. He wore a good suit badly, and had a diamond tie-pin big enough to be classed as an offensive weapon.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” I said innocently to Bettie.
She sniffed loudly. “John, darling, this particular gusset stain is Rick Aday, reporter for the Night Times.”
“Investigative reporter,” he corrected her easily, flashing perfect but somewhat yellow teeth in a big smile. He put out a hand for me to shake. I looked at it, and he took it back again. “You must have seen my by-line, Mr. Taylor, I’ve written lots of stories about you: Rick Aday; Trouble Is My Middle Name.”
“No it isn’t,” Bettie said briskly. “It’s Cedric.”
Aday shot her a venomous glare. “Better than yours, Delilah.”
“Lick my scabs!”
“They used to date,” another of the reporters confided quietly to me. I nodded. I’d already guessed that.
“I’ve been hot on the trail of the Afterlife Recording for some time now,” Aday said loftily. “Pursuing several quite credible leads, actually. Just waiting for a phone call from one of my extremely clued-in informants, then I’ll be off to make Mr. Donavon a generous offer for his DVD.”
“You can’t!” Bettie snapped immediately. “My paper has a legitimate contract with Pen Donavon, granting us exclusive rights to his material!”
Aday just grinned at her. “Finders keepers, losers read about it in the Night Times.”
“I suppose all’s fair in love and publishing,” I said, and Bettie actually hissed at me.
I moved away, to allow Bettie and her old flame to exchange harsh words in private. I’d noticed that the nearby wall boasted a whole series of framed cartoons and caricatures of noted Nightside personalities. Good likenesses, if often harsh, exaggerated, and downright cruel. They were all signed with a name I recognised. Bozie’s work was well-known in the Nightside, appearing in all the best papers and magazines. He excelled at bringing out a subject’s worst attributes and qualities, making them seem monstrous and laughable at the same time. Those depicted usually gritted their teeth and smiled as best they could, because you weren’t anybody in the Nightside unless you’d been caricatured by Bozie.
There were rumours that Bozie had been known to accept quite large sums of money to kill a particular creation of his before the public got to see it. No-one mentioned blackmail, of course. Thus are reputations made in the Nightside.
I’ve never approved of needless cruelty. You should save it for when it’s really necessary.
I moved slowly along the wall, checking out the various pen-and-ink creations in their softwood frames. All the usual suspects were there. Walker, of course, looking very sinister with more than a hint of in-breeding. Julien Advent, impossibly noble, complete with halo and stigmata. The Sonic Assassin, in his sixties greatcoat, gnawing on a human thigh-bone while making a rude gesture at the viewer. And…Shotgun Suzie. My Suzie. I stopped before the caricature and studied it impassively. Bozie had made her look like a monster. All fetishy black leathers and unfeasibly big breasts, with a face like an axe murderer. He’d exaggerated every detail of her looks to make her seem ugly and crazy. This wasn’t just a caricature; it was an assault on her character. It was an insult.
“Like it?” said a lazy voice at my side. I looked round, and there was the artist himself—the famous or more properly infamous Bozie. A tall, gangling sort, in scruffy blue jeans and a T-shirt bearing an idealised image of his own face. He had long, floppy hair, dark, intense eyes, and an openly mocking smile. He gestured languidly at Suzie’s caricature. “It is for sale, you know. If you want it?”
I had a feeling I knew how this was going to play out, but I went along with it. “All right,” I said. “How much?”
“Oh, for you…Let’s say a round hundred thousand pounds.” He giggled suddenly. “A bargain at the price. Or you can leave it here, for all the world to see. Who knows how many papers and magazines might want to run it?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said.
“Oh, do tell.”
I hit the glass covering the caricature with my fist, and it shattered immediately, jagged pieces falling out of the frame. Bozie stepped quickly backwards, his hands held protectively out before him. I tore the caricature out of the frame, and ripped it up, letting the pieces fall to the floor at my feet. Bozie goggled at me, torn between shock and outrage.
“You…You can’t do that!” he managed finally.
“I just did.”
“I’ll sue!”
I smiled. “Good luck with that.”
“I can always draw another one,” Bozie said spitefully. “An even better one!”
“If you do,” I said, “I will find you.”
Bozie couldn’t meet my gaze. He looked around him, hoping for help or support, but no-one wanted to know. He sat down at his table again, still not looking at me, and sulked. I went back to Bettie’s table, and sat beside her. She patted me on the arm.
“That was very sweet, dear. Though a bit harsh on poor Bozie.”
“Hell,” I said. “I saved his life. Suzie would have shot him on sight. She doesn’t have my innate courtesy and restraint.”
There was a certain amount of coughing around the table, and then everyone went back to their discussion on what the Afterlife Recording might actually contain. The suggestions were many and varied, but eventually boiled down to the following:
1. There was a new rebel angel in Heaven, rebelling against the long silence of millennia to finally broadcast the truth about Humanity. Why we were created, what our true purpose is, and why we are born to suffer.
2. It was a transmission from Hell, saying that God is dead and they can prove it. Satan runs our world, tormenting us for his pleasure. Which would explain a lot.
3. An exact date for the final war between Heaven and Hell. Broadcast now because…it’s all about to kick off.
4. There is a Heaven, but it’s only for the innocent animals. People just die.
5. There is a Heaven, but no Hell.
6. There is a Hell, but no Heaven.
7. It’s all bullshit.
There was a lot of nodding and raising of glasses at that last one. Once the subject of the DVD’s contents had been thoroughly exhausted, I took it upon myself to raise the possibility of the Removal Man’s involvement. Everyone perked up immediately and tumbled over each other to provide anecdotes and stories they’d come across but had been unable to get printed. Because no-one could prove anything.
“Remember Jonnie Reggae?” said Rick Aday. “Used to headline at the old Shell Beach Club? Rumour has it he vanished right in the middle of his set because the Removal Man was in the audience and decided his material was offensive. Management was livid. They’d booked Jonnie for the whole season.”
“He’s supposed to have made a house disappear, on Blaiston Street,” said Lovett, from the Nightside Observer.
“Actually, no,” I said. “That was me.”
There was some more awkward coughing before Bettie determinedly got the conversation back on course.
“Remember Bully Boy Bates?” she said brightly. “Used to run a protection racket in the sweat-shop districts? Julien Advent was just getting ready to run an exposй on him in the Times, then suddenly didn’t need to because Bates and all his cronies had gone missing. Or how about that alien predator, that disguised itself as an ambulance so it could eat the people put into it? That was the Removal Man. Supposedly. He has done some good.”
“Yes,” said Aday, drawing the word out till it sounded more like no, “but on the other hand, look what he did to the first incarnation of the Caligula Club. You know, that place that caters to all the more extreme forms of sexuality. Lots of people having a good time, according to their lights, all of it adult and consensual…but too much for the Removal Man’s puritan tastes. He made the whole Club disappear, along with everyone in it. Just like that! Which is why the current version of the Club has such heavy-duty protections, and it’s so hard to get in. Or so they tell me…”
And then the whole place fell suddenly silent as the door crashed open and General Condor entered, along with a dozen heavily armed and armoured body-guards. They made sure the place was secure and only then put their guns away. The General strode forward and looked the place over. He didn’t appear especially impressed—by the bar or its customers. He was still wearing his Space Fleet uniform, complete with golden bars on his shoulders and rows of medal ribbons on his chest. He had the look of the old soldier, the calm steady look that said he’d seen a lot of men die, and your death wouldn’t bother him in the least.
“John Taylor,” he said, his heavy deliberate voice crashing into the hush. “I want him.”
I stood up. “Get in line,” I said. “I’m busy.”
He looked me over, then surprised me by smiling briefly. If anything, it made him look even more dangerous. “I need to talk to you, Taylor. And you need to listen.”
I looked at him, then at the body-guards, and then at the reporters, all staring at us with wide eyes, impressed out of their minds. That settled it. I couldn’t let them down. I nodded to the General, who gestured stiffly at a corner booth. The young man and woman sitting in it got the message, and vacated immediately, leaving their drinks behind. The General sat down stiffly in the booth, and I went over to join him. Bettie wanted to come with me, but I was firm. She pouted and stamped her little foot, but she did stay put. I sat down facing the General, and his body-guards moved quickly to form a defensive barrier between the booth and the rest of the bar, their hands resting on the butts of their guns. The reporters turned up their noses at them and ostentatiously went back to their own conversations.
I looked thoughtfully at the General. “I’m not sure I want to hear anything you have to say, General. I’m not the military type, I have problems with authority figures, and I don’t play well with others.”
“A lot of people don’t want to hear what’s good for them. The order of things in the Nightside is changing. The Authorities are gone, and someone has to replace them before this whole place tears itself apart fighting over the spoils. I can put the Nightside on the right course, John. Make it a place to be proud of. I have support from many fine and influential people, but I could use you on my side.”
“Why me?” I said, genuinely curious.
“Don’t be disingenuous.” General Condor sighed tiredly and leaned forward across the table. “You’ve been a force for good in the Nightside. You help people. You’ve even been known to dispense your own kind of justice when necessary. Help me to save the Nightside from its own excesses.”
“You can’t force change in the Nightside,” I said. Something in me warmed to the General’s blunt honesty, if not his cause, so I gave him the truth, and not what he wanted to hear. “The Nightside is what it wants to be. It’s fought wars with Heaven and Hell for the right to go its own way. The best you can do, the best any of us can do, is encourage change for the better, one small step at a time.”
“The Nightside has had thousands of years to grow up,” said the General. “If it was capable of saving itself, it would have done so by now. It needs a firm hand on the tiller, it needs control and discipline imposed from above, like any military unit that’s gone bad. Walker tried, but he was only ever the Authorities’ puppy. He can’t run things on his own. He must be replaced.”
“Good luck with that,” I said.
He smiled again. “If I thought it would be easy, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”
“He has the Voice,” I said.
“It doesn’t work on you,” said the General.
I raised an eyebrow. “You want me to kiss him on the cheek while I’m there?”
“I want you to do what’s right. What’s best for everyone.”
“Even I don’t know what that is,” I said. “And I’ve been looking for it a lot longer than you have.”
“If you’re not with me, you’re against me,” General Condor said flatly. “And if you don’t choose a side soon, one may be chosen for you.”
I smiled. “Good luck with that, too.”
He laughed briefly, quietly. “I could have used a man like you on my flagship, John. You won’t bend or yield for anyone, will you?”
“Why is this so important to you?” I said, seriously. “You haven’t been here long. Why this need to save the Nightside from itself?”
“I have to do something,” said the General. “I couldn’t save my Fleet. I couldn’t save my men. I have to do something…”
He got up from the table, and I stood up with him. He offered me his hand, and I shook it. The General left the Printer’s Devil with his body-guards, and I went back to join Bettie Divine.
“Well?” she said, almost bouncing up and down in her seat. “What was that all about?”
“Just politics,” I said. “Nightside style. Anything new or useful come up, while I was gone?”
“But John…!”
“Move along,” I said.
“You need to talk to the Collector,” said Rick Aday.
“Been there, done that,” said Bettie.
“Oh.” Aday looked crest-fallen for a moment, and then brightened again. “All right, how about the Cardinal? You know, used to run the Vatican’s Extremely Forbidden Library. Until they discovered he was sneaking things out for his own private collection. Had to go on the run and ended up here, where he’s supposed to have built up a really impressive hoard of religious artifacts. He’s your man. If anyone’s got close to the Afterlife Recording, it’ll be the Cardinal.”
“Good call,” I said. “Bettie, I think we need to pay the Cardinal a visit. It’s been a while since I scared the shit out of him, for the good of his soul.”
“Ah,” said Aday, smiling craftily. “Word is, he’s moved, and taken his collection with him. Hardly anyone knows where he is now.”
“But you know,” said Bettie.
“Of course.”
“Oh, please, please, Ricky sweetie, tell us where he is,” said Bettie, giving him the full fluttering eye-lashes treatment. “I’ll be ever so grateful, I promise.”
Aday smirked triumphantly. “And what makes you think I’ll just give up a valuable piece of information like that?”
“Because she asked you nicely,” I said. “I won’t.”
Aday gave us the Cardinal’s new address, and directions on how to find it. Bettie and I left the Printer’s Devil. She waved good-bye and blew kisses in all directions. I didn’t. I had my dignity to consider.
SIX -
Heated Emotions from Unexpected Directions
It’s hard to maintain a reputation for being grim and mysterious when you’re accompanied by a brightly clad young thing, skipping merrily along at your side, holding your hand, and smiling sweetly on one and all. Still, it felt good to have Bettie with me. Her constant enthusiasm and optimism helped relieve a weight and burden I hadn’t even realised I was carrying. She made me feel…alive again.
Following Rick Aday’s directions, we were heading into one of the more seedy areas of the Nightside, where the narrow streets are lined with scruffy little shops and emporiums, where half the street-lights never work, and most of the neon signs have letters missing. The kind of shop where there’s a sale on all the year round, where they specialise in only fairly convincing knock-offs of whatever brand-names are currently fashionable or in demand, where the buyer had better not only beware, but carry a large stick and count his fingers on the way out. Shops that sell tarnished dreams and tacky nightmares, misleading miracles and wondrous devices, most of whose batteries have run down. Bottom feeders, in other words; tourist traps, and home to every cheap and nasty con you can think of. The crowds were just as heavy here, jostling each other off the pavement and shouldering each other out of the way. Everyone loves a bargain.
And then, suddenly, everyone was yelling and running. I stopped and looked quickly around me. I hadn’t done anything. The crowds scattered quickly, to reveal Queen Helena striding down the street, staring grimly at me, at the head of her own small army of sycophants, followers, and armed men. I stood my ground, doing my best to appear casual and unconcerned. Bettie stuck close to me, quivering with excitement. Queen Helena finally crashed to a halt right in front of me, fixing me with her cold faraway eyes. She was wrapped from head to toe in thick white furs, parting now as she struck a regal pose, to reveal glimpses of blue-white skin. She looked like someone who had died and then been buried in the permafrost. There was no warmth anywhere in her harsh, regal features, but her eyes blazed with arrogant superiority. She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to kneel or bow or offer to kiss her hand. So I ignored her completely, concentrating on the colourful figures who’d moved forward out of her army to back her up.
“Take a good look,” I said cheerfully to Bettie. “It’s not every day you see so many prominent members of the Exiles Club out in public. Mostly, these aristocratic nobodies prefer to skulk inside their very own members-only club, addressing each other by their old titles because they’re the only ones that will. They trade grievances about lost lands and abandoned kingdoms, how nobody recognises true quality in this dreadful place, and how you just can’t get good servants any more.
“The bald, stooped, and vulturelike figure to Queen Helena’s left is Zog, King of the Pixies. Word has it he’s been wearing those scabby feathered robes ever since he turned up here thirty years ago, and he hasn’t washed them once. Try to avoid standing downwind. Queen Mab herself kicked him out of the Fae Court, for using glamour spells to lie with human women. He always killed them after he’d had his way with them, but Mab didn’t care about that. Sex outside their race is one of the Fae’s greatest taboos. So here he is now, stripped of his glamour, just another rapist and murderer with a title that means nothing at all.
“Next to him we have His Altitude Tobermoret, monarch of all he surveyed in Far Afrique. A dark and distinguished gentleman indeed, in his zebra-hide suit and his lion-claw necklace. Tobermoret used to be War Chief of an entire continent, until his people realised he was starting wars and rebellions just for the fun of it. He did so love sending young men out to die while he sat at his ease in a tent overlooking the battle-field, enjoying the show. I did hear tell his people castrated him before they shoved him through the Timeslip, which is why he’s always in such a bad temper.
“On Queen Helena’s other side is Prince Xerxes the Murder Monarch. And yes, those really are preserved human eyes and organs and other bits and pieces hanging from all those chains he’s got wrapped around him. Though given how much he’s gone to seed since he got here, one can’t help wishing he’d wear something else apart from just the chains. He practises necromancy, the magic of murder. Partly because it’s traditional where he comes from, but mostly because he gets off on it. Though he’s learned to leave the tourists alone ever since Walker had a quiet word with him.
“And finally, next to Xerxes we have King Artur, of Sinister Albion. For every glorious dream, there’s a nightmare equivalent, somewhere in the time-streams. For every helping hand, a kick in the face. In Sinister Albion, Merlin Satanspawn decided to embrace his father’s qualities instead of rejecting them, and brought up young Artur in his own awful image. Under their direction, Camelot became a place of blood and horror, where knights in terrible armour feasted on the hearts of good men, and Albion blazed from end to end with burning Wicker Men. The only reason I haven’t killed Artur on general principles, is because I’ve been too busy with other things.”
I smiled at Queen Helena. “I think that’s it. Have I missed anything important?”
“You do so love the sound of your own voice, Taylor,” said Queen Helena. “And you will address me as Your Majesty.”
“That’ll be the day,” I said cheerfully. “What do you want with me, Helena? Or are you just taking the Exiles out for a walk?”
It took her a moment to work out how to answer me. She wasn’t used to open defiance, let alone ridicule. “You were seen,” she said finally, “talking with the General Condor. You will tell me what you talked about. What you decided. What plans were made. Tell me everything, and I shall make a place for you in my army. Power and riches shall be yours. I could use a man like you, Taylor.”
“Ah, what it is to be popular and desired,” I said. “The leadership of the Nightside is up for grabs, and suddenly everyone wants me on their side. Flattering, but…annoying. I’m busy right now, Helena. And I have to say, even if I wasn’t…there isn’t enough gold in the Nightside to persuade me to work for you, let alone this bunch of titled scumbags.”
“Why do you say these things to me?” said Queen Helena. “When you know I will kill you for it?”
I shrugged. “I think you bring out the worst in me. There’s some shit I simply will not put up with.”
Her arms came out from under her robes, bulging tech implants already thrusting up through the blue-white skin. Dull grey gun muzzles orientated on me. Zog raised a withered arm to show off a beaten-copper glove with sharpened claws, buzzing with arcane energies. Tobermoret slammed the end of his long wooden staff on the pavement, and all the runes and sigils carved deep into the wood began to glow with a disquieting light. Xerxes produced a pair of long, curved daggers with serrated edges that looked more like butcher’s tools. He grinned at me, showing off dull brown teeth filed to points. And Artur’s bleak and brutal battle armour slowly came to life, its metal parts creeping and crawling over him, muttering to themselves in hissing otherworldly voices. Behind his blank steel helmet, his eyes glowed like corpsefires.
And behind Queen Helena and her Exiles, armed and armoured men hefted their various weapons, impatient for the order to attack.
Bettie Divine made quiet whimpering noises and looked like she’d rather be anywhere else than here, but still she held her ground at my side.
I took a sudden deliberate step forward, so I could look Queen Helena right in the eye. “I could have been King of the Nightside if I’d wanted. I didn’t. Did you really think I’d bend the knee and bow my head to such as you?”
“I have powerful allies!” said Queen Helena. “I have an army in waiting! I have potent weapons!”
I laughed in her face. “You really think that’s going to make a difference? I’m John Taylor.”
“Call them off, Collector,” I said, in a loud and carrying voice. “Or I’ll turn them into scrap metal.”
“You never did have any respect for other people’s property, Taylor.”
The cat robots fell back silently, to allow the Collector to approach. A pudgy, middle-aged man with a flushed face and beady little eyes, wearing a wraparound Roman toga, white with purple trimmings. There were knife holes and old blood stains on the toga’s front. Lots of them.
“Do you like it?” he said, stopping a respectful distance away. “A new acquisition. The robe the Emperor Caligula was wearing when he was assassinated by his own security people. Partly because he was a monster, but mostly because he embarrassed the hell out of them.” He looked at me, then at Bettie, who I now noticed was wearing a deep burgundy evening gown, with her long dark hair tumbling in ringlets to her shoulders. Her curved horns gleamed dully under the bright lights. The Collector smiled suddenly. “They’ve been feeding that T. rex too much; he’s getting slow and sloppy. I shall have to have words with that little snot Percival. What do you want here, Taylor?”
I looked around, evading the subject for the moment. Some things you need to sneak up on, and ease into. Especially when you’ve known the Collector as long as I have.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said. “Up on the Moon, you had everything packed away in boxes. You thinking of opening up to the public?”
“They wish,” said the Collector. “What’s mine is mine, and not for other eyes. But I had something of an epiphany during the Lilith War; it reminded me of how short life can be, and the necessity for enjoying things while you still can. It’s not enough just to own things, any more; I need to be able to walk amongst them, enjoy them, savour them. And I do. What do you want, Taylor?”
“I need a favour,” I said. “And you do owe me, Mark.”
He looked at me for a long moment, but in the end he looked away first. He seemed suddenly older, and tired.
“How much am I expected to pay for my sins against you?”
I could sense Bettie’s ears pricking up, as she realised we were talking about secret, important things, but I didn’t feel like enlightening her.
“Only you can answer that,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to know, and I’ll leave.”
“I should kill you,” he said, almost casually.
“You could try,” I said, easily.
“This is about the Afterlife Recording, isn’t it? I haven’t got it. Heard about it, of course. The whole damned Nightside is buzzing with news of it, mostly inaccurate, and all the little collectors and speculators are driving themselves crazy running in circles, chasing down every rumour…”
“But not you?” I said.
“I want it. And when I’m good and ready, I’ll go and get it. But right now I’m busy with something…something important. I have yet to be convinced that the Recording is the genuine article. But whether it’s the real deal or not, I will have it, because it’s a unique item, and it belongs here with me, as someone who will appreciate it…What is that woman doing?”
I looked around. Bettie had a small camera in her hands. I reached out and took it away from her.
“Give that back!” she said hotly. “It belongs to the paper! I had to sign for it!”
“Restrain yourself,” I said. “We’re guests here.”
“Oh, but look at all the lovely things he’s got,” said Bettie, pouting in a very winning way. “The world deserves to know what’s here!”
“No they don’t,” said the Collector. He gave me a thoughtful look. “Is she your latest?”
“No,” I said. “I’m still with Suzie.”
“Oh. Nice horns.” He gave me a hard look. “You always were more trouble than you were worth, Taylor. You know how long it took me to regrow my leg after those insects gnawed it off? All because of you? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have my lovely cat robots kill you, stuff you, and put you on display?”
“Because I’m my father’s son.”
“You always did fight dirty, John.” He smiled briefly. “The sins of the father…”
“And the mother,” I said. “And the man who put them together.”
“Walker had sons,” said the Collector. “Charles had you. And I…have my collection. Funny how things turn out. Get out of here, Taylor. I don’t have the Afterlife Recording, and I don’t know who has. Leave. And don’t come looking for me again. I won’t be here.”
He turned and walked away, followed by his cat robots. Bettie looked at me.
“What was that all about?”
“The past,” I said. “And how it always ends up haunting the present. Let’s go.”
“You’re sure he doesn’t have it, hidden away somewhere?”
“He wouldn’t lie to me,” I said.
We headed back to the door. Bettie was still frowning thoughtfully.
“Once we’re back in the artificial jungle, we’ve still got to face one very pissed-off Tyrannosaurus rex. How are we going to get past it this time?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll think of something.”
And I did.
FIVE -
The Devil’s in the Details
Back out on the Nightside streets again, we still carried the smell of the jungle with us. A harsh and murky mixture of sweat, rotting vegetation, and T. rex musk. It could have been my imagination, but people on the street seemed to be giving me even more room than usual. I felt like buying half a dozen air fresheners and hanging them round my neck. I did my best to rise above the situation, while debating what to do next with the delightful Bettie Divine.
“I still don’t get it,” she said, a bit pettishly. She was holding my arm again. “Why isn’t the Collector out chasing round the Nightside, trying to grab the Afterlife Recording for himself? He said he wanted it.”
“He also said he was busy with something,” I said. “Odd, that; he didn’t say what with. He’s never been bashful with me before; usually can’t wait to boast about what he’s up to…Still, he’s the Collector. Which means he’s always busy with something.”
“Unless…he’s scared of someone else who’s after the Recording,” said Bettie. “You, perhaps?”
“I’d like to think so, but no. It would have to be someone really bad, and really powerful. The Collector is a Major Player in his own right, and he doesn’t scare easily.”
“Walker?”
“You have a point there,” I admitted. I was getting used to walking arm in arm with Bettie. It felt good, natural. “Could Walker have been lying to us, to hide the fact he already had the DVD? No, I don’t think so. He would have told me if he’d had it, if only to put me in my place. And his reasons for wanting me to find it before anyone else sounded pretty good to me.”
“You mean the angels?” said Bettie.
“Please,” I said. “Let us not use the a-word in public.”
“All right, if it isn’t Walker, then who? Razor Eddie?”
I shook my head. “He might be the Punk God of the Straight Razor, but Eddie’s never been very interested in religion. In fact, he’s pretty much the only god all the other Beings on the Street of the Gods are afraid of.”
“How about the Lord of Thorns, then?”
“You have been doing your homework, haven’t you? No, he’s still recovering from the Lilith War and the trauma of finding out he’s not who he thought he was.”
“You know everyone, don’t you?” Bettie said admiringly. “Who did he think he was?”
“Overseer of the Nightside.”
Bettie thought about that. “If the Lord of Thorns isn’t watching over us, who is?”
“Good question,” I said. “Lot of people are still arguing about that.”
She gave me a sly, sideways look. “Lot of people say you could have been King of the Nightside, if you’d wanted.”
I smiled. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”
“Don’t be silly, darling! That’s my job!”
“Damn,” I said, as a thought occurred to me.
“You’re frowning, John, and I do wish you wouldn’t. It usually means you’ve suddenly thought of something unpleasant, spooky, and probably downright dangerous.”
“Right on all three counts,” I said. “There is one man the Collector is afraid of, and quite rightly, too. Anyone with any sense is afraid of the Removal Man.”
Bettie pulled her arm out of mine and stopped dead in the street. I stopped with her. She gave me a hard look.
“Hold everything, reverse gear, go previous. Are you having fun with me, John? Thinking I’ll believe anything simply because it’s you saying it? The Removal Man is just an urban legend. Isn’t he?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I said.
“But…I don’t know anyone who’s seen him, or even claimed to have seen him! The Unnatural Inquirer’s been offering really quite serious money for a photo…No-one’s ever come forward.”
“Because they’re too scared,” I said. “You don’t mess with the Removal Man; not if you like existing.”
“Have you ever met him?” said Bettie, her voice carefully casual.
“No,” I said. “And I was hoping to keep it that way. I don’t think he approves of me. And people and things the Removal Man disapproves of have this unfortunate tendency to disappear without a trace. The Removal Man has made it his personal crusade to wander the Nightside anonymously, removing all the things and people that offend him. Removing, as in making them vanish so completely that even really Major Players have been unable to confirm exactly what it is he’s done with them.”
“He removes people from reality because they offend him?” said Bettie.
“Pretty much.” I started off down the street again, and Bettie came along with me. Not holding my arm. “Basically, the Removal Man drops the hammer on people if he considers them to be a threat to the Nightside, or the world in general…or because who or what they are offends his particular moral beliefs. Judge, jury, and executioner, though no-one’s ever seen him do it.”
“Like…Jessica Sorrow?” said Bettie, frowning.
“No…Jessica made bits of the world disappear because she didn’t believe in them, and her disbelief was stronger than their reality. Very scary lady. Luckily she sleeps a lot of the time. No, the Removal Man chooses what he wants to disappear. No-one’s ever been able to bring any of his victims back; and a whole lot of pretty powerful people have tried…I’ve never heard a single guess at his name, or who he used to be before he came here and took on his role. And this in a place that runs on rumours. He’s a mystery, and all the signs are he likes it that way.”
“You are seriously spooking me out, sweetie,” said Bettie. “Are you sure he’s involved with this?”
“No; but it sounds right. The Afterlife Recording is exactly the sort of thing that would attract the Removal Man’s attention. Rumour has it he only ever reveals his identity to those he’s about to remove, and not always then. There’s some evidence he can work close up, or from a distance. Certainly he doesn’t give a damn about celebrity, or notoriety, or even reward. He works for his own satisfaction. It’s hard to be a shadowy urban legend in a place full of marvels and nightmares, but he’s managed it. I’m almost jealous.”
“I did hear one rumour,” Bettie said carefully. “That he once tried to remove Walker…but it didn’t take.”
I shrugged. “If it did happen, Walker’s never mentioned it. I suppose it’s possible that Walker secretly approves of the Removal Man. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Removal Man did the occasional job for him, on the quiet, disappearing people that Walker considered a threat to the status quo…No…No, that can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“Because Walker would have sent the Removal Man after me long ago.”
Bettie laughed and took my arm again. “You don’t half fancy yourself, John Taylor. Any idea where the Removal Man might have gained his power?”
“The same way everybody else does,” I said. “He made a deal with Someone or Something. Makes you wonder what he might have paid in exchange…I suppose it could be the Removal Man, or his patron, who’s been interfering with my gift. I really do hope it isn’t the Devil again.”
“I could ask Mummy for you,” said Bettie. “She still has contacts with the Old Firm.”
“Think I’ll pass,” I said.
Bettie shrugged easily. “Suit yourself. You know, if we don’t get to Pen Donavon before the Removal Man does, we could lose both him and his DVD. And my paper has paid a lot of money for that DVD.”
“It might not be the Removal Man,” I said. “I was thinking aloud. Speculating. I could be wrong. I have been before. In fact, this is one time I’d really like to be wrong.”
“He worries you, doesn’t he?”
“Damn right he does.”
“Tell you what,” said Bettie, snuggling up against me and squeezing my arm companionably against her breast. “When you want the very latest gossip on anything, ask a reporter. Or better yet, a whole bunch of reporters! Come with me, sweetie; I’m taking you to the Printer’s Devil.”
Luckily, the Printer’s Devil turned out to be a bar where reporters congregated when they were off work; printer’s devil being old-time slang for a typesetter. The bar catered almost exclusively to journalists, a private place where they could let their hair down amongst their own kind and share the kinds of stories that would never see print. Situated half-way down a gloomy side street, the Printer’s Devil was an old place, and almost defiantly old-fashioned. It had a black-and-white timbered Tudor front, complete with jutting gables and a hanging sign showing a medieval Devil, complete with scarlet skin, goatee beard, and a pair of horns on his forehead that reminded my very much of Bettie’s, operating a simple printing press. Reporters can be very literal, when they’re off duty.
Bettie breezed through the door like a visiting princess, and I wandered in after her. The interior turned out to be equally old-fashioned, with sawdust on the floor, horse brasses over the bar, and a low ceiling with exposed beams. A dozen different beers on tap, with distressingly twee olde-worlde names, like Langford’s Exceedingly Old Speckled Hen. Taste that albumen! A chalked sign offered traditional pub grub—chips with everything. And not a modern appliance anywhere in sight, including, thankfully, a juke-box. There was a deafening roar of chatter from the mob of shabby and shifty characters crowded round the tables and filling the booths, and the atmosphere was hot, sweaty, and smoky. There was so much nicotine in the air you could practically chew it. A great clamour of greeting went up as Bettie was recognised, only to die quickly away to a strained silence as they recognised me. Bettie smiled sweetly around her.
“It’s all right,” she said. “He’s with me.”
The reporters immediately turned their backs on us and resumed their conversations as though nothing had happened. One of their own had vouched for me, and that was all it took. Bettie headed for the crowded bar, and I moved quickly after her. She smiled and waved and shouted the odd cheery greeting at those around her, and everyone smiled and waved and shouted back. Clearly, Bettie was a very popular girl. At the bar, I asked her what she was drinking, and she batted her heavy eye-lashes and asked for a Horny Red Devil. Which turned out to be gin, vodka, and Worcester sauce, with a wormwood-and-brimstone chaser. To each their own. At least it didn’t come with a little umbrella in it. I ordered a Coke. A real Coke, and none of that diet nonsense. Bettie looked at me.
“Never when I’m working,” I said solemnly.
“Really? It’s the other way round with me, darling. I couldn’t face this job sober.” She smiled happily. “I notice the bartender didn’t ask you to pay for these drinks. Don’t you ever pay for anything?”
“I pay my way at Strangefellows,” I said. “The owner is a friend.”
“Ooh; Strangefellows, sweetie! Yes, I’ve heard about that place! There are all kinds of stories about what goes on in Strangefellows!”
“And most of them are true. It is the oldest pub in the world, after all.”
“Will you take me there after we’ve finished with this assignment? I’d love to go dancing at Strangefellows. We could relax and get squiffy together. I might even show you my tail.”
“We’ll probably end up there, at some point,” I said. “Most of my cases take me there, eventually.”
The bartender slammed our drinks down on the highly polished wooden bar top, then backed away quickly. I didn’t care for the man, and I think he could tell. He was one of those stout jolly types, with a red face and a ready smile, always there to make cheerful conversation when all you want is to drink in peace. Probably referred to himself as Mine Host. I gave him a meaningful look, and he retreated to the other end of the bar to polish some glasses that didn’t need polishing.
“Can’t take you anywhere,” said Bettie.
Behind the bar hung a giveaway calendar supplied by the Unnatural Inquirer, with a large photo featuring the charms of a very well-developed young lady whose clothes had apparently fallen off. At the bottom of the page was the paper’s current slogan: ARE YOU GETTING IT REGULARLY? Some rather shrunken-looking meat pies were on display in a glass case, but one look was all it took to convince me I would rather tear my tongue out. A stuffed-and-mounted fox head winked at me, and I snarled back. Animals should know their place. Not a lot further down the bar, an old-fashioned manual typewriter was being operated by the invisible hands of a real ghost writer. I’d met it once before, at the Night Times offices, and was tempted to make a remark about spirits not being served here, but rose above it. I leaned over towards the typewriter, and the clacking keys paused.
“Any recent news on the whereabouts of the Afterlife Recording?”
Words quickly formed on the page, reading Future’s cloudy. Ask again later.
I persuaded Bettie to hurry her drink, politely evaded her attempts to chat, bond, or get personal, and finally we moved away from the bar to mingle with the assembled reporters. With Bettie as my native guide, we passed easily from group to group, with me doing my best to be courteous and charming. I needn’t have bothered. The reporters only had eyes for Bettie, who was in full flirt mode—all squeaky voice, fluttering lashes, and a bit of laying on of hands where necessary. Bettie was currently wearing a smart white blouse with half the buttons undone, over a simple black skirt, fish-net stockings, and high heels. Her horns showed clearly on her forehead, perhaps because she felt safe and at home here.
All the journalists seemed quite willing to talk about the Afterlife Recording; they’d all heard something, or swore they had. No-one wanted to appear out of the loop or left behind in company like this. Unfortunately, most of what they had to tell us turned out to be vague, misleading, or contradictory. Pen Donavon had been seen here, there, and everywhere, and already all sorts of people were offering copies of the DVD for sale. Only to be expected in the Nightside, where people have been known to rip off a new idea while it was still forming in the originator’s mind. Rumours were already circulating that some people had managed to view what was on the DVD and had immediately Raptured right out of their clothes. Though whether Up or Down remained unconfirmed.
Bettie stopped at a table, and greeted one particular reporter with particular cold venom, along with a stare that would have poisoned a rattlesnake at forty paces. He seemed bright and cheerful enough, in an irredeemably seedy sort of way. He wore a good suit badly, and had a diamond tie-pin big enough to be classed as an offensive weapon.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” I said innocently to Bettie.
She sniffed loudly. “John, darling, this particular gusset stain is Rick Aday, reporter for the Night Times.”
“Investigative reporter,” he corrected her easily, flashing perfect but somewhat yellow teeth in a big smile. He put out a hand for me to shake. I looked at it, and he took it back again. “You must have seen my by-line, Mr. Taylor, I’ve written lots of stories about you: Rick Aday; Trouble Is My Middle Name.”
“No it isn’t,” Bettie said briskly. “It’s Cedric.”
Aday shot her a venomous glare. “Better than yours, Delilah.”
“Lick my scabs!”
“They used to date,” another of the reporters confided quietly to me. I nodded. I’d already guessed that.
“I’ve been hot on the trail of the Afterlife Recording for some time now,” Aday said loftily. “Pursuing several quite credible leads, actually. Just waiting for a phone call from one of my extremely clued-in informants, then I’ll be off to make Mr. Donavon a generous offer for his DVD.”
“You can’t!” Bettie snapped immediately. “My paper has a legitimate contract with Pen Donavon, granting us exclusive rights to his material!”
Aday just grinned at her. “Finders keepers, losers read about it in the Night Times.”
“I suppose all’s fair in love and publishing,” I said, and Bettie actually hissed at me.
I moved away, to allow Bettie and her old flame to exchange harsh words in private. I’d noticed that the nearby wall boasted a whole series of framed cartoons and caricatures of noted Nightside personalities. Good likenesses, if often harsh, exaggerated, and downright cruel. They were all signed with a name I recognised. Bozie’s work was well-known in the Nightside, appearing in all the best papers and magazines. He excelled at bringing out a subject’s worst attributes and qualities, making them seem monstrous and laughable at the same time. Those depicted usually gritted their teeth and smiled as best they could, because you weren’t anybody in the Nightside unless you’d been caricatured by Bozie.
There were rumours that Bozie had been known to accept quite large sums of money to kill a particular creation of his before the public got to see it. No-one mentioned blackmail, of course. Thus are reputations made in the Nightside.
I’ve never approved of needless cruelty. You should save it for when it’s really necessary.
I moved slowly along the wall, checking out the various pen-and-ink creations in their softwood frames. All the usual suspects were there. Walker, of course, looking very sinister with more than a hint of in-breeding. Julien Advent, impossibly noble, complete with halo and stigmata. The Sonic Assassin, in his sixties greatcoat, gnawing on a human thigh-bone while making a rude gesture at the viewer. And…Shotgun Suzie. My Suzie. I stopped before the caricature and studied it impassively. Bozie had made her look like a monster. All fetishy black leathers and unfeasibly big breasts, with a face like an axe murderer. He’d exaggerated every detail of her looks to make her seem ugly and crazy. This wasn’t just a caricature; it was an assault on her character. It was an insult.
“Like it?” said a lazy voice at my side. I looked round, and there was the artist himself—the famous or more properly infamous Bozie. A tall, gangling sort, in scruffy blue jeans and a T-shirt bearing an idealised image of his own face. He had long, floppy hair, dark, intense eyes, and an openly mocking smile. He gestured languidly at Suzie’s caricature. “It is for sale, you know. If you want it?”
I had a feeling I knew how this was going to play out, but I went along with it. “All right,” I said. “How much?”
“Oh, for you…Let’s say a round hundred thousand pounds.” He giggled suddenly. “A bargain at the price. Or you can leave it here, for all the world to see. Who knows how many papers and magazines might want to run it?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said.
“Oh, do tell.”
I hit the glass covering the caricature with my fist, and it shattered immediately, jagged pieces falling out of the frame. Bozie stepped quickly backwards, his hands held protectively out before him. I tore the caricature out of the frame, and ripped it up, letting the pieces fall to the floor at my feet. Bozie goggled at me, torn between shock and outrage.
“You…You can’t do that!” he managed finally.
“I just did.”
“I’ll sue!”
I smiled. “Good luck with that.”
“I can always draw another one,” Bozie said spitefully. “An even better one!”
“If you do,” I said, “I will find you.”
Bozie couldn’t meet my gaze. He looked around him, hoping for help or support, but no-one wanted to know. He sat down at his table again, still not looking at me, and sulked. I went back to Bettie’s table, and sat beside her. She patted me on the arm.
“That was very sweet, dear. Though a bit harsh on poor Bozie.”
“Hell,” I said. “I saved his life. Suzie would have shot him on sight. She doesn’t have my innate courtesy and restraint.”
There was a certain amount of coughing around the table, and then everyone went back to their discussion on what the Afterlife Recording might actually contain. The suggestions were many and varied, but eventually boiled down to the following:
1. There was a new rebel angel in Heaven, rebelling against the long silence of millennia to finally broadcast the truth about Humanity. Why we were created, what our true purpose is, and why we are born to suffer.
2. It was a transmission from Hell, saying that God is dead and they can prove it. Satan runs our world, tormenting us for his pleasure. Which would explain a lot.
3. An exact date for the final war between Heaven and Hell. Broadcast now because…it’s all about to kick off.
4. There is a Heaven, but it’s only for the innocent animals. People just die.
5. There is a Heaven, but no Hell.
6. There is a Hell, but no Heaven.
7. It’s all bullshit.
There was a lot of nodding and raising of glasses at that last one. Once the subject of the DVD’s contents had been thoroughly exhausted, I took it upon myself to raise the possibility of the Removal Man’s involvement. Everyone perked up immediately and tumbled over each other to provide anecdotes and stories they’d come across but had been unable to get printed. Because no-one could prove anything.
“Remember Jonnie Reggae?” said Rick Aday. “Used to headline at the old Shell Beach Club? Rumour has it he vanished right in the middle of his set because the Removal Man was in the audience and decided his material was offensive. Management was livid. They’d booked Jonnie for the whole season.”
“He’s supposed to have made a house disappear, on Blaiston Street,” said Lovett, from the Nightside Observer.
“Actually, no,” I said. “That was me.”
There was some more awkward coughing before Bettie determinedly got the conversation back on course.
“Remember Bully Boy Bates?” she said brightly. “Used to run a protection racket in the sweat-shop districts? Julien Advent was just getting ready to run an exposй on him in the Times, then suddenly didn’t need to because Bates and all his cronies had gone missing. Or how about that alien predator, that disguised itself as an ambulance so it could eat the people put into it? That was the Removal Man. Supposedly. He has done some good.”
“Yes,” said Aday, drawing the word out till it sounded more like no, “but on the other hand, look what he did to the first incarnation of the Caligula Club. You know, that place that caters to all the more extreme forms of sexuality. Lots of people having a good time, according to their lights, all of it adult and consensual…but too much for the Removal Man’s puritan tastes. He made the whole Club disappear, along with everyone in it. Just like that! Which is why the current version of the Club has such heavy-duty protections, and it’s so hard to get in. Or so they tell me…”
And then the whole place fell suddenly silent as the door crashed open and General Condor entered, along with a dozen heavily armed and armoured body-guards. They made sure the place was secure and only then put their guns away. The General strode forward and looked the place over. He didn’t appear especially impressed—by the bar or its customers. He was still wearing his Space Fleet uniform, complete with golden bars on his shoulders and rows of medal ribbons on his chest. He had the look of the old soldier, the calm steady look that said he’d seen a lot of men die, and your death wouldn’t bother him in the least.
“John Taylor,” he said, his heavy deliberate voice crashing into the hush. “I want him.”
I stood up. “Get in line,” I said. “I’m busy.”
He looked me over, then surprised me by smiling briefly. If anything, it made him look even more dangerous. “I need to talk to you, Taylor. And you need to listen.”
I looked at him, then at the body-guards, and then at the reporters, all staring at us with wide eyes, impressed out of their minds. That settled it. I couldn’t let them down. I nodded to the General, who gestured stiffly at a corner booth. The young man and woman sitting in it got the message, and vacated immediately, leaving their drinks behind. The General sat down stiffly in the booth, and I went over to join him. Bettie wanted to come with me, but I was firm. She pouted and stamped her little foot, but she did stay put. I sat down facing the General, and his body-guards moved quickly to form a defensive barrier between the booth and the rest of the bar, their hands resting on the butts of their guns. The reporters turned up their noses at them and ostentatiously went back to their own conversations.
I looked thoughtfully at the General. “I’m not sure I want to hear anything you have to say, General. I’m not the military type, I have problems with authority figures, and I don’t play well with others.”
“A lot of people don’t want to hear what’s good for them. The order of things in the Nightside is changing. The Authorities are gone, and someone has to replace them before this whole place tears itself apart fighting over the spoils. I can put the Nightside on the right course, John. Make it a place to be proud of. I have support from many fine and influential people, but I could use you on my side.”
“Why me?” I said, genuinely curious.
“Don’t be disingenuous.” General Condor sighed tiredly and leaned forward across the table. “You’ve been a force for good in the Nightside. You help people. You’ve even been known to dispense your own kind of justice when necessary. Help me to save the Nightside from its own excesses.”
“You can’t force change in the Nightside,” I said. Something in me warmed to the General’s blunt honesty, if not his cause, so I gave him the truth, and not what he wanted to hear. “The Nightside is what it wants to be. It’s fought wars with Heaven and Hell for the right to go its own way. The best you can do, the best any of us can do, is encourage change for the better, one small step at a time.”
“The Nightside has had thousands of years to grow up,” said the General. “If it was capable of saving itself, it would have done so by now. It needs a firm hand on the tiller, it needs control and discipline imposed from above, like any military unit that’s gone bad. Walker tried, but he was only ever the Authorities’ puppy. He can’t run things on his own. He must be replaced.”
“Good luck with that,” I said.
He smiled again. “If I thought it would be easy, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”
“He has the Voice,” I said.
“It doesn’t work on you,” said the General.
I raised an eyebrow. “You want me to kiss him on the cheek while I’m there?”
“I want you to do what’s right. What’s best for everyone.”
“Even I don’t know what that is,” I said. “And I’ve been looking for it a lot longer than you have.”
“If you’re not with me, you’re against me,” General Condor said flatly. “And if you don’t choose a side soon, one may be chosen for you.”
I smiled. “Good luck with that, too.”
He laughed briefly, quietly. “I could have used a man like you on my flagship, John. You won’t bend or yield for anyone, will you?”
“Why is this so important to you?” I said, seriously. “You haven’t been here long. Why this need to save the Nightside from itself?”
“I have to do something,” said the General. “I couldn’t save my Fleet. I couldn’t save my men. I have to do something…”
He got up from the table, and I stood up with him. He offered me his hand, and I shook it. The General left the Printer’s Devil with his body-guards, and I went back to join Bettie Divine.
“Well?” she said, almost bouncing up and down in her seat. “What was that all about?”
“Just politics,” I said. “Nightside style. Anything new or useful come up, while I was gone?”
“But John…!”
“Move along,” I said.
“You need to talk to the Collector,” said Rick Aday.
“Been there, done that,” said Bettie.
“Oh.” Aday looked crest-fallen for a moment, and then brightened again. “All right, how about the Cardinal? You know, used to run the Vatican’s Extremely Forbidden Library. Until they discovered he was sneaking things out for his own private collection. Had to go on the run and ended up here, where he’s supposed to have built up a really impressive hoard of religious artifacts. He’s your man. If anyone’s got close to the Afterlife Recording, it’ll be the Cardinal.”
“Good call,” I said. “Bettie, I think we need to pay the Cardinal a visit. It’s been a while since I scared the shit out of him, for the good of his soul.”
“Ah,” said Aday, smiling craftily. “Word is, he’s moved, and taken his collection with him. Hardly anyone knows where he is now.”
“But you know,” said Bettie.
“Of course.”
“Oh, please, please, Ricky sweetie, tell us where he is,” said Bettie, giving him the full fluttering eye-lashes treatment. “I’ll be ever so grateful, I promise.”
Aday smirked triumphantly. “And what makes you think I’ll just give up a valuable piece of information like that?”
“Because she asked you nicely,” I said. “I won’t.”
Aday gave us the Cardinal’s new address, and directions on how to find it. Bettie and I left the Printer’s Devil. She waved good-bye and blew kisses in all directions. I didn’t. I had my dignity to consider.
SIX -
Heated Emotions from Unexpected Directions
It’s hard to maintain a reputation for being grim and mysterious when you’re accompanied by a brightly clad young thing, skipping merrily along at your side, holding your hand, and smiling sweetly on one and all. Still, it felt good to have Bettie with me. Her constant enthusiasm and optimism helped relieve a weight and burden I hadn’t even realised I was carrying. She made me feel…alive again.
Following Rick Aday’s directions, we were heading into one of the more seedy areas of the Nightside, where the narrow streets are lined with scruffy little shops and emporiums, where half the street-lights never work, and most of the neon signs have letters missing. The kind of shop where there’s a sale on all the year round, where they specialise in only fairly convincing knock-offs of whatever brand-names are currently fashionable or in demand, where the buyer had better not only beware, but carry a large stick and count his fingers on the way out. Shops that sell tarnished dreams and tacky nightmares, misleading miracles and wondrous devices, most of whose batteries have run down. Bottom feeders, in other words; tourist traps, and home to every cheap and nasty con you can think of. The crowds were just as heavy here, jostling each other off the pavement and shouldering each other out of the way. Everyone loves a bargain.
And then, suddenly, everyone was yelling and running. I stopped and looked quickly around me. I hadn’t done anything. The crowds scattered quickly, to reveal Queen Helena striding down the street, staring grimly at me, at the head of her own small army of sycophants, followers, and armed men. I stood my ground, doing my best to appear casual and unconcerned. Bettie stuck close to me, quivering with excitement. Queen Helena finally crashed to a halt right in front of me, fixing me with her cold faraway eyes. She was wrapped from head to toe in thick white furs, parting now as she struck a regal pose, to reveal glimpses of blue-white skin. She looked like someone who had died and then been buried in the permafrost. There was no warmth anywhere in her harsh, regal features, but her eyes blazed with arrogant superiority. She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to kneel or bow or offer to kiss her hand. So I ignored her completely, concentrating on the colourful figures who’d moved forward out of her army to back her up.
“Take a good look,” I said cheerfully to Bettie. “It’s not every day you see so many prominent members of the Exiles Club out in public. Mostly, these aristocratic nobodies prefer to skulk inside their very own members-only club, addressing each other by their old titles because they’re the only ones that will. They trade grievances about lost lands and abandoned kingdoms, how nobody recognises true quality in this dreadful place, and how you just can’t get good servants any more.
“The bald, stooped, and vulturelike figure to Queen Helena’s left is Zog, King of the Pixies. Word has it he’s been wearing those scabby feathered robes ever since he turned up here thirty years ago, and he hasn’t washed them once. Try to avoid standing downwind. Queen Mab herself kicked him out of the Fae Court, for using glamour spells to lie with human women. He always killed them after he’d had his way with them, but Mab didn’t care about that. Sex outside their race is one of the Fae’s greatest taboos. So here he is now, stripped of his glamour, just another rapist and murderer with a title that means nothing at all.
“Next to him we have His Altitude Tobermoret, monarch of all he surveyed in Far Afrique. A dark and distinguished gentleman indeed, in his zebra-hide suit and his lion-claw necklace. Tobermoret used to be War Chief of an entire continent, until his people realised he was starting wars and rebellions just for the fun of it. He did so love sending young men out to die while he sat at his ease in a tent overlooking the battle-field, enjoying the show. I did hear tell his people castrated him before they shoved him through the Timeslip, which is why he’s always in such a bad temper.
“On Queen Helena’s other side is Prince Xerxes the Murder Monarch. And yes, those really are preserved human eyes and organs and other bits and pieces hanging from all those chains he’s got wrapped around him. Though given how much he’s gone to seed since he got here, one can’t help wishing he’d wear something else apart from just the chains. He practises necromancy, the magic of murder. Partly because it’s traditional where he comes from, but mostly because he gets off on it. Though he’s learned to leave the tourists alone ever since Walker had a quiet word with him.
“And finally, next to Xerxes we have King Artur, of Sinister Albion. For every glorious dream, there’s a nightmare equivalent, somewhere in the time-streams. For every helping hand, a kick in the face. In Sinister Albion, Merlin Satanspawn decided to embrace his father’s qualities instead of rejecting them, and brought up young Artur in his own awful image. Under their direction, Camelot became a place of blood and horror, where knights in terrible armour feasted on the hearts of good men, and Albion blazed from end to end with burning Wicker Men. The only reason I haven’t killed Artur on general principles, is because I’ve been too busy with other things.”
I smiled at Queen Helena. “I think that’s it. Have I missed anything important?”
“You do so love the sound of your own voice, Taylor,” said Queen Helena. “And you will address me as Your Majesty.”
“That’ll be the day,” I said cheerfully. “What do you want with me, Helena? Or are you just taking the Exiles out for a walk?”
It took her a moment to work out how to answer me. She wasn’t used to open defiance, let alone ridicule. “You were seen,” she said finally, “talking with the General Condor. You will tell me what you talked about. What you decided. What plans were made. Tell me everything, and I shall make a place for you in my army. Power and riches shall be yours. I could use a man like you, Taylor.”
“Ah, what it is to be popular and desired,” I said. “The leadership of the Nightside is up for grabs, and suddenly everyone wants me on their side. Flattering, but…annoying. I’m busy right now, Helena. And I have to say, even if I wasn’t…there isn’t enough gold in the Nightside to persuade me to work for you, let alone this bunch of titled scumbags.”
“Why do you say these things to me?” said Queen Helena. “When you know I will kill you for it?”
I shrugged. “I think you bring out the worst in me. There’s some shit I simply will not put up with.”
Her arms came out from under her robes, bulging tech implants already thrusting up through the blue-white skin. Dull grey gun muzzles orientated on me. Zog raised a withered arm to show off a beaten-copper glove with sharpened claws, buzzing with arcane energies. Tobermoret slammed the end of his long wooden staff on the pavement, and all the runes and sigils carved deep into the wood began to glow with a disquieting light. Xerxes produced a pair of long, curved daggers with serrated edges that looked more like butcher’s tools. He grinned at me, showing off dull brown teeth filed to points. And Artur’s bleak and brutal battle armour slowly came to life, its metal parts creeping and crawling over him, muttering to themselves in hissing otherworldly voices. Behind his blank steel helmet, his eyes glowed like corpsefires.
And behind Queen Helena and her Exiles, armed and armoured men hefted their various weapons, impatient for the order to attack.
Bettie Divine made quiet whimpering noises and looked like she’d rather be anywhere else than here, but still she held her ground at my side.
I took a sudden deliberate step forward, so I could look Queen Helena right in the eye. “I could have been King of the Nightside if I’d wanted. I didn’t. Did you really think I’d bend the knee and bow my head to such as you?”
“I have powerful allies!” said Queen Helena. “I have an army in waiting! I have potent weapons!”
I laughed in her face. “You really think that’s going to make a difference? I’m John Taylor.”