Just Another Judgement Day

by Simon R. Green

  “Leave that man alone!”

  The voice crackled on the air with natural authority, and we all, including the Walking Man, turned to look as Julien Advent led his new Authorities through the crowd. Julien looked very fine and every inch the hero, in his traditional Victorian clothes, including a sweeping black opera-cloak. The others gathered defensively around him, each with their own deadly glamour and gravitas. Even in such august company, surrounded by heroes and adventurers on all sides, there was still something noble and impressive about the new Authorities. Good and bad, determined to be better, not just for their own sakes but for all the Nightside. I moved in on one side of Julien, and Chandra took the other.

  “We are the new Authorities,” Julien said flatly to the Walking Man. “We are the hope of the Nightside. For the first time in its long existence, the Nightside is being run by its own kind. The good, the bad and the unnatural, working together for the greater good. For a better future. We will remake the Nightside . . .”

  “Don’t be naïve,” said the Walking Man, cutting right across him. “This place corrupts everyone. Look at you, the great Victorian Adventurer, reduced to running a cheap news rag. Look at who you associate with—the infamous John Taylor, who could have been so much more but settled for being just another sleazy enquiry agent. And Chandra Singh, standing up for the kind of monster he used to hunt. I had such hopes for you two . . . I thought, if I showed you . . . but you wouldn’t listen. The Nightside grinds everyone down, dragging them down to its own level, just because it can. There is no hope here, no future. Only filth and evil and corruption of the body and the soul. I will kill you, all of you presumptive Authorities, and that will send a message that cannot be ignored. Leave the Nightside, or die.”

  “We can redeem the Nightside!” said Julien Advent.

  “I don’t care,” said the Walking Man.

  And then everything stopped, as I drew the flat black case from inside my coat and took out the Speaking Gun. People cried out all around me, shrinking back from the sudden dark presence in the room. It felt like standing over the corpse of your best friend or looking down at the hilt of the knife protruding from your guts. The Speaking Gun was death and horror and the end of all things, and just to be near it was to feel your heart stutter and taste bad blood in your mouth.

  Julien Advent turned his head away, unable to look at it. The Walking Man curled his lip in disgust.

  The Speaking Gun was right there in my head with me. A vicious, spiteful presence, almost overpowering in its ancient and awful power. It crashed against my mental shields, trying to force its way in and take control. Wanting, needing, demanding to be used, because for all its power, it couldn’t fire itself. It lived to kill, but it needed me for that, and so its voice howled in my head, telling me to pull the trigger and kill someone. Anyone. It didn’t care who. It never had. It just ached to say the words that would uncreate. The red raw meat of the Gun was heavy in my hand, a weight on my soul, dragging me down. But slowly, steadily, I set my will against it. And won. Because bad as it was, I had faced far worse in my time.

  Somehow I kept the struggle out of my face, and when I finally pointed the Speaking Gun at the Walking Man, my hand was entirely steady. He looked at the Gun, then at me, and for the first time I heard uncertainty in his voice.

  “Well,” he said, trying for a light touch and not quite bringing it off. “Look at that. The Speaking Gun; almost as infamous as you, John. I should have known it would show up here. It belongs in a place like this. I thought I destroyed it in Istanbul, five years ago, when the Silent Brotherhood were fighting their endless feud against the Drood Family . . . but it always comes back. Would you really use such a vile thing, John? Would you use such an evil thing, to stop a good man in his work? To use that Gun, in that way, would damn your soul forever.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It would.”

  And I slowly lowered the Speaking Gun, even as it hissed and squirmed in my hand. Because that was the real price the Gun Shop owner had wanted me to pay—for me to damn my own soul. And I wouldn’t do that, not even to save my friends. If only because I knew they would never have wanted me to do that.

  “What are you doing?” Chandra Singh asked. “After all we went through to get that thing, now you’re not going to use it?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then give it to me. I am not afraid to use it!”

  “Chandra . . .”

  “I have to do something! He broke my sword!”

  And he grabbed the Speaking Gun and wrestled it from my hand. He aimed it at the Walking Man, but already his hand was shaking, and his eyes were very wide as he heard the Gun’s awful voice in his head, the terrible temptation—to use the Gun and keep on using it, for the sheer joy of slaughter. Julien reached out to Chandra, seeing the horror in his face, but I stopped him with a sharp gesture. This was Chandra’s fight, he had to do it for himself. For the sake of his own soul. Or he’d always wonder what he would have done.

  I had faith in him.

  And slowly, inch by inch, he lowered the Speaking Gun, fighting it all the way, refusing to be tempted or mastered. Because he was, at heart, a good man.

  The Walking Man waited until the Speaking Gun was pointing at the floor, then he reached out and gently eased the Gun out of Chandra’s hand. The Indian monster hunter swayed, and almost fell, but Julien and I were there to support him. He was clearly shaken, and there was cold sweat on his grey face. The Walking Man hefted the Speaking Gun in his hand, turning it back and forth as though he’d never seen anything so ugly before. If he heard anything in his head, he hid it well. And having examined the thing thoroughly, and found not a trace of good in it, he crushed the Speaking Gun in his hand.

  The bone and cartilage cracked and shattered, the red meat pulped, and the Speaking Gun cried out in agony in all our heads as it died. The Walking Man slowly opened his hand, and the already decaying pieces of the Speaking Gun fell from his hand to spatter on the floor. The Walking Man lifted his foot to crush what remained; but it had already disappeared, every last bit of it. Gone, back to the Gun Shop perhaps, or to wherever else in the world it could do the most harm.

  I didn’t need to check inside my coat to know the black case was gone, too.

  “Well,” said the Walking Man. “That’s that. Now, back to work.”

  “No,” I said, and stepped forward to put myself directly before him, placing my body between him and the new Authorities. I was thinking hard on what the rogue vicar had said—To stop a broken man, heal the man. Julien had been right, too. There had to be a way to reach Adrien Saint. Even after everything he’d done, he was still a man. I had to try reason because I’d run right out of weapons.

  “So much justice,” I said, holding his gaze with mine. “So many dead, for the sake of those taken from you. So much blood, and suffering, in payment for the loss of your family. You killed the joy-riders responsible. Did that make you feel any better?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Oh yes.”

  “Really?” I said. “Then why are you still walking back and forth in the world, punishing the guilty? How many deaths will it take, before you can say enough? How much more of this . . . before you become as bad as they are?”

  “I’m not like them. I don’t kill for the pleasure of it, or the profit in it. I only kill those who need killing. When law fails, and justice has become a joke, there is always the Walking Man.”

  “You see any justice in this?” I said. “This isn’t about justice, and you know it. You kill because that’s all you can do. Because there’s nothing else left in you. I’ve done my share of killing, in my time—to protect others, and yes, sometimes, to avenge injustice. But every killing, every death, eats away at you a little. Until there’s nothing left but the gun and how good it feels when you use it. How long, Adrien, before you start to seek out your victims, like any other addict eager for his fix?

  “Look at the people you’re planning to kill here! Julien Adv
ent, the greatest adventurer of his time, and this. Jessica Sorrow, who fought her way back from Unbelief to sanity. Larry Oblivion, who wouldn’t let Death itself keep him from fighting the good fight. The others . . . are trying. Determined to put aside their past and make something better of themselves. And not just for themselves, but for everyone in the Nightside. Not by killing off everything that’s bad, but by helping bring about real change, one step at a time.”

  The Walking Man nodded slowly. “I’m still going to kill them. Because it’s all I can do.”

  I moved in even closer, and suddenly both his long-barrelled pistols were in his hands. I was so close now they pressed against my chest. I could feel both barrels, quite distinctly, through the cloth of my coat. I stood very still, my hands open and empty at my sides.

  “I’m not going to fight you, Adrien. But I will stand here, weaponless and defenceless, blocking your way. If you strike me down, I’ll just get up again. As many times as it takes. You’re going to have to kill me, to get to my friends. To the people who matter more to the Nightside than I ever will.”

  “You’re ready to die for them?” said the Walking Man. He sounded honestly curious.

  “No-one’s ever really ready to die,” I said steadily. My mouth was dry, and my heart was hammering in my chest. “But I’m still going to do this. Because it’s necessary. Because it matters. Are you ready to kill an unarmed man in cold blood, just because he’s in your way? A man who’s only trying to do the right thing?”

  “Sure,” said the Walking Man.

  He raised one gun, and placed the barrel square against my forehead.

  “One last chance, John.”

  “No,” I said.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the hammer falling was the loudest thing I’ve ever heard, but the gun didn’t fire. There were bullets in the chambers, I could see them, but the gun didn’t fire. The Walking Man frowned and pulled the trigger again, and again, but still the pistol wouldn’t fire. He tried the one pressed against my chest, and still nothing. I took a deep breath, stepped back a pace, and slapped both pistols out of the Walking Man’s hands and punched him right in the mouth. He cried out and stumbled backwards, and sat down suddenly. He put his hand to his smashed mouth, and looked in shock at the blood on his fingers.

  “You’re only untouchable as long as you walk in Heaven’s path, Adrien,” I said, a bit breathlessly. “And you left that behind when you were ready to murder an innocent man.”

  “Innocent?” he said. “You?”

  “For once, yes,” I said. “Give it up, Adrien. It’s over.”

  I offered him my hand, and after a moment he reached up to take it. I pulled him back up on to his feet, and steadied him as he got his balance. It had been a long time since he’d felt pain, and shock. He shook his head slowly.

  “I’ve been doing this for so long,” he said. “I just got tired. It was easier to act, than to think. Maybe . . . the world needs a new Walking Man. If I could be so wrong about this, I’m no longer fit for the job.”

  “Hey,” I said. “No-one ever said you had to do this forever.”

  He nodded again, his eyes lost and far-away, and he turned and walked out of the Adventurers Club. No-one felt like going after him. Chandra Singh moved in beside me.

  “That . . . was something to see, John Taylor. Did you know he wouldn’t be able to kill you?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  EPILOGUE

  Sometime later, upstairs at the Adventurers Club:

  The Club’s kitchens had put together a superb buffet at short notice, and the new Authorities were all making healthy inroads into the piles of food and drink, in celebration of the fact that they weren’t going to die, after all. Julien Advent was already on his second bottle of pink champagne and was rattling the rafters with an enthusiastic rendition of an old Victorian drinking song, “Dr. Jekyll’s Locum.” An altogether filthy song, but then the Victorians did like their filth, on the quiet. Jessica Sorrow had discovered a wholly splendid dessert, made up of white chocolate mousse layered over milk chocolate mousse layered over a dark chocolate truffle base. With cream. Every now and again, when she thought no-one was looking, Jessica would allow herself a small mouthful.

  Count Video and Annie Abattoir had made complete fools of themselves over the cooked meats, and were now performing a tango up and down the middle of the room, complete with twirls and dips. King of Skin had put together a surprisingly healthy salad for himself, while drinking messily from a tall glass of snake-bite. (A terrible drink made up of vodka, brandy, cider, and cranberries. And other things. Drink enough of it and you can puke fruit and piss petrol.) Larry Oblivion, being dead, didn’t need to eat or drink, but the Club’s chef had prepared a special delicacy for him that he swore always went down well with the Club’s other mortally challenged members. I don’t know what it was, but it smelled awful, and it moved about on the plate. Larry seemed to enjoy it.

  Walker and I were there, too, probably because neither of us have ever been able to refuse an offer of free food and drink. Chandra Singh declined. He said he had a duty to return home to India, to see what could be done for his broken sword, but I think he’d simply had enough of the Nightside.

  I made a point of sampling a little bit of everything, just in the name of research and broadening my horizons. The Club’s chef had a spectacular reputation. Walker, on the other hand, didn’t touch a thing. Which was unlike him. I studied him thoughtfully as he stood alone on the other side of the room, peering out the only window, lost in his own thoughts. He was holding a folded handkerchief to his nose, which still hadn’t stopped bleeding. I found that worrying. The Walking Man hadn’t hit him that hard.

  Julien Advent wandered over to join me, biting great chunks out of a huge steak and stilton pasty with his perfect Victorian teeth. He clapped me on the shoulder with more than usual good fellowship.

  “You did well, John. I’m really quite proud of you. Imagine my surprise.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said dryly. “You will remember to put your name and address on the back of the cheque, won’t you?”

  “You’re not fooling me, John. This wasn’t only for the money.”

  I decided to change the subject and nodded at Walker. “What’s up there? Walker’s always had the constitution of an ox, and the stubbornness to go with it.”

  A lot of the good humour went out of Julian. I could actually see it slipping away. He looked at Walker, then at me.

  “He hasn’t told you, has he?”

  “What?” I said. “Told me what?”

  “It isn’t public knowledge yet,” said Julien. “And won’t be, for some time. Not until things are . . . settled.”

  “Tell me,” I said. “You know I need to know things like this.”

  “I’m sure he would have got round to telling you. When he thought the time was right.”

  “Julien!”

  “He’s dying,” said Julien.

  It was like being hit in the guts. I actually felt a chill in my heart. I looked across at Walker, still dabbing carefully at his blood-caked nostrils with his blood-stained handkerchief. He looked healthy enough. He couldn’t be dying. Not Walker. But it never once occurred to me to doubt Julien’s word. He was never wrong about things like that.

  I couldn’t imagine the Nightside without Walker. Couldn’t imagine my life without Walker. He’d always been there, for as long as I could remember. Usually in the background, pulling strings and moving people around on his own private chessboard. Sometimes my enemy and sometimes my friend...When I was young, and my father was too busy drinking himself to death to have any time for me, it was Uncle Henry and Uncle Mark who were there to take care of things. Walker and the Collector. Perhaps the greatest authority figure and the greatest rogue the Nightside ever produced.

  Walker. Who ran the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone did, or could. I’d worked for him, and against him, defied and defended him, according
to which case I was working on. He’d threatened my life and saved it, for his own reasons. It seemed to me then that much of the time, I defined my life by how much it would affect his.

  What would I do, when he was gone?

  “How can he be dying?” I said. “He’s . . . protected. Everyone knows that. Did somebody finally get to him?”

  “No,” said Julien. “There’s no villain to pursue here, no crime to avenge. It isn’t a voodoo curse, or an alien weapon, or some old case come back to haunt him. Just a rare and very severe blood disorder. Runs in the family, apparently. He lost his grandfather, his father, and an uncle to it, at much the same age he is now.”

  “But...this is the Nightside!” I said. “There must be something someone can do.”

  “He’s tried most of them,” said Julien. “But some things . . . must run their course. I suppose there is still hope. Miracles do happen in the Nightside. But you shouldn’t put too much hope in that, John. He doesn’t. We all die from something.”