"He isn't that bad," said Larry. "Just a really scary agent of the Good."
"You ever met Razor Eddie?" I said.
"Hadleigh isn't a monster," said Larry. "I have to believe that. The last living Oblivion brother can't be a monster."
I looked back at the ruins of Turnabout Inc. and invoked my gift. I concentrated on my inner eye, my third eye, and used it to summon up ghost images from the recent Past. Important events and significant people stamp themselves on Time, for a while. I let go of now, and focused my Sight on what had happened to Turnabout Inc. so very recently. The world went misty and uncertain, then snapped back into focus as the street changed before me. The shop was still a ruin; something kept me from going back any further; but Hadleigh Oblivion was standing right before me.
He didn't look like any of the usual ghost images I See in the Past: shimmering figures, translucent as soap bubbles, sometimes barely there at all. Hadleigh looked firm and solid and almost unnaturally real. A tall, forbidding presence, in a long leather coat so black it seemed almost a part of the night, with a great mane of long, dark hair. He stood tall and proud, arrogant in his certainty that he had a right to be there and to do whatever he felt like doing. There was a power in him. I could See it, feel it, even at such a distance. His head snapped round, and he stared right at me. His face was bone white, dominated by dark, unblinking eyes and a bright, happy smile. He could see me as clearly as I could See him, even though I was in a future that hadn't happened for him yet.
"Hello, John," he said, in a voice so calm and normal it was downright spooky. "Give my regards to Larry. I'll see you soon."
The vision broke, and the Past was gone. He'd dismissed me with casual ease, as though my gift and all its power was a thing of no consequence, next to him. And maybe he was right. My inner eye had slammed shut so tight it was giving me a headache. I looked at Larry, but he clearly hadn't noticed a thing, still lost in his own thoughts. I decided not to say anything about Hadleigh, for the moment.
He might not be a monster, but I wasn't at all sure he was still human.
Then both of us looked round sharply. No-one had said anything; no-one had called our names; but nonetheless, we knew. We looked down the Cheyne Walk approach, and there he was, Walker, large as life and twice as manipulative, strolling along the street as if he owned it. Heading straight for us. People hurried to get out of his way, and he no more noticed it than the air he breathed. Walker was a shark, and he only noticed other fish when he was hungry. He finally came to a halt before us, smiled easily, tipped his bowler hat politely to Larry, then fixed his steady gaze on me.
"I understand you're looking for Tommy Oblivion," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "I know something of what happened to him, here, on this street on that terrible night; and as it happens, I am in a position to tell you something you need to know. But all knowledge has its price, and I'll only share what I know with you, John… if you'll do something for me."
"What do you want, Walker?" I said, resignedly, because I was pretty sure I already knew what he was going to say.
"Come walk with me, John, for a while. Walk with me now, and when we're finished, I'll tell you what you need to know."
"This is a bit desperate, isn't it?" I said. "You don't normally resort to open blackmail until much later in the game."
"Needs must when the hounds of time gnaw at our heels," said Walker, entirely unmoved.
"We don't have time for this," said Larry. "If you've got anything useful to contribute, Walker, say it. Or butt out. We're busy."
"Do we have a deal, John?" said Walker, conspicuously ignoring Larry.
"I could make you tell me," said Larry; and there was something in his cold, dead voice that made Walker turn to look at him.
"I rather doubt it," said Walker.
"Tell me what you know about my brother. Do it. Do it now."
"Ah, for the good old days," murmured Walker. "When dead men told no tales."
Larry went for his wand and Walker opened his mouth to use the Voice; but I was already there between them.
"Can you both please put your testosterone back where it belongs and save the showdown for another day? This isn't getting us anywhere. I'll go with you, Walker, let you show me all these things you think I need to see; but it had better be worth it."
"Oh, it will be," said Walker, smiling easily at me so he didn't need to look at Larry. "I have such sights to show you."
I had to raise an eyebrow at that. "You're quoting Hell-raiser? You've watched that movie?"
"Watched it? Dear boy, I was technical advisor."
I never know when he's joking.
I turned to Larry. "Sorry, but I have to do this. He'll never give up what he knows otherwise. I'll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, talk to people who knew Tommy and are still around. See if they can verify a connection between him and all the people on your list."
"All right," said Larry, not even a little bit graciously. "But don't be long. And don't make me come looking for you."
He turned his back on me and Walker, and strode off. I looked at Walker.
"You just don't give up, do you?"
"Never," Walker said calmly. "It's one of my more endearing qualities."
"You have endearing qualities?" I said. "Since when?"
He took out his gold pocket-watch and opened it, and the portable Timeslip within leapt out and carried us away.
SEVEN
Not Just Another Walk on the Nightside Come, John. Walk with me.
And so we went walking together, up and down the Nightside and back and forth, up the Grand Parade and down the Old Main Drag, in and out of endless rain-slick streets and shadowed alleyways. Taking in the wildest clubs and the lowest dives, walking under hot neon and flashing signs, past the open doors of very inviting private clubs and terribly discreet dens, where the barkers promised every pleasure you'd ever heard of or dreamed about. Where the patrons called for madder music and wilder women and danced till they dropped. One great kaleidoscope of sin, with temptation on display in every window, at marked-down prices. Love for sale on every street-corner, only slightly shop-soiled. The twilight daughters out in force, with their painted-on smiles and switch-blades tucked into their stocking tops. You can find anything you want in the Nightside if you're prepared to pay the price.
We walked and walked, and all the time Walker never said a word to me. He just stepped it out at a brisk pace, swinging his furled umbrella like a walking-stick, letting the streets speak for themselves. The pavements were packed with people, wide-eyed and eager, in hot pursuit of whatever drove them. But they all made way for Walker and me, so that we seemed to walk in our own little pool of calm, like the eye of the hurricane.
Up and down we went, in and out of every private domain and sphere of influence, and no-one challenged us. Hard men stepped back into doorways, and foot-soldiers for a dozen different crime lords quickly changed direction or disappeared down handy alleyways. Walker led the way and I followed, and no-one wanted anything to do with us. After a while, my legs grew weary, and my feet hurt, but Walker never slowed his pace. I grew so tired I lost all track of time, which might have been the point.
I'd reached the point where I was prepared to swallow my pride and call a halt when Walker beat me to it. He came to an abrupt stop before a shabby storefront in a decidedly grubby area and gestured grandly at the run-down establishment before us. I looked it over and wasn't impressed. The starkly lettered sign on the blank window said Welcome to the Nightside Tourist Information Centre! I couldn't help thinking that the exclamation mark at the end was entirely unjustified. A sort of resigned shrug would have been more appropriate.
"All right," I said to Walker. "This is new, I'll grant you. I didn't even know we had such a thing. Does it get much business? I would have thought most people who come here already know what they're looking for."
"That's the point," said Walker. "Shall we go in?"
He pushed
open the door, and crumbling bits of paint fell off it. A small bell tinkled sadly as we entered a stuffy little office. A dark figure sat hunched behind a rough desk, half-concealed behind piles of folders, pamphlets, and assorted paper-work. Curling posters had been roughly tacked to the walls, offering picture-postcard views of places I happened to know looked nothing like that, and tall spinners held cheap pamphlets that looked as though no-one had disturbed them in years, There was dust, and cobwebs, and a general smell of futility and despair.
"Carter!" snapped Walker. "Why are you naked again?"
The figure at the desk crouched down even further behind his stacks of paper. "It helps me relax! I've got a lot on my mind!"
I turned away and interested myself very firmly in the contents of one of the spinners. Mostly pamphlets and flyers concerning places of interest for the discerning tourist in the Nightside. All written in that false, cheerful tone so beloved of Chamber of Commerce types, which fools no-one.
Visit the colourful Street of the Gods! (Travel insurance advised, especially against Acts of Gods.) Visit the amazing Mammon Emporium; all the merchandise from all the worlds! Try a bucket of Moose McNuggets, or a Cocaine Cola! Have you seen the Really Old Ones in the World Beneath? (Parental discretion advised. Some parts of the tour may not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition.)
That was about as much as I could stand. I looked back, to see Carter emerge sullenly from behind his desk, now wearing a grubby undershirt and jeans. He looked as run-down and untrustworthy as the place he worked in, which took some doing. Carter was neurotically thin, defiantly unhealthy, and basically disgusting on a genetic level. You got the feeling he'd still be sleazy even if you soaked him in bleach for a week. He did his best to look put-upon and hard done by, but I still felt an instinctive need to slap him, on general principles. He cringed away from Walker and glared at me.
"Don't bother; I already know who you are. I'm Basil Carter, and you're not at all pleased to see me. No-one ever is. See if I care. And yes, this place is a dump. Why not? No-one ever comes here. The last person to stick his head through that door really wanted the karma repair shop next door. What do you want, Taylor? We're closed. Or out for lunch. Or renovating; that's always a good one. There's been a fire, or an outbreak of plague, or the rabid weasels are loose again. Come back later. Or not at all; see if I care. Those are my official responses to any and all inquiries. I'm only talking to you now because Walker will hit me if I don't."
"And quite right, too," said Walker. "I never knew anyone who deserved being beaten repeatedly about the head and shoulders more than you do, Carter. And don't you dare complain. If the people around here knew who you really were, they'd drag you out of this shop and feed you into a wood-chipper, toes first."
Carter sniffed loudly, in a defiantly moist and unpleasant way. "When you offered me this job as an alternative to lifetime incarceration in Shadow Deep, I should have known there'd be a catch. Working in this hell-hole should count as cruel and unusual punishment. At least I don't have to deal with people much. I've never been a people person."
"Then you shouldn't have buried so many of them under your floor-boards," Walker said briskly. "I needed someone for this position whose very existence would discourage people from coming in, and you fit the job perfectly."
"Walker," I said. "Why are we here? You didn't march me all the way across the Nightside just to meet this… person, did you?"
"Perish the thought," said Walker. "Walk this way."
"If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the acupuncture," sniggered Carter.
Walker hit him.
A concealed door at the back of the office opened up onto a much larger room. I followed Walker in, while Carter resumed his post behind his desk again; and just like that, I was in a whole other world. The new room was huge, stretching away in all directions, its walls covered from floor to high ceiling in hundreds and hundreds of viewscreens. Images came and went faster than I could follow them, constantly changing and updating. There were computers everywhere, backed up by unfamiliar machinery working furiously at unknowable tasks. And miles and miles of hanging cables, twisting and turning in great loops, criss-crossing like the web of a spider strung out on acid. Sitting in the middle of all this was a silent figure in a simple white robe, held upright in his chair by a series of tight leather straps. He was utterly still, his face blank, staring at nothing, with dull, unblinking eyes. A dozen thick cables sprouted from his shaven head, where holes had been drilled to allow them to burrow on through into the brain. He didn't react to me, or to Walker. He didn't even know we were there. Walker shut the door firmly and locked it, then strolled over to the silent figure and checked a few of the skull contacts to make sure the cables were secure. He clapped the unmoving figure on the shoulder and smiled happily, like a proud father.
"Welcome to my Secret Headquarters, John. My special place, from where I see and hear everything, hidden behind the perfect off-putting disguise. This is Argus. He makes what I do possible; don't you, dear boy? Argus isn't his real name, of course; it's more of a job description. No-one remembers who he is; in fact, I doubt if even he remembers any more. It doesn't matter. There have been hundreds like him, and no doubt there will be hundreds more. Computers and scrying balls can't do everything; you need human input to pick out the things that matter from all the oceans of information that come pouring in at any moment.
"So, Argus. The god with a thousand eyes. Sees all, knows all, and no personality to get in the way. Though they do tend to burn out fairly quickly… Still, not to worry; there's never any shortage of replacements. Don't worry, John; he can't hear us. All his senses are focused exclusively on the Nightside. His higher functions have been surgically removed, so they can't interfere with his observations. His mind has been surgically adjusted, so it can interface perfectly with the computers and watch thousands of situations at once, throughout the Nightside, and never once grow bored or distracted. Nothing happens that Argus doesn't know about, and report on, and draw attention to, if it is red-flagged in his programming. Names and faces like yours, John. He always has an eye out for you.
"What do you think of my Secret Headquarters, John? Admit it; you always thought I had some great underground lair, watching over an army of secret informers and secret police, reporting back on everything they see. Well, in a way you're right, but we'll get to that later. Why are you scowling, John?"
I gestured at Argus. "He's not a volunteer, is he?"
"Well, hardly. That would be cruel. Only the really nasty bastards get to undergo the Argus procedure. People who deserve it. Like Basil Carter out there; why waste time and money locking them up? There's Shadow Deep, of course, but that's for the out-and-out monsters like Shock-Headed Peter, who deserve to suffer. Everyone else gets to do useful things for the Nightside, in recompense for their crimes. This particular Argus ran an utterly foul con scheme, ripping babies from living wombs to sell on. Now he performs a useful function and is well provided for. He gets fed and watered and changed on a regular basis, and he'll spend what's left of his time helping to protect the Nightside from people like him. What could be more fitting?"
"You said something about secret police," I said.
"So I did. Well spotted, John. Glad to see you're paying attention. There are hundreds of other criminals, their heads as empty as Argus, walking up and down the Nightside, their minds linked to him through the computers. They've been programmed to look and talk like everyone else, even though there's no-one at home in their heads. They go everywhere and see everything, and no-one ever notices them."
"And these are more pressed men? More criminals being punished?"
"Of course!" said Walker. "Take your poachers and turn them into gamekeepers. A grand old tradition…"
He looked at me for some response, some reaction to what he was saying, but I wasn't ready yet. I gestured at the hundreds of screens covering the walls.
"Ah, yes, those," said Walker. "Fr
om here I can talk to everyone in the world." He didn't say it at all grandly, to boast or to preen. It was all just part of the job, to him. "From here I can call on any backup I need, to help me enforce my decisions. I can get armed men from the Church, the Armed Services, the Carnacki Institute, and any number of more specialised organisations. I can talk to the Authorities, the British Government, and places of power all across the world; and there isn't a place on Earth where they won't take my call. Because everyone knows how important the Nightside is, and how dangerous. Of course, only specially trained troops are ever allowed into the Nightside. You couldn't expect ordinary soldiers to cope. I'd say that about the only people I don't talk to are the Droods. They're banned from the Nightside by long agreement. They don't play nice."
He broke off abruptly, as Argus began to rock back and forth in his chair. When he spoke, his voice was rough and harsh, as though he didn't get to use it very often.
"Out of the dark, it's coming. From out of the place that nothing comes from, it's coming. And, oh, it's so bright, so bright! "
Walker moved quickly forward and put his mouth right next to Argus's ear. "What is it? What's coming?"
"So old, so ancient; far older than people think. But it never was what people thought it was. It is mighty and terrible, too… and it shines so brightly it hurts to look at it. The only survivor from a Golden Age; because we were not worthy of it. Now it's back. And God help us all."
He stopped speaking, and nothing Walker could do could make him say anything else. Walker didn't know what Argus was talking about, but I thought I did.
"You said he had no personality left," I said. "But he sounded really scared."
"They can always surprise you," Walker said finally. "I wouldn't worry about it. His condition makes him supersensitive to certain disturbances in the aether. He's only repeating what someone else is saying… I doubt it's anything important. Bad things are always coming to the Nightside. It's what we're here for." He turned his back on Argus, and spread his arms out wide, taking in the whole set-up. "So, John, what do you think of my Secret Headquarters?"
The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny n-10 Page 15
