The Bride Wore Black Leather

by Simon R. Green

  Didn’t take me long to find the right house. Years had gone by, but I’d never forget that house-front. It wasn’t the original house, of course; I’d destroyed that nasty thing long ago, for disguising itself as a house so it could prey on people. It called to the homeless and the hopeless, with a voice they couldn’t resist, lured them inside, then ate them all up. Suzie and I rescued Cathy from it. No; this . . . was a cheap copy. The previous Walker had discovered traces of damaged alien tissue left behind and had the stuff studied and cultivated, so he could make his own living house trap. I don’t know why he wanted it; to feed people he disapproved of, probably.

  The first copy was destroyed during the Lilith War; I don’t know how many generations beyond the original this one was. It sat there, squatting in place, looking like a house and stinking the place up. No-one was ever so homeless or so desperate they’d want to venture inside this house. I sat down on the cold stone steps before the front door, put my back to the house, and waited.

  It felt like sitting with my back to a giant freezer with the door left open. A cold bad enough to chill the soul as well as the body. There was a constant sense of being watched—by something that would hurt me if it could. I didn’t care. Didn’t even look back at it. I had too many bad memories of the original house. And of a woman named Joanna, who turned out not to be a woman, any more than the house was a house. Poor Joanna. I could have loved her if she’d been real.

  Some people you shouldn’t remember. If only because the Nightside can find so many ways to hurt and haunt you . . . For a moment, there, I had to wonder if maybe the Sun King might not be right about the Nightside after all . . . And then there was the roar of a mighty motor, and Cathy turned up, taking the far corner on two wheels, racing down Blaiston Street in an old MINI Cooper, complete with bright Union Jack colours. The “Self-preservation Society” song blasted out of the open windows. I should never have brought her that DVD. Cathy brought the MINI to a squealing halt right in front of me, and the passenger door jumped open of its own accord. I got up off the steps and hurried over, clambered into the passenger seat, and Cathy had the car off and away before the door could even shut itself again. I looked for a seat belt, and, of course, there wasn’t one. You can take authenticity too far. I clung to the dash-board with both hands and braced both feet against the floor, to hold myself firmly in place in my seat. Cathy drove us out of the area at great speed and headed towards the main flow of traffic like a shark scenting blood in the water. She darted a glance at me and grinned fiercely.

  “Just like old times!” she said loudly. “You were right; we owed it to ourselves to have one last adventure together, before the old firm closes down!”

  “Having to come back to Blaiston Street didn’t . . . bother you?” I said carefully.

  “Come on, boss; that was Where we met! Best thing that ever happened to me! So where are we going now?”

  “I need to see the place where the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille used to be,” I said. “I’ve already been there once, but I can’t help feeling I missed something.”

  It felt good to be able to relax again. I hadn’t felt safe with anyone since Julien Advent died. I hunched down in my seat, so as to present a smaller target. The music system was playing a Matt Munro song. I smiled . . . I wanted to close my eyes and sleep, and not have to wake up until the whole mess was over. But I couldn’t do that. Cathy reached a main road and threw the MINI Cooper into the main flow of traffic like a knight entering a joust. I told her about the Sun King, about everything that had happened, and what might still happen if I couldn’t stop it. She didn’t get a lot of the sixties stuff—way before her time. So she concentrated on the bit she did understand.

  “If you’re going to be dealing with a ghost,” she said, hitting her horn imperiously and steering her car like it was an offensive weapon, “you’re going to need help and advice from someone who specialises in the differently departed. Ghosts can be really difficult characters.”

  “You have a specialist in mind?” I said.

  “I always have someone in mind,” Cathy said loftily. “I know everyone, or at the very least, everyone worth knowing. I’ll take you right to the gent in question, but I’ll warn you now, boss; you’re really not going to like him. No-one ever does. Get out of the bloody way! I hate people who change lanes without signalling. Where was I? Oh yes. You probably know the guy, and not in a good way. But he knows more about talking to ghosts than anyone should who hasn’t actually been nailed into a box and waved good-bye under six feet of wet turf.”

  “I’m really not going to like this person, am I?” I said.

  “Boss, you’re going to hate him on sight. Everyone does.”

  • • •

  Cathy finally pulled up outside a really sleazy nude dancing club, specialising in ghost girls. SPIRITED DANCING, it said on the sign. It looked like the kind of place where you could contract a whole new kind of STD, have your wallet lifted, and do a dozen things that were morally bad for you, all before you sat down. Cathy parked her MINI half on the pavement, got out, and glared around her at anyone who even looked like they might object. I clambered carefully out and managed to whip the tail of my trench coat out of the way before the door slammed itself shut. Cathy slapped a display sign on the windscreen, reading EXORCIST ON CALL! THIS CAR IS PROTECTED BY SOMETHING YOU WON’T EVEN SEE COMING!

  “Is it really?” I said.

  “Who can say?” said Cathy, beaming brightly. “Would you risk it?”

  I gave my full attention to the front of the club, which was basically an open door surrounded by photos of dancing girls wearing nothing but smiles. Not the girls we’d be seeing inside, of course. Ghosts don’t photograph well; normally, all you get is a shimmering blob of ectoplasm. The barker at the door was a large, muscular type in a tweed suit who gave me his best professional smile.

  “Come on in, sir! They’re dead, and they dance! They’re all naked and not in the least departed! Oh, hello Cathy. How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad, Tim,” said Cathy. “Do you know my boss, John Taylor?”

  “No, and I don’t want to,” the barker said firmly. “You go in. I’ll go and hide in the toilets till the trouble’s over. Give me a call when it’s safe to come out again.”

  “It would appear my reputation proceeds me,” I said, as Cathy led the way in.

  “Isn’t that what a reputation’s for?” said Cathy.

  We barged straight past the ticket-seller in her little glass cage. She took one look at me and ducked completely out of sight. Inside, the club was dark and dingy, with a side order of openly disgusting. It smelled like something really bad had happened in the toilets. Very recently. The floor was sticky under my feet, and I didn’t want to think with what. There was a general air of cheap and nasty, including some of the girls and most of the customers. Sawdust had been scattered thickly on the floor around the edges of the raised circular stage, to soak up the usual spilled fluids.

  Ghost girls danced on the spotlit stage, sliding up and down steel poles in defiance of gravity, leaping and soaring through the smoke-filled air, often passing in and out of each other’s translucent figures. Their faces pretended delight, but their eyes were empty. Faded rainbows moved slowly across their semi-transparent forms, like the colours you see sliding across the surface of a soap bubble. The girls moved sexily, even gracefully, but with little emotion. They were only the memories of living flesh, going through the motions.

  Row upon row of customers pressed close around the raised stage, jostling each other to get in close. Sweat gleamed on their fascinated faces, and they couldn’t look away. None of them offered money; ghosts have no use for cash. They sucked a little life energy out of any customer who got close enough. Sucking them dry, bit by bit, and making them love it. Not too different from any other such club, really.

  Cathy took it all in her stride. I looked at her suspiciously.

  “You’ve been here before. And you knew th
e man outside by name. How is it you even know places like this exist?”

  “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” Cathy said calmly. “You really don’t want to know about how I spend my spare times, boss. I’m all grown-up now. And you probably have enough trouble sleeping as it is. This way . . .”

  She beckoned imperiously to a figure at the bar, and the owner of the place came smarming forward to join us. I knew immediately why Cathy hadn’t told me his name. Because if I’d known we were going to talk with Dennis Montague, I would have hurled myself out of the car and into the on-coming traffic. Oh yes, I knew Dennis of old. This wasn’t the first disreputable club he’d owned. I’d shut down several of them on moral-health grounds and because his very existence offended me.

  Dennis, or Den-Den, as he preferred to be called, in the mistaken belief that it made him seem more engaging, was a minor player and major-league scumbag who always seemed to land on his feet, no matter how high a building you threw him off. He came sleazing forward to greet Cathy and me as though we were most-favoured customers, smiling and smiling as though he were genuinely pleased to meet us. A short, shiny butter-ball of a man, with slicked-down black hair, a face like a boiled ham, and large, watery eyes. He looked like he ought to leave a trail of slime behind him when he moved, like a snail. Though given the state of the floor in this club, it would probably have been an improvement. He came to an abrupt halt before us, bobbing his head repeatedly and rubbing his soft, podgy hands together.

  It was a masterful performance, to make himself appear nothing more than another harmless letch; but he needn’t have bothered. I remembered Den-Den. A cheat and a liar, a ponce and a pervert, given to abusing and profiting from anyone weaker than himself. But I also knew why Cathy had brought me here to see Den-Den rather than anyone else. Because once upon a time, Dennis Montague had been a rising star, a young man with a great future ahead of him, as the most talented field agent the Carnacki Institute had ever produced. The Institute exists to track down, identify and then do something about all kinds of ghosts and hauntings. And for a while, Dennis Montague was their top man. Till they found out what he was really up to and threw him out. And quite rightly, too. I looked at Cathy.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anyone else?”

  “Not who can do what he can do. And you’re really not too popular in the Nightside right now, boss. We have to work with what we can get. What’s so bad about Den-Den, anyway? I mean, apart from the obvious. He knows his ghosts.”

  “Did he ever tell you why he was kicked out of the Carnacki Institute?” I said. “Tell her, Den-Den.”

  “For having sex with ghosts,” said Dennis, quite proudly.

  “Can I just say Oh ick! in a loud and carrying voice?” said Cathy. “How is that even possible?”

  Dennis sniggered until I glared at him, and he stopped. “Best not to ask, dear,” he said to Cathy, smiling happily. “Not at all the kind of thing you want to talk about in public.” He looked me up and down, still rubbing his hands together, considering how best to squeeze money out of me. “Welcome to my humble establishment, Mr. Taylor, yes . . . Make yourself at home, do. See anything you like? All wery tasty, wery clean, and all at wery reasonable prices, I assure you.”

  “You even hint to anyone we were ever here,” said Cathy, “and I will burn this place down around your ears.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Dennis said immediately. “Mr. Taylor’s reputation isn’t the only one that proceeds him, you little minx, you. You can rely on old Den-Den not to breathe a word, oh yes. I have no problems with Mr. Taylor’s being here! No! Anyone capable of seeing off Julien Advent is clearly a man to be reckoned with. A man on the way up, heading for greatness. I always knew you had it in you, Mr. Taylor. If you’re looking for new members of a new Authorities, once you’ve finished off the others, I would of course be wery honoured . . . I am a man of refined character and a wery successful business man . . .”

  “No you’re not,” said Cathy. “You’re a sleazoid with delusions of grandeur who does mucky things with ghosts. Don’t you go getting ideas above your station.”

  “Well, if you’re not here to see me in my position as a business man, then why?” said Dennis, apparently entirely unmoved by Cathy’s fierce words.

  “Because you were trained by the Carnacki Institute,” I said.

  “You did talk to ghosts, as a field agent, didn’t you?” said Cathy. “When you weren’t trying to touch them inappropriately.”

  Dennis sniggered again. “Those so-called sophisticates running the organisation never did approve of me. Even though I got results no-one else could. Bunch of prudes and Puritans, the lot of them, my dears. Some of us are a little more open to the more interesting opportunities to be found in life and death. Still, what can you expect from an organisation that takes its name from a man who cared more about the dead than he ever did about the living?”

  He stopped talking abruptly as I fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “I was trained by old Carnacki himself, back when I was starting out,” I said. “He was a good man. One more word from you against him, and I will rip the soul right out of you and send it screaming down into Hell.”

  Dennis looked at me uneasily. He wasn’t sure I could actually do that; but he wasn’t sure I couldn’t, either. There are a lot of stories about me running round the Nightside, and I make it a point never to confirm or deny any of them. Because you never know when they might come in handy.

  Dennis scowled, then forced his face back into its usual smarmy good nature. “A splendid fellow, that Mr. Carnacki! A most knowledgeable man, yes. I’ve always said so! Certainly he had enough integrity to walk away from the Institute that bears his name when it let him down.”

  “So he did,” I said. “Now, Den-Den . . . I have need of your assistance.”

  “But of course, Mr. Taylor! You know me! Always happy to help out . . .”

  “I need you to come with me, right now,” I said. “To talk to a ghost, on my behalf.”

  “But . . . but . . . I can’t simply leave the club!” said Dennis. “Not . . . just like that!”

  “There must be somebody here who can run the place while you nip out for a minute,” said Cathy. “Isn’t there anyone here you can trust?”

  “Please,” said Dennis. “Remember where you are.”

  “It’s up to you,” I said. “Either you come along with us, right now, or Cathy can sing a quick chorus of There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight . . .”

  “I’ll be right with you,” said Dennis. “I knew I should have signed up for fire insurance when I had the chance . . . Let me talk to somebody.”

  “If I even think you’re running for the back door, I will make your knee-caps disappear,” I said.

  “Mr. Taylor! You wound me!”

  “Almost certainly,” I said.

  Dennis sleazed away to talk with the tall, cadaverous figure behind the nasty-looking bar, while I looked thoughtfully at Cathy.

  “When, exactly, did you acquire this reputation for aggressive pyromania? Did I miss something?”

  “Almost certainly,” said Cathy. “You know how it is, boss; you’re out on the town with a few friends, drinking it up; you’re young, you’ve got incendiaries . . . shit happens.”

  Perhaps fortunately, Dennis came back at that moment, giving us both his best professional smile. “All arranged, my dears! Now let us get this all over and done with. Maurice will look after things, in my hopefully short absence. He’ll cheat me on the take, no doubt about it, but better to lose some than all by having to close up. No-one appreciates the trials and tribulations of the honest business man.”

  “Least of all you,” I agreed. I held his gaze firmly with mine. “If I ever find out you’re holding any of these ghost girls against their will . . .”

  Dennis came as close to real laughter as he dared. “Do me a favour, Mr. Taylor! They come to me! They ask for this. Every girl working here is a volunteer. They n
eed the life-force they suck out of the punters every night, to hold themselves together. To maintain their grip on this world. You couldn’t make them leave here if you tried. Couldn’t drive them out, with bell, book, and candle. This is their club, Mr. Taylor; I get to run things for them. Of course, I also get a bit of the old rumpy pumpy, from time to time . . .”

  “Oh, ick!” said Cathy, firmly.

  Dennis sniggered. “Every job has its perks, my dears. Can I help it if I like my ectoplasm cold?”

  • • •

  We all clambered into Cathy’s MINI Cooper and headed off into the Nightside rather more swiftly than I was comfortable with. Dennis enjoyed the trip immensely, waving his podgy fingers out the window at people he recognised though most of them chose not to recognise him. If nothing else, he made a great distraction. I thought hard about what I was going to do when I revisited the hole in the ground that was all that was left of the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille. I also kept a watchful eye on Cathy and Dennis. I wasn’t too concerned about dear old Den-Den. You always knew where you were with him. He didn’t care that I’d killed Julien Advent because he didn’t care about anyone. He’d back-stab me for the reward in a moment, given half a chance, but we both knew he didn’t have the balls to do it to my face. He’d do whatever I told him, in the hope of favours to call on, further down the line. But Cathy . . . worried me. Why hadn’t she fallen under the influence of the Sun King? Like Suzie had? I couldn’t ask Cathy. I didn’t want her to think I didn’t trust her.

  When we finally pulled up alongside the great hole in the ground where the Bar used to be, it all looked exactly as it had before. Big and ugly and completely lacking in any supernatural energies. We all got out of the MINI Cooper, moved over to the edge of the hole, and stared down into it. No difference at all. Just a hole, where something marvellous used to be. Something about the scene bothered me, and I realised it was the quiet. I looked quickly about me. Most of the watching crowd had disappeared, gone in search of something more interesting to look at. Never any lack of that to be had, in the Nightside. And . . . “Why aren’t there any naked people here?” I said suddenly.