“His real name was Harry Webb. No-one knew much about who or what he was before he came to America and made his way to San Francisco. Another young Englishman, walking across the USA, to see what there was to see. He found his way to Haight-Ashbury, and the counter-culture, and following the path of so many of the questing souls of those glorious days, he turned on, tuned in, and dropped out. We met when we crashed together in the same cheap boarding-house. I liked being among people who’d never heard of me, and we all sat and talked for hours about everything under the sun.
“So far, only another story of times past. But then one day, right at the height of the Summer of Love, Harry Webb went to the park and took what Timothy Leary would call an heroic dose of LSD. His mind expanded and exploded, and in that transcendental state . . . he made mental contact with Entities from Beyond.
“Now, a good many people said they did, while under the influence of the many and various mind-expanding chemicals of the day; but Harry really did. The Entities talked to him of many things, and he listened, and when he finally came down again, he wasn’t Harry Webb any more. He wasn’t human any more. He was transformed, he was transmogrified, he was the Sun King. The living god of LSD, the true Acid Sorcerer, the Miracle Man. Psychedelic rock and roll played around him wherever he went, manifesting out of nowhere—a glorious music that we could never remember or reproduce afterwards. He and his music led us through the streets of San Francisco, like a psychedelic pied piper. Hundreds, thousands strong, our minds blown and expanded by his very presence. We would have followed him anywhere, done anything for him. Lived for him, died for him. Oh yes, I was there, swept up in it all. He was our leader, our prophet, our guru. And all he ever wanted of us was that we should become like him, shine like him. He wanted to raise us all up, into all we’d ever wanted or hoped we could be. A world of turned-on, non-violent superhumans.
“The gentle knights, the lords and ladies of a new Camelot.
“He walked through Haight-Ashbury, and we followed after him, hundreds of thousands strong, singing Hallelujah. He healed the sick with a look, raised up the broken-spirited with just a word, turned on the straights and blasted everyone’s minds into something better. A living god, he walked in sunlight wherever he went, and miracles and wild happenings burst out all around him.
“The local authorities totally freaked out. The cops arrived first, with their uniforms and guns and night-sticks; and the Sun King stopped them in their tracks and stunned them with the truth. Of who they really were, as opposed to who they’d wanted to be. And some of them joined us, and some of them ran away to hide in the shadows, and some of them drew their guns and opened fire. But the Sun King smiled, and their bullets turned into flowers and fell out of the air.
“So they called in reinforcements, and they met us with armoured vans, and bigger guns, and water cannon; but none of them made any difference. The Sun King had no weapons; he was benevolence personified, and the natural world itself rose up to protect him. He . . . made you want to be better, to do better, by example. And through his presence, his example, we were.”
Julien stopped talking, his eyes far-away, lost in the past. I’d never heard him say so much, or speak so eloquently. Or talk about someone else the way most people talked about him. The Great Victorian Adventurer; the crusading editor of the Night Times; the man even his enemies admired.
“What happened?” I said. “What went wrong?”
“He went back to the park,” said Julien Advent. “And he raised up a huge and wonderful White Tower, with nothing more than a wave of his hand. It appeared before us, huge and magical, all complete in a moment, a Tower with no doors or windows. He walked through the wall and disappeared inside the Tower, shutting himself off from the clamour of the world, and his followers, so that he could meditate on what to do next, and commune with the Entities from Beyond. All the people came from far around, in their psychedelic clothes and pretty painted faces, with flowers in their hair and in their hands, and they sat around the Tower in endless ranks, closely packed circles spreading out for as far as the eye could see. All the beautiful people, the flower people, the good and groovy people. And there they sat, talking and singing, waiting patiently. Until the light went out of the day, and night fell over the park, and the White Tower blazed like a beacon. And still they stayed, eating and drinking, laughing and loving, dancing and singing in celebration of what they’d seen and the hope of new wonders to come. For twenty-four hours they waited for the Sun King to come out and lead them to glory.
“And exactly twenty-four hours after he disappeared into the White Tower, the Tower with no doors and no windows . . . after they’d all exhausted themselves and there was no more singing or dancing . . . the Tower disappeared. No-one saw it go. No sound or fury, no great explosions of colour; people looked up, and it wasn’t there any more. No trace to show it had ever been there. Strangely enough, there weren’t any tears or protests, no demands for explanations. Slowly, a few at a time, the people went away. And within a few days, most of them had forgotten about the Sun King, and everyone got on with their lives. The Sun King became another marvellous story from that magical time.”
“You were there,” I said. “You sat and watched, outside the Tower in the park. Didn’t you?”
“Yes. I was there. I knew him, walked with him, saw what he could do. I walked beside him, as he entered the White Tower. It wouldn’t let me in. I can still remember how the white wall felt, under my fingertips. Like cold coral, from the bottom of the sea. I waited, because I believed in him and wanted to see what he would do; but when the Tower vanished and took him with it, I knew it was over.
“Hardly anyone talks about the Sun King now. Perhaps because he promised so much and disappointed so many. So that they wanted, needed, to forget him. There are conspiracy sites that dismiss the whole story as CIA black propaganda. Disinformation, to discredit the counter-culture. But he was real. I was there. And they were right; he was dangerous because he was the best drug ever. A transforming presence, a way to break out of the Reality Trip, and lead a better life. He was the revolution. Or, he could have been.”
“Do you think . . . the authorities of that time were responsible for his disappearance?” I said.
“I don’t know. I always thought he’d be back someday . . . but not like this.”
“I never knew you could speak fluent sixties,” I said.
He smiled, slightly. “I’ve been around a long time, John, and lived more lives than most people realise. A man plays many roles in his time, and I’ve had more time than most . . . You used to be a private investigator; now you’re Walker. Who and what will you be, in ten, twenty, thirty years?”
“Dead, probably,” I said. “I seem to keep picking life-styles and vocations that contain far more threat and danger than is good for me.” I looked at him steadily. “You’re sure he’s back? The Sun King?”
“Oh yes, John. He’s finally returned to us, and he really doesn’t like what we’ve done with the world in his absence. His love and devotion and benevolence are things of the past now, replaced by a righteous rage and fury. Because we, the people, have betrayed the Big Dream of the sixties; sold our hopes and our principles for a mess of pottage. And most of all, we never lived up to the potential he showed us. We can all shine like the sun, said the Sun King. We were supposed to become superhumans, living gods, like him. Haul ourselves up by our own spiritual bootstraps; embrace the mind’s true liberation and make a Paradise on Earth. Imagine his reaction, when he finally walked out of the White Tower and got a good look at the twenty-first century.
“He knew some time had passed, that he’d been gone a while; but he hadn’t realised how long. So he spent some time walking up and down in the world, walking among us as one of us, hiding his light behind a bushel of ordinariness . . . Catching up, looking the new world in the eye and disapproving of most of it. And now his long walk is over; he’s returned from the wilderness, and he has decided to put
things right. To wake people up from the nightmare they’re living in and help them make a better world. He can change things simply by thinking about it, backed by the power of the Entities from Beyond. Whatever they actually are. And he’s starting with the Nightside because, as far as he’s concerned, it’s the most representative of everything that’s wrong with the world.”
I had to ask. “How do you know all this, Julien?”
“Because he told me. He rang me up, in my editorial offices in the Night Times, and I knew his voice at once. I could never forget that voice. We talked for ages, bringing each other up to date, then he told me of his plans. He was very eloquent. And really quite cheerful about it. He wanted me to know, so I could tell everyone else. So I could tell the Nightside he was coming. I was to be his John the Baptist, announcing his return and warning of the great change to come. I think he was actually quite shocked when I refused and put the phone down on him. How could I run all that in the Night Times, John? After all the wars and upheavals we’ve been through? There would have been mass panic, and God alone knows how many cases of over-reaction. The Nightside can’t afford another disaster, John. We have to stop him.”
“You and me?” I said. “How the hell are we supposed to do that?”
“I still think . . . If I can find him, and speak to him, I can talk him out of this,” said Julien. “I can help him remember who he used to be: the gentle man, the living god of non-violence. Not this hate-fuelled avatar of revenge.”
“You always did have more faith in people than me,” I said. “Do you really think he can do what he says? Raise the sun here, in the Nightside?”
“The man I remember certainly could,” said Julien. “And who knows what he’s capable of now, after so many years communing with the Entities from Beyond?”
“Whatever they really are,” I said. I looked at the great empty hole. “You believe he did this?”
“I know he did this. He told me he was going to. But it wasn’t until I remembered that my earlier self was there, that I knew why. I think that he thinks he can keep me from interfering by holding my old self, and Juliet, hostage.”
“Is he right?” I said.
“No. He’s been gone too long, and he doesn’t understand the modern world. All he can see is what’s wrong with it and not all the marvellous things we’ve achieved. I don’t entirely disagree with him, that we have lost our way, and that the world could use a good hard kick up its spiritual backside; but he’s wrong about the Nightside. It’s necessary. It serves a purpose.”
“Yes,” I said. “It does.”
“This is why I insisted on joining you on this case, as your partner,” said Julien. “I have to be here because I know the Sun King. He was my friend once, and a good man, as well as a great one. If you can find him, I’m sure I can reach him. And I wanted you on this case so I could prove that you are worthy to be Walker. Show the other Authorities you can stop a threat like the Sun King, and none of them will be able to deny your right to be Walker.”
“Every now and again, I forget how devious you can be,” I said. “I think some of me must be rubbing off on you.”
“What a truly appalling mental image,” said Julien.
I had to smile. “Been a long time since we worked together on a case, the two of us. How many years has it been? Not since . . .”
“We agreed never to talk about that,” Julien said sternly.
“So we did,” I agree. “I still see her around, sometimes . . .”
“Shut up, John.”
“Just saying . . .”
“Can you use your gift to find the missing Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille?”
I grinned. “I can try.”
I gave silent thanks for Alex’s potent pick-me-up and raised my gift. I reached out in all directions at once, feeling for the familiar sights and sounds and smells of the Hawk’s Wind, and got nothing. My mind raced round and round the Nightside in ever-expanding circles; and it felt like groping in the dark for something I knew should be there but that I couldn’t quite put my hand on. I could feel the Bar’s presence, in a faint and distant way, but only right at the edge of my perceptions, in a direction I could sense but not look in. Hidden behind a corner in reality. I let my mind drop back inside my head and looked at Julien.
“I’m sorry. It’s gone too far. I can sense the Bar, but I can’t reach it. I don’t think it’s even in our reality any more.”
“There must be something you can do!”
“There is,” I said. “And don’t you raise your voice to me! I’m not your butler!”
“Of course not,” said Julien. “She does what she’s told.”
I gave him a look, then carried on. “I can use my Sight to call up a vision of Time Past, and See what really happened when the Hawk’s Wind disappeared. Hopefully, that will give us some facts to work with.”
Julien nodded stiffly, so I raised my Sight and looked back into the recent Past; and there was the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille, back again, right before me. The ghost of a ghost, a vision of a haunting so real you could walk around inside it and order drinks. The Bar now looked to me more ghostly than it ever had before: all shimmering pastel colours and fraying edges. But even in the tinted shapes and shadows of the Past, it was still a magnificent sight. I reached out and placed a hand on Julien’s shoulder, making contact, so he could See what I was Seeing. I heard him take a sudden sharp breath as he saw the Past through my eyes.
A perfect monument to the swinging sixties, complete with rococo Day-Glo neon sign and a Hindu-latticed front door, the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille stood before us; but even as we watched, the whole structure began to shake and shudder, the walls fading in and out as the Bar lost all coherence. It began to fade away, then suddenly there was the English Assassin, standing in the doorway. He collapsed and fell forward onto the ground, and the whole scene vanished, and all that was left was the great hole in the ground.
I let go of Julien’s shoulder, and the real world, Time Present, returned for both of us. The hole was still a hole.
“Fascinating,” said Julien. “To see the Past unfold, all its secrets laid bare in a moment, living again before us . . . What I would give, to see the Nightside through your eyes, John.”
“I have enough ghosts in my life without calling up more,” I said. “The Past should stay where it belongs.”
“We’re not done yet,” said Julien. “We need to go further back, deeper into the Past, to see what happened inside the Bar before it disappeared. Can you do that, John?”
“I can try,” I said. “But you should brace yourself; there’s a reason why we choose to forget the past and leave it behind.”
I raised my gift and focused my Sight through it, to find exactly the section of Time Past I needed; and once again, the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille rose before me, faded and even more indistinct, the ghostly image of a ghost. I felt Julien’s hand drop onto my shoulder, the fingers closing tightly as the image filled his eyes again. I walked us towards the Hindu-latticed door, then right through it, and we walked into the memory of the Hawk’s Wind.
It looked as it always had: big Day-Glo Pop-Art posters, with colours so rich and powerful they by-passed your retinas and seared themselves directly onto your brain. Stylised plastic tables and chairs, flaring lights, great swirls of primary colours splashed across the walls and ceiling and floor. But all of it somehow smaller and diminished. Another remainder of Time Past. Like an old photograph of an old friend. A juke-box the size of a Tardis jumped and shuddered happily in a corner, pumping out an endless stream of hits from the sixties. There was no sound in my vision. I could see people talking animatedly at their tables, but not one word of what they were saying came to me. But from far and far-away, it seemed to me that I could hear Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” . . . In the centre of the great open floor, two gorgeous go-go dancers dressed mostly in bunches of white feathers danced energetically in two huge golden cages. Birds of paradise, indeed. I l
ooked around the packed tables, and a number of familiar faces presented themselves, famous and important people from the Past, Present, and futures. The English Assassin was there, with his beautiful twin sister, Margaret, comparing ornate sonic pistols and arguing cheerfully over a roll of microfilm. Sebastian Stargave, the Fractured Protagonist, was taking tea with a golden-eyed cyborg. Zodiac the Mystical arranged his cloak fussily about him as he gave his order to the mini-skirted, gum-chewing waitress. And Pierrot and Columbine only had eyes for each other. A typical enough gathering for the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille.
Julien and I walked among them, the faded figures like so many ghosts and phantoms. Or perhaps we were the ghosts, moving unseen and unsuspected. I led the way, being careful not to walk through anything or anyone. The vision was fragile enough as it was, without my doing anything to damage it. And besides, it always pays to be careful when moving through the Past; you never know what might make waves . . . The English Assassin’s head came up suddenly, and he looked suspiciously around him as though disturbed by a presence he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He looked right at Julien and me, and even though he couldn’t see us, his steady gaze sent chills up my back. He finally shrugged quickly and resumed his conversation with his sister. Which, given who and what he is, was just as well. Julien studied the English Assassin thoughtfully.
“I’ve known him for so many years,” he said quietly. “With this name and that, one face or another. In the service of chaos, and law. And I’m still no nearer understanding him. He was as much an icon and a representative of the sixties as the Sun King; but he always stood for the darker aspects of that time.”
“You don’t need to lower your voice,” I said. “He can’t see or hear us. None of them can.”
Julien’s hand on my shoulder urged me forward, towards the rear of the Bar. We threaded our way between the tables and finally stopped at a little alcove by the window, and there he was . . . his younger self, sitting with his girl companion, Juliet. Julien didn’t look much different than he did now, but there was perhaps a more youthful sense to his smile, his gaze, the way he held himself. He certainly smiled a lot more than the man I was used to. And from the quiet sigh that came behind me, if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought Julien was looking at someone who’d died.
The Bride Wore Black Leather Page 14
