Night Fall

by Simon R. Green

  “No signs of violence?” said John. “Nothing to suggest a god war, or a nasty outbreak of atheism?”

  “No sign of anything,” said Dead Boy. “It’s like the Mary Celeste of godly dwelling-places. The priests have been going out of their minds, and the worshippers aren’t far behind.” He stopped, to smile wistfully for a moment. “I was worshipped, once. As someone who had clearly and demonstrably risen from the dead. I could have had my own church . . .”

  “What happened?” said John.

  Dead Boy grinned. “They met me.”

  “Of course,” said John. He looked up and down the Street of the Gods, where crowds of the faithful were huddling together like sheep in a thunder-storm. Even the tourists were starting to look worried, perhaps fearful that what they’d come so far to see was going to be a no show. John frowned. “If all the gods have left, does that mean the end of the world really is nigh?”

  “Don’t look at me,” said Dead Boy. “It’s getting so you can’t go for a stroll through the long night without bumping into one sign or another of the apocalypse. If you ask me, the Nightside is just one big drama queen.”

  John set off up the Street, and Dead Boy sauntered along at his side, for want of anything better to do. And because experience had taught him that wherever John went, trouble would inevitably find him. Dead Boy was always on the look-out for some new trouble to get into; it helped keep his mind occupied. Doors lay open to every side, offering free access to what had once been fiercely guarded secret sanctums and holders of the mysteries. With the gods departed, their various buildings seemed sullen and drab, for all their eccentric architecture.

  “I might move into one of these very desirable properties,” said Dead Boy. “Stake a claim, just for the hell of it. That should upset all the right people.”

  “Not necessarily a good idea,” said John. “The gods could still return, and they’ve always taken a very dim view of squatters. And I hate having to organise the clean-up after rains of frogs; they block up the guttering.”

  “To hell with them all,” Dead Boy said happily. “Bring it on, that’s what I say. Smite and be damned. I’m already dead; what more can they do to me?”

  “You really want to find out?” said John.

  And then they both stopped and looked around sharply, as an unexpected sound issued from a nearby door. Laughter, dark and disturbing, came drifting out of one of the more unusual buildings on the Street. The stout stone structure had clearly started out as an archetypal Victorian church, but someone had splashed bright and gaudy colours all over the stone frontage. The church looked like a Day-Glo rainbow had crashed into it or someone had dipped the place in ice-cream and allowed it to go off. The church now looked sweet and tempting and frankly unwholesome. The pigments in the stained-glass windows had melted and run, like Technicolor tears, but the bright pink front door stood invitingly open. The spiritual equivalent of the witch in her candy cottage.

  Beyond the door there was only darkness. The laughter died away, ending on one last sardonic chuckle, like a hungry troll under a bridge who’d just heard dinner approaching.

  “Well,” said Dead Boy. “Someone sounds pleased with the way things are. Positively amused, in fact. I think it behooves us to go in there and investigate. And kick things around, just on general principles.”

  “It’s a trap,” said John.

  “Of course it’s a trap!” said Dead Boy. “But it’s the first church we’ve found that’s still occupied, and so much laughter on such a solemn occasion has to mean something. I vote we go in, and your vote doesn’t count. Ready?”

  “After you,” said John.

  Dead Boy nodded happily. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He strode confidently through the open door, and John followed on behind, shaking his head resignedly and bracing himself for the inevitable unpleasantness ahead. Dead Boy didn’t know the meaning of the word fear. He also had trouble with similar concepts, like caution and self-preservation.

  The moment they both passed through the door, the building stopped even pretending to be a church. Vivid lights flared up, and John Taylor and Dead Boy were suddenly standing in the middle of a sawdust-covered circus-ring, surrounded by rows and rows of empty bleachers. There were ugly stains in the narrow aisles, and the air smelled of over-worked animals, stale pop-corn and staler urine, and candy-floss that had turned. Striped canvas walls shot up all around, arching towards a ceiling that was so high up it was lost in the gloom.

  “A circus?” said John. “On the Street of the Gods?”

  Dead Boy shrugged. “Why not? People have worshipped everything else, at one time or another.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps came clearly, from one particularly gloomy aisle between the bleachers. There was something very wrong about them. Dead Boy planted both fists on his hips and addressed the darkness defiantly.

  “Get a move on, we haven’t got all day! Get in here and face us! Come on; give me your best shot! Violent as you like! I can take it!”

  “This is why no one ever wants to partner with you,” said John.

  “Bunch of wimps,” said Dead Boy, cheerfully.

  A colourful figure emerged from the gloom and stepped into the ring, dressed in a patchwork motley of rags far too big for the figure within. He might have looked amusing if both sleeves hadn’t been dripping with fresh blood and other less pleasant stains. Instead of a row of buttons down the front of his costume there were small skulls, with bits of meat still clinging to them. The shoes were freakishly elongated, which explained the odd footsteps; but something about the shoes suggested they’d been made to fit the feet within. The figure’s face had been painted in the traditional gaudy patterns over basic white, but it only took John a moment to realise that underneath the crimson grin the real lips weren’t smiling at all. And the unblinking eyes were full of a terrible, spiteful malevolence.

  Dead Boy clapped his hands delightedly. “It’s a clown! I love clowns!”

  “You stand alone in that,” said John. “What the hell is a clown doing on the Street of the Gods?”

  The clown spread both baggy arms wide, in a parody of welcome. His voice was loud and cheerful, like the con man who cheats your mother out of her life’s savings. “I am Mockery: the god of clowns. Laughter is a form of worship, after all. What else does a laugh say, except: Rather you than me. Or Please don’t hurt me.”

  “If you’re the god of clowns,” said John, “why aren’t you funny?”

  “I laugh,” said Mockery. “I don’t get laughed at. I celebrate the insanity of the world, the futility of life, the great joke on Humanity that is existence.”

  Dead Boy pouted. “I hate all this post-modern stuff. He’ll be deconstructing the custard pie in a minute.”

  “Why are you still here, Mockery?” said John. “Why didn’t you leave, along with all the other gods?”

  “I stayed behind to watch you all die,” said Mockery. “To watch blood surge down the Street of the Gods in a tidal wave. And laugh and laugh and laugh.”

  “I’m going off you,” said Dead Boy.

  “I knew there was a reason why I never liked clowns,” said John. “You shouldn’t have to paint your face to look happy. Why did all the other gods leave, Mockery?”

  “Because they didn’t get the joke,” said the god of clowns.

  “Okay . . .” said John. “We’ve satisfied your curiosity, Dead Boy, and I hope you think it was worth it. Time we were leaving.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said Mockery. “You’re in my domain now. And everyone knows there’s nothing funny about a circus at midnight. You belong to me now because every clown needs a stooge or two. Oh the things I’ll do to you, and the things I’ll make you do! We’ll have such fun together; while you last. You won’t laugh much, but I will.”

  John looked at Dead Boy.
“The things you get me into.”

  “You love it,” said Dead Boy. “And I love a challenge.” He showed Mockery his own dark and disturbing smile. “I am Dead Boy! Returned from the houses of forever with a song on my lips and violence in my heart. I come and I go and no one tells me otherwise. I love the smell of grease-paint in the morning! It smells of victory!”

  He charged straight at the god of clowns, laughing breathlessly at the prospect of striking down someone who’d annoyed him. John stayed where he was, curious to see what would happen when a dead man fought a god. Mockery waited until Dead Boy had almost reached him, then laughed in his face. Dead Boy slammed to a halt, as though he’d run face-first into an invisible barrier. Mockery laughed at Dead Boy, and he shuddered at the sound of it. The horrid power in that laughter denied everything he was and ridiculed everything he’d done. It was full of scorn and derision, vicious and unrelenting. Dead Boy dropped to his knees under the weight of it.

  John wanted to clap both hands to his ears to keep out the awful sound, which made his whole life seem worthless. The god of clowns mocked John Taylor and Dead Boy on a spiritual level, his laughter eating away at their souls like acid. And then Dead Boy stood up suddenly, perfectly composed, his calm voice breaking easily across the laughter.

  “Nice try, clown. But I lost all my illusions long ago. There’s nothing like dying to put everything else in perspective.”

  Dead Boy suddenly punched Mockery right in his painted grin, and the god of clowns cried out in shock. He staggered backwards, covering his face with his gloved hands. He wasn’t laughing any more. John was immediately himself again, unable even to remember what it was about the laughter that had affected him so strongly. But he remembered enough to be really angry about it. He stepped forward to stand beside Dead Boy.

  “Nice punch.”

  “Beats a pie in the face every time,” said Dead Boy. “For my next trick, watch me kick him in the crotch so hard his balls fly off in different directions.”

  “No,” said John. “It’s my turn now.”

  Mockery lowered his gloved hands from his painted face and glared at John and Dead Boy. “I am the god of clowns! I will make you the butt of my jokes for all eternity!”

  “You have the gift of laughter,” said John. “But I have a gift for finding things.”

  He reached deep inside himself, and his gift unfolded in his mind. Opening up his third eye, his private eye, until he could see all the things that were hidden from everyone else. He looked at the world with an unflinching gaze until he found what he was looking for: the man behind the painted mask, the human conduit Mockery was manifesting through. And having found that link, it was the easiest thing in the world for John to break it. And just like that the god of clowns was gone, leaving behind just a man in stupid clothes, with tears streaming down through his patchy make-up. Dead Boy laughed at him.

  “You’re not the god of anything; you’re just a very silly boy.”

  “You can’t leave me like this!” the man said. “Bring him back! Please . . . If he’s not here, nothing’s funny any more.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Mockery will find his way back,” said John. “You can’t keep gods out of the Nightside; they’re worse than cockroaches.”

  “None of them are coming back,” said the clown. “We’re all going to die.” He tried to laugh but couldn’t manage on his own. “The other gods thought they were so important . . . but in the end they couldn’t face what’s coming. They’re just gods, and what’s coming is worse. Isn’t that funny?”

  “You know what’s always funny?” said Dead Boy. “A kick in the pants.”

  He grabbed the clown by one shoulder and threw him in the direction of the door. Encouraging him on his way with a good hard kick up the arse. He kept on kicking the clown’s backside, all the way out of the church and back onto the Street of the Gods. John followed, smiling slightly. He would have liked to contribute a kick or two himself, but he had his dignity as Walker to consider. Once they were outside, Dead Boy bestowed one last and particularly emphatic kick on the clown, then let him run away. The clown quickly disappeared into the baffled crowd, crying his eyes out.

  John looked at Dead Boy. “Bully.”

  “He deserved it,” said Dead Boy. “Well, that was fun, but I can’t say I’m any clearer as to what it is that’s coming, or why the gods took to their heels rather than face it. What could be more powerful than a whole Street full of Gods?”

  “I think I’d better find out before it gets here,” said John.

  “You do that, John,” said Dead Boy. “Off you go and do your investigating thing, while I busy myself with sex, drugs, and rock and roll till whatever the bad thing is has finished.”

  He swaggered off down the Street of the Gods, and everyone else hurried to get out of his way. Because Dead Boy, like the gods, was known to move in mysterious and occasionally incredibly violent ways.

  John considered his options and finally decided that if you wanted information on the gods, the best person to ask was another god. Which meant contacting the only one in the Nightside he considered a friend: Razor Eddie, Punk God of the Straight Razor. The homeless god, who slept in shop doorways, scavenged in bins for day-old food, and existed on the kindness and occasional intimidation of strangers.

  Razor Eddie usually steered well clear of the Street of the Gods. He had no church on the Street, partly because he frightened the other gods but mainly because he refused to be worshipped. He spent most of his time going after the bad guys no one else could touch and doing terrible things to them. In penance for the many sins of his youth, when he was still human.

  John took a conch-shell out of his jacket pocket, looked at it, and sighed quietly. Razor Eddie wouldn’t be caught dead using anything as ordinary as a phone. It wouldn’t go with his carefully cultivated outsider image. And besides, he’d made it very clear in the past that most of the time he just didn’t want to be bothered. But in a moment of sentimental weakness, he’d presented the conch to John as a wedding gift, so that the new Walker could call on him when faced with a real or unreal emergency. John raised the conch to his mouth and spoke into it, just a little self-consciously.

  “Razor Eddie?”

  A dry, ghostly voice whispered in his ear. “What do you want, John?”

  “How did you know it was me?” said John. “Does your conch-shell have caller ID?”

  “You’re the only one I ever gave a shell to.”

  John paused a moment, honestly touched, but knew better than to say anything. He moved on. “There’s a problem with the Street of the Gods.”

  “I know,” said Razor Eddie. “Good news spreads quickly.”

  “All the gods have disappeared,” said John.

  “I know. What do you want me to do about it? Lead the applause?”

  “My concern is over what might have driven them off,” John said patiently. “What if something is coming our way that’s worse than them?”

  “You had to spoil my good mood, didn’t you?” said Razor Eddie. “All right, just let me finish this bit of dismemberment I’m in the middle of, and I’ll be right with you.”

  His voice cut off and was replaced with the sound of the sea, complete with sea-gulls. John put the conch-shell back in his pocket. Razor Eddie might have been joking, or he might not. He was that sort of god. Some people are born scary, some have it thrust upon them, and some grab hold of the scary with both hands and hug it to them like a favourite toy. John looked around sharply as something unnaturally sharp cut a ragged rent through Space itself, opening up a door through which Razor Eddie could pass. Even the laws of physics threw up their hands and slouched off to sulk in a corner when faced with Razor Eddie’s glowing blades. The Punk God of the Straight Razor stepped casually through the open rent, and it immediately sealed itself behind him, as though the universe were desperate to forget t
he awful thing that had just happened to it. Razor Eddie closed his pearl-handled straight razor and made it disappear about his person. The same kind of blade John’s future son had brought back through Time, to kill him. He decided he wasn’t going to think about that, for the moment.

  A painfully thin presence wrapped in an oversized grey raincoat apparently held together by accumulated filth and grease, Razor Eddie had a hollowed face, dirty grey skin, and a disturbingly thoughtful gaze, as though he were quietly considering all the ways he could take you apart with his supernaturally sharp razors. He smelled awful, though whether that was him or the places he lay down in when he was sleeping rough, no one had ever wanted to get close enough to find out. Flies had been known to drop dead out of the air when they got too close. Razor Eddie wiped some fresh blood off his hands with a dirty rag and nodded briefly to John, who nodded back. The two of them were sometimes friends and sometimes enemies, but then, that’s the Nightside for you.

  “Do you have any idea what might have frightened off the gods?” said John.

  “It wasn’t me,” said Razor Eddie, in his ghostly voice. “I’ve been good. Mostly.”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “You know I don’t give a damn about what the gods get up to,” said Razor Eddie. “But I might know someone who does. The only god I have any time for. I don’t think he would have left without telling me . . . Let us go and see.”

  He started off down the Street, without even looking back to see if John was following. Because he honestly didn’t care, one way or the other. John quickly caught up, and they strolled along together. People jumped out of their way, turned and ran, and occasionally prostrated themselves on the ground so Razor Eddie and John Taylor could walk right over them if they felt so inclined. And mostly they did, because it would be a shame not to. Standards must be upheld. Worshippers and tourists alike watched wide-eyed as the two of them passed by. Some made the sign of the cross, while others made the sign of the pants-wettingly terrified. John couldn’t tell whether they were more scared of him as Walker or of Razor Eddie as an implacable force of justice, but he thought he could make a pretty good guess.