They had two more boys, Larry and Tommy. During their long absence, Hadleigh had gone his own way and made a name for himself, outdoing even his parents' reputation. He represented the Authorities in the Nightside, much like Walker, all through the sixties and into the seventies. Hadleigh… was the Man. Taught Walker everything he knew. But then… something happened. No-one knows what, or if they do, they're not talking, which is almost unheard of in the Nightside. Hadleigh was never the same afterwards. He went a bit strange… and left the Authorities to walk forbidden paths.
There are forbidden paths, even in a place like the Nightside. Certain doors and ways that are sealed off, locked, and guarded-closed to all but the most powerful and the most stubborn. Not because they're so dangerous or because so many who go in don't go back… The Nightside has always believed that everyone has a right to go to hell in their own way. The problem is that some of those who come back return strangely changed and horribly altered.
People talk in whispers of the House of Blue Lights, where many are tempted in but only a few come out; and when they do, they aren't even remotely human any more. They're Blue Boys. People who've been hollowed out to make room for something else. They study our world through human eyes, and they play with us as though we're just toys. They have appetites, too… Nasty appetites. Walker has them killed the moment they're identified, but the bodies take a lot of killing, and they're always empty. When things get really bad, and Walker decides there are too many Blue Boys loose in the Nightside, he orders a cull. He bangs the drum and waves handfuls of money around, and we all come running. The bounty hunters, the assassins, and concerned citizens like me, who just want the bloody things off our streets. The pay is good, the risks are appalling, and no matter how many we kill, there are always more Blue Boys…
Suzie looks forward to the culls. I think they're her idea of an all-you-can-kill buffet.
Blue Boys. Dr. Fell. And now, the Collector. All of them looking out at the world through someone else's eyes. It's moments like this I wonder if Someone is trying to tell me something…
Hadleigh Oblivion went underground after he left the Authorities-all the way underground. He descended into the world beneath the world, into the sombre realms; and there he studied at the Deep School, the Dark Academy. The one place you can go to learn the true nature of reality. Most people fail the course. They die, or go mad, or both. Like the infamous Sigismund, the Mad Mathemagician. I worked with him on one case, when he was simply known as Madman. Last I heard he was still sleeping peacefully in his cocoon. No-one's sure exactly what will come out of it, but Walker's arranged an armed guard, just in case.
However, a few extraordinary souls do make it all the way through the course and return to the world above disturbingly powerful and strangely transformed. Like Hadleigh Oblivion. He walks in the shadows now, between Life and Death, Light and Dark. Or perhaps above them. Hadleigh Oblivion, the Detective Inspectre, who only ever investigates crimes and cases where reality itself is threatened. So if he'd decided to get involved…
"Oh shit," I said.
"Exactly," said Larry Oblivion.
"Why didn't he show up during the Lilith War?" I said, to avoid saying a whole lot of other things. "We could have used his help."
"Who says he didn't?" said Larry. "There was a lot going on. And Hadleigh has always operated on a far bigger stage than us. Did you never wonder why Heaven and Hell didn't get directly involved in the Lilith War? Do you really think your mother could have kept them out if they'd wanted in? We were knee-deep in angels when they came here looking for the Unholy Grail."
"I didn't start the Angel War!" I said, perhaps a bit loudly.
"Never said you did," said Larry.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm a bit touchy about that. Carry on."
"The point is, there are rumours that Hadleigh intervened, to keep the angels out and let us take our own shot at winning the War."
I looked at him for a long moment. "Could he really do that?"
"Who knows? Who knows what they made him into, down in the Deep School? He's the Detective Inspectre now."
"Good point."
"Enough about Hadleigh; I'm here to talk about Tommy."
"All right," I said. "Let's talk about Tommy. The existential private eye, who specialised in cases that might or might not have happened. A good soul, but not terribly bright."
"No," said Larry. "Or he wouldn't have trusted you to look after him. But this isn't only about him. The more I looked into Tommy's disappearance, the more I learned of other people who'd just… vanished in the aftermath of the Lilith War. I've compiled a list, of Major Players and minor players who've dropped off the radar. No reason, no motive, no trace of them anywhere. And these were people who could look after themselves. Names you'd know, or recognise. I have to wonder; did someone take advantage of the chaos that followed the War, to… remove certain people? It's taken me some time to put this list together, but I'm convinced it means something. There's a definite connection between all the people on this list. Take a look."
He passed me a sheet of expensive monogrammed paper. As his hand briefly touched mine, the skin was so cold it almost burned me. As though his dead flesh sucked the warmth right out of mine. I didn't snatch my hand back, but I took the sheet from him as quickly as possible. The thick paper crackled loudly as I unfolded it. Thirty-seven names, all more or less familiar. Some of them jumped out at me: Strange Harald the Junkman, Bishop Beastly, Lady Damnation, Sister Igor, Salvation Kane, and Mistress Murmur. People good, bad, and in between. Some I'd worked with, some I'd known, and some I'd cross the street to avoid. But all the people on the list were, I knew, powerful personages in their own right.
"Okay," I said, "I'll bite. What do all these names have in common?"
"They all knew Tommy," said Larry. "Every single one of them."
"Tommy did get around." I thought about it. "Who is there powerful enough to make all these people disappear?"
"Maybe someone interested in removing potential competition," said Larry. "But… why Tommy? He wasn't interested in becoming famous, or important, or powerful. All I can see is that he moved in the same circles as these people. I need to know what happened to my brother, John, and I need to know why. Will you work with me on this case?"
"No money, right?"
"You owe me, John. You promised me you'd look after him."
"So I did. All right; let's do it. I have wondered whatever happened to Tommy Oblivion."
"Is Suzie Shooter available to work with us?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Expecting trouble?"
"Always."
"Unfortunately, no. Walker has her out on the fringes, hunting down a bounty. Old Mother Shipton's set up another baby-cloning clinic, and Suzie's been sent to shut her down with extreme prejudice. Mother Shipton has her own private army, so that should keep Suzie happy for a while. You really expecting serious opposition?"
"Yes," said Larry. "And she's the one person I could think of who wouldn't be intimidated by Hadleigh."
"How do you feel about him?" I said carefully. "I mean, he's your brother."
"I don't know what Hadleigh is any more. Some of the stories I've heard…"
I nodded. We've all heard stories about the Detective Inspectre. Few of them had happy endings.
"I've lost one brother," Larry said abruptly. "I won't lose another. Tommy… should never have become a private eye. He only did it to please our father. And because he'd acquired his special existential gift. He won it in a poker game, you know, bluffing with a pair of threes. No-one could believe it. I was right there when it happened, and I still can't believe it. I asked him to come and work with me, in the Bureau. So I could teach him the ropes, look after him till he was ready to stand on his own two feet. But Tommy… always had to go his own way. Maybe he was right. In the end, I couldn't even protect myself from my own partner."
"Why come to me?" I said, after a moment. "When you do, after all, have a whole Bu
reau of your own people to call on?"
"Because none of them are up to this," he said flatly. "Hell, maybe even the infamous John Taylor isn't up to going head to head with Hadleigh Oblivion. But I can't do this on my own. I need heavy-duty backup, in case it all goes… Besides, you owe me. You promised me Tommy would be safe with you."
"Yes," I said. "I did. You'd think I'd know better than to make promises like that." I looked at him for a while. "You've never… approved of me, Larry. Why is that?"
"Because you're not a real investigator. Not like me, or my father. We do the job the way it's supposed to be done: taking statements, gathering evidence, putting the clues together to get a result. You have a gift that does half the work for you, and for the rest you rely on guesses, intuition, and intimidating the truth out of people. You're not a professional, only a gifted amateur. I'm only prepared to work with you on this because, if we do cross paths with Hadleigh, I need to be able to fight fire with fire." He suddenly leaned forward to fix me with his cold blue eyes. "I need your gift to find Tommy."
"I've already tried," I said. "Right after the War, and many times since. Did you think I didn't care? Tommy was my friend. But I can't locate him anywhere. He's not dead, or my gift would have showed me his body. But I can't See him anywhere in the Nightside."
"How can anyone hide from you?" said Larry.
"Good question. He hasn't left the Nightside; I did some asking around. But he's not here." I considered Larry carefully. "Of course, I'm not the only one at this table with a special gift, am I? You have a magic wand, Larry. An elven wand. What did you do for the Fae, Larry, that Queen Mab gave you an elven weapon?"
He looked straight back at me, not blinking, unnaturally still in his seat. "How in God's name did you find out about that?"
"You'd be surprised at some of the things I know." I actually found out by eavesdropping at a party, but I wasn't about to admit that. "And, I just worked with Puck."
"You do get around, don't you?" said Larry. And that was all he would say.
I decided to change the subject, for the moment. "You're part of the new Authorities. Why not go to them for help?"
"Because Hadleigh's involved. That makes it family business."
"A thought has just struck me," I said. "And not a very pleasant one. Could Hadleigh be responsible for all these disappearances?"
"I can't believe he'd harm his own brother," said Larry. "I can't afford to believe that."
"He's your brother," I said. "Are you scared of him, Larry?"
"Of Hadleigh? Oh yes… We got on quite well, when I was young. He was more like a really cool uncle than an elder brother. But then he went away, to the Deep School, and when he came back… I couldn't even stand to be in the same room as him. None of us could. Just to look at him… was like staring into the sun. People aren't supposed to blaze that brightly. I don't know what the Detective Inspectre is; but he's not the Hadleigh I knew. I'm not even sure he's human any more."
Time to change the subject again. "So," I said. "You don't drink, you don't eat, and you don't…"
"No," said Larry. "I don't. I'm dead. I don't need the distractions and illusions of life."
"So what do you do?"
"I keep busy. To avoid brooding on the realities of my condition."
"You don't like being dead? I'm told there are advantages…"
"I don't sleep. I'm cold all the time. When I touch something, it feels like I'm wearing gloves. I never get tired, never get out of breath, never feel anything… that matters. I can't feel any of the things that make us human. No advantages are worth that."
"If you hate being a zombie so much," I said carefully, "why do you keep going? There are any number of people in the Nightside who could… put you to rest."
"I know," said Larry. "I've talked to some of them. But I have to go on because I'm afraid of what might come next. I did a bad thing once, when I was young and stupid. I did a terrible thing… so I have to go on until I can put things right again." He shook his head slowly. "It's the wand. It always comes back to the wand."
"What did you do, Larry?" I said. "What did you do to earn your wand?"
"I brought Queen Mab up out of Hell."
"What?" I said. "How? And more importantly, why? Mab is one of the great old monsters! Everyone knows that!"
"I didn't know what I was getting into! I thought it was just another job. I wasn't a private eye back then. Just a treasure-hunter, trying to make a name for myself. And I always was a fool for a pretty face."
FOUR
Larry Oblivion, Treasure-Seeker I never told anyone this story, said Larry Oblivion. Whom could I tell? Who would believe me, and believe that it wasn't my fault?
Only those who have been damned to Hell while still alive can be brought back up out of Hell, and restored to the lands of the living. To do this, you need a hellgate, a go-between, and one poor damned fool to play the patsy.
I was a lot younger then. Thought I knew everything. Determined not to follow in the footsteps of my famous father. I wanted a bigger adventure, something more glamorous. I wanted to be the Nightside's Indiana Jones, digging up forgotten treasures from their ancient hiding places and selling them for more money than I could spend in one lifetime. I spent a lot of time in the Nightside's Libraries, digging patiently through discarded stacks and private collections, sifting through diaries and almanacs and very private histories. Looking for clues to point me in the right direction and set me on the trail of significant valuable items that had slipped through history's fingers. There have always been treasure-hunters in the Nightside, but I flattered myself that no-one had ever taken such a methodical approach before. Sometimes all you have to do is look carefully.
I'd just turned twenty, and I'd already had a few triumphs. Tracked down some important items. One of the original seven veils, from when Salome danced before her father for the head of John the Baptist. A set of dentures made up of teeth taken from the skull of the Marquis de Sade. And one of Mr. Stab's knives. Nothing big, but enough to start a reputation, put some decent money in my pockets.
I needed to find something special, something important, something to make people sit up and take notice. The Holy Grail, or Excalibur, or Merlin Satanspawn's missing heart. Think big, and you'll make it big. I had a lot of sayings like that, in those days.
I was drinking a nice chilled merlot in the Bar Humbug that night. A small and very exclusive place, for ambitious young people on the way up. A civilised watering hole for every bright young thing prepared to do absolutely anything to get to the top. Kind of place where you swap business cards instead of names, smile like a shark, and preen like a peacock; and slip the knife in so subtly that your mark won't even notice till you're gone. The Bar Humbug was comfortable rather than trendy, with richly polished oak-panelled walls, padded booths to drink in, and only the most pleasant music in the background. Refreshingly normal and refined, for the Nightside. An oasis of calm and serenity, and never very full, because people don't come to the Nightside for calm and serenity.
Place was run by a sweet-natured old lady in tweeds, pearls, and pince-nez. Grey-haired, motherly, mind like a steel trap when it came to money. Miss Eliza Fritton; always pleasant, always obliging, and not one penny on credit, ever. Only used the shotgun behind the bar when she absolutely had to. She used to run a private girls' school, back in the day. Until the pupils burned it down and sacrificed half the staff in a giant wicker man. Such high-spirited gels, Miss Fritton would say, wistfully, after her second port and lemon.
I was talking with the Beachcomber that night, a dry old stick with a military manner who turned up surprising amounts of treasure by spending all his time in the little curiosity shops and junk emporiums that are always springing up like mushrooms in the Nightside. They handle all the lesser flotsam and jetsam that washes up here through Timeslips, or in the pockets of tourists and remittance men from other dimensions and realities. Most of it worthless, of course, but the Beachcomber cou
ld find a king penguin in the desert. And teach it to talk before he sold it. He'd had a good week, so I let him buy me drinks and listened patiently while he boasted of his triumphs in a dry, understated way.
"A Shakespeare first folio, of Love's Labour Redeemed. A betamax video of Orson Welles's Heart of Darkness. An old 45 by the Quarrymen, though played half to death, I regret to say. I do so love alternative histories. Though I believe I could have lived quite happily without seeing the nude spread featuring a young Hugh Hefner, from a 1950s copy of Playgirl, Oh, and a rather interesting ash-tray, made out of a werewolf's paw. Nice little piece, with the disconcerting habit of turning back into a human hand every full Moon. Rather upsetting, I suppose, if you happened to be stubbing out a cigarette in it at the time."
I was waiting for him to run out of breath, so I could slip in a few exaggerated claims of my own, when I happened to glance over his shoulder as a very pretty girl walked in. Young and fresh and bubbling over with high spirits, she marched into the bar as though at the head of her very own parade. She wore a tight T-shirt and tighter jeans, with cowboy boots and all kinds of bangles and beads. Skin so clear it almost glowed, huge dark eyes, a scarlet mouth, and close-cropped platinum blonde hair. Without even trying, she took my breath away. Now, pretty girls have always been ten a penny in the Nightside, but she… was different.
Conversations died away on all sides as she stopped in the middle of the bar and looked around. All the young dudes perked up, ready to catch her eye, only to be utterly dismissed as her gaze settled on me. She trotted happily forward to join me, and the Beachcomber allowed himself a small, disappointed sigh. He moved away gracefully, to find someone else he could button-hole. I was clearly spoken for. The girl swayed to a halt before me, smiling brightly. Up close, I could see that her T-shirt bore the legend If You Have to Ask, You Can't Afford It. And that she wasn't wearing a bra under it. I smiled easily back at her, as though this sort of thing happened to me every day, and gestured for her to park her cute little bottom on the abandoned bar-stool beside me. She dropped onto it with a happy squeak and fixed me with her huge eyes.
The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny n-10 Page 9
