The Bride Wore Black Leather n-12

by Simon R. Green

  Larry turned his head slowly to look at Tommy. “Can you move?”

  “Not in the least. Haven’t got any leverage to work with. You?”

  “No.” Larry looked up at me. “All right. What have you got to say for yourself, you murderous little shit?”

  I explained the circumstances of Julien Advent’s death in some detail, making sure they understood about the Sun King, and what he was planning to do while everyone was distracted running after me. When I was finished, Larry looked at Tommy.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” said Tommy.

  “Our enemies have always profited by turning us against each other,” said Larry.

  “And if the Sun King is the one responsible for Julien’s death, I want his heart’s blood,” said Tommy.

  “You always were the vicious one in the family,” Larry said fondly.

  I looked at them both thoughtfully. “You’re both being very reasonable. Don’t you feel the Sun King’s power, pressing on you not to believe me?”

  “No,” said Larry. “I have to say . . . I don’t feel as utterly convinced of your guilt as I did before. Could be the Library’s defences, protecting us from the Sun King’s influence. And, of course, we are more resistant than most. Tommy being existential, and me being dead.”

  “It affected Dead Boy,” I said.

  Larry sniffed loudly. “That boy’s brains have been leaking out his ears for years. I’m amazed he can still put one foot in front of the other without consulting a manual. All right, say we do believe in you. That you were framed by the Sun King. How do we find the bastard?”

  “My gift can’t find him anywhere,” I said. “He’s either protected by his power or by that of the Entities.”

  “That leaves simple deduction,” said Larry. “We are supposed to be detectives, after all. Where would he go, in the Nightside? What would he see as a weak spot? What would he most easily recognise, or be drawn to, in the Nightside?”

  “The Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille!” Tommy said immediately. “The Sun King is a child of the sixties, right? And what’s most representative of that period here? The Bar! And being a ghost of its former self would make it a weak spot in reality! God I’m good.”

  “The Hawk’s Wind disappeared recently,” said Larry. “I can’t believe that’s a coincidence. Get this thing off us, Taylor. We’re going with you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “But no, you’re not. You could fall under the Sun King’s influence the moment you leave the Library and attack me again. But I think you’re right about the Bar. Too many unanswered questions there. How did he make it disappear? Where has he sent it? Why is it so important to him? I thought it must be because the sixties incarnation of Julien Advent was in there at the time . . .”

  “He is?” said Tommy.

  “Call yourself a detective?” I said, not unkindly. “There has to be a connection, between the Sun King and Julien Advent and the Hawk’s Wind; but I’m not seeing it yet. I’m afraid you two are going to have to work your own way out while I get on with the job. Once you are out, if you can fight off the Sun King’s influence, it would be a help if you could intercept Razor Eddie and Dead Boy and keep them busy while I work.”

  I walked back through the stacks, which seemed to edge back from me a little. Behind me, I could hear Larry and Tommy arguing.

  “Can you shift your end?” said Larry.

  “What do you think? You’re nearer the edge than I am, you must have some leverage,” said Tommy.

  “I’m deceased, not a contortionist. Look, one of us is going to have to use all his strength and worry about the damage afterwards.”

  “Good idea,” said Tommy. “Doesn’t matter if you take any damage, so you first.”

  “Just because I’m dead . . .”

  “Come, let us reason together . . .”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  NINE

  Ghosts Know Everything

  Getting out of the Library wasn’t a problem; deciding what to do next took rather more time. I hid in the darker shadows of the Library’s side alley and ran through my various options. It didn’t take long. I needed to talk to someone I could trust. Normally, this would have been Suzie, but . . . I thrust my hands deep into my coat pockets and frowned so hard it hurt my forehead. Who was there left, who hadn’t been poisoned against me or influenced by the Sun King? Who was there left, that I could depend on? I took a deep breath, mentally crossed my fingers, took out my mobile phone and hit speed dial for Cathy.

  I used her emergency mobile number, the very private phone I gave her, in case she needed help after a particularly boisterous party. I didn’t see how anyone could listen in on my phone, after all the money I’d invested in top-of-the-line security, but I wasn’t feeling at all trusting any more. Cathy took her own sweet time picking up, and I was actually beginning to wonder if she was deliberately holding out so someone could track my position, when she finally answered my call.

  “Boss? I’ve been waiting for you to call me, but I was expecting it to come through the office phone. I left this one tucked away in the bottom of my bag, for emergencies. I’m on my own here, in the office, packing up. The hen party broke up when the news about Julien Advent reached us. Suzie’s out somewhere, looking for you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Every time someone rings me with the story, the details are different.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I . . .”

  “Where are you? I’ll come and get you.”

  “Cathy,” I said. “You don’t believe I murdered Julien Advent, do you?”

  “Of course not! How long have we known each other? I know bullshit when I hear it, boss. You never killed anyone without good cause. Hell, I’m more vicious than you. Particularly when I’ve had a few . . .”

  I hadn’t realised how tense I was, until Cathy said she still believed in me. I felt my whole body slowly relax as her familiar rush of words washed over me. If Cathy had turned on me, like Suzie, I think I would have given up . . . “Meet me . . .” I said, then stopped to think again. I couldn’t bring her here because I couldn’t afford to hang around anywhere near the Library. A mob could catch up with me at any time, or Larry and Tommy Oblivion might be overcome by the influence again, the moment they left the Library and all its protections. So where could I go next that my enemies couldn’t follow me? And then the answer hit me, and I smiled briefly.

  “You remember the street where we first met?” I said. “Don’t say the name! . . . But you do remember?”

  “Of course,” said Cathy. “How could I forget? It was where you saved my life by rescuing me from something that only looked like a house. Is that really where you want me to meet you, boss? The area hasn’t improved, you know. It’s still where the really wild things live.”

  “No-one goes there who doesn’t have to,” I said. “Hardly anyone I know would think to look for us there; and the poor bastards who live on that street tend not to care about the latest gossip.” Or would care that I’d killed Julien Advent, I thought, but didn’t say.

  “And anyone who did go there looking for you would be lucky to get out alive anyway,” Cathy said cheerfully. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour, boss. I take it you’re going to need transport? Thought so. Can you get there in that time? Of course you can; you’re John Taylor, what am I thinking?”

  She cut off the call, and I shut my phone and put it away. How was I going to get to Blaiston Street, right on the other side of the Nightside, without being spotted along the way? I still couldn’t use my Portable Timeslip. The Sun King, or his precious Entities from Beyond, might well track the energy trail and be there waiting for me when I arrived. They might even arrange for all my old friends and enemies to be there, waiting. I shuddered at the thought.

  And . . . I couldn’t walk down the streets, hiding out as just another face in the bust
ling crowds. My white trench coat made me far too easy to spot. Everyone knew my coat; it was part of my image and my rep. But I couldn’t take it off and dump it. My trench coat contained a great many useful tricks, and powerful defences, that I might still need. More importantly, I couldn’t give it up because . . . it was my coat. Letting it go would be like giving up a vital part of me. I was damned if I would. I’d already lost too much that mattered, to the Sun King.

  I had to get to Blaiston Street, and that meant I needed transport. I couldn’t trust the taxis, or any of the other usual means . . . Hell, I wouldn’t trust them under normal conditions. Usually, there were people I could call on, like Dead Boy and his futuristic car; but he’d already turned against me. There was Ms. Fate, the Nightside’s very own costumed adventurer . . . but her bright pink Fatemobile was even easier to spot than my white trench coat. My enemies would already be keeping an eye on that car, just in case.

  So, when in doubt, cheat. I hurried out of the side alley and down the street, till I came to the nearest underpass. People were already turning to look at me as I clattered down the stone steps and into its concealing gloom. I raised my gift and used it to find one particular underpass, on the other side of the Nightside. And then it was the easiest thing in the world to move myself from one to the other. So that when I reached the bottom of the stone steps, I was walking into a completely different underpass, not far from Blaiston Street.

  The tunnel was a lot darker and dirtier than I was used to, and the smell was pretty bad. Things had died down here, quite recently; but some hadn’t died nearly enough. I moved quickly through the underpass, being very careful where I put my feet. I made a point of breathing through my mouth, though it didn’t help much. Half the overhead lights had been smashed, with malice aforethought, to give the things that lived down there an advantage over those of us passing through. And because some things can only be done in the dark.

  The buskers were an ugly lot, with their battered, stolen, and improvised instruments, all but demanding money with menaces from those who didn’t drop money into their caps quickly enough. Having heard what the buskers considered music, I couldn’t help feeling that all they had to do was threaten to play another song, and we’d all dig deep into our pockets. Heavy dirt and dust stains on the curving stone walls formed into eyeless faces that turned to follow me as I hurried past. Luckily, my reputation was still potent enough to keep them from forming mouths and proclaiming my name.

  I kept up a steady pace, staring straight ahead, not pausing for anyone or anything. Animals can smell fear. And weakness. So I strode right on, giving every indication of being ready to walk right over anything or anyone who didn’t get out of my way fast enough. The other people in the underpass went out of their way to be polite and give me plenty of room; but a shadow of a man with no man to cast it rose suddenly up before me to block my way.

  I smiled, unpleasantly. I’d been waiting for something over-confident or arrogant enough to try it on. I needed to make an example of some poor damned fool, so everyone else could see I was still dangerous, and spread the word that I should be left strictly alone. So when the dark shape rose before me, spreading out its over-long arms to fill the tunnel, I already had a salamander ball in my hand, palmed from an inside pocket when no-one was looking. I triggered the pasty white ball and threw it into the dark, featureless face; and the salamander ball exploded in a fierce vicious light that filled the underpass from end to end. Everyone cried out in pain and shock as the incandescent glare overloaded their eyes temporarily. I, of course, had my eyes squeezed tightly shut, with an arm raised over them, just in case. When the light faded enough for me to see again, the dark shape was gone, blown apart into tiny dark fragments that spiralled on the air like midnight confetti. I walked straight through them, and they swung madly on the air to get out of my way. It’s nice to be respected.

  I have known people to get really snotty about salamander balls, saying they’re expensive, you don’t get much bang for your buck, and they’re a bit on the small side. But as I always point out, you only get two to a salamander.

  I kept walking, not looking back or even glancing about me, and everyone else pressed themselves against the sides of the tunnels. If there were any enemies or bounty hunters down in the underpass with me, none of them bothered me. And when I finally walked up the steps and out into the open night air again, I was only half a dozen blocks down from Blaiston Street.

  I had to stop for a while and lean against a handy shop-window while I got my breath back. (The shop was called Hope, and it was shut. That’s all you need to know about the Nightside, right there.) I looked at my reflection and hardly recognised the gaunt and drawn face that stared back. Blood was streaming thickly from my nose, as though it had been hit, and I could taste the bad coppery stuff in my mouth. I spat hard to clear my mouth, and the crimson stuff ran slowly down the shop-window. I was tired, bone-deep tired, and when I fumbled a handkerchief out of my pocket, I could hardly feel it. My fingertips were dangerously numb. Somehow, I managed to pinch the bridge of my nose till the bleeding stopped, and spat more blood across the window-glass till I ran out. I mopped roughly at my face and stuffed the handkerchief back into my pocket. A slow, hot pain pulsed behind my eyes. I had to sort this case out soon, while I still could. Overusing my gift was causing me serious physical and maybe even neurological damage. I could feel it. And God alone knew what it was doing to my soul. I’d never had to use my gift so often before.

  I finally pushed myself away from the blood-streaked window, straightened my back, and raised my head through an act of sheer will-power, and headed determinedly for Blaiston Street. I was deathly tired, every muscle ached, and I still couldn’t feel my fingertips. And I would have killed for a deep-crust pizza and a whole bunch of drinks to wash it down with. Not really in my best condition to face a threat that could mean the end of the Nightside, forever.

  Some days, you can’t get a break.

  * * *

  Didn’t take me long to get to Blaiston Street. A nowhere street in a nowhere place, the really bad end of town. It made the area outside Green Henge wall seem like a petting zoo. I could feel the property values plummeting the closer I got, and the people looked less furtive and more feral. Though none of them did more than watch me carefully from a safe distance. Even down here, they’d heard of me.

  Blaiston Street was a ragged collection of shabby buildings in a shabby setting. Where every single street-light had been smashed because the inhabitants felt more at home in the dark. Filth and garbage piled up everywhere, left to sit in festering heaps. Rats crouched here and there, not even bothering to look away as I strode past them. Every wall was covered in obscene graffiti, rough and brutal stuff, like dogs pissing to mark their territory. Kicked-in doors, boarded-up windows, dark doorways and darker alley mouths. Only two long rows of ancient, battered tenements, neglected and despised, by those within and those without.

  Blaiston Street is where you go when nobody cares, not even you.

  Not many people about. Normally, you’d expect a street like this to be teeming with the lost and the desperate, like maggots in an open wound. But the street stretched away before me, completely deserted, still and silent. As though they’d known I was coming and wanted to be well out of the way before the trouble started. Reasonable enough. They’d emerge afterwards, to rob the bodies or eat them. There were definitely unseen eyes following me as I strolled unhurriedly down the middle of the empty road as though I didn’t have a care in the world. I could feel the watchers even if I never saw them.

  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.