by Simon Green
“You see,” I said to Larry. “Told you that you and he had a lot in common.”
“Yes, but I’m dead,” said Larry. “What’s his excuse?”
The Collector actually stamped his sandalled foot in rage, his face flushed an unhealthy shade of purple. “You never take me seriously, Taylor! You always have to make fun of me, and my marvellous collection! You never appreciated me!”
“You looked after me, sometimes, when I was a kid and my dad couldn‘t,” I said. “I remember that, Uncle Mark. I appreciated that man. Whatever happened to him?”
“No. Don’t you dare,” said the Collector. “That was a long time ago. We were all different people then.”
“And look what’s become of us,” I said. “All your travels in time, and you couldn’t see what was coming? That man with his whole future before him ... He couldn’t avoid ending up a lonely, sad, old man, surrounded by things?”
“Kill them,” the Collector said to his robots. “Kill John Taylor, and rip his dead friend to pieces.”
The cat robots started forward, inhumanly graceful, taking their time, closing in from all sides to leave us no chance of escape. Their slow, studied approach had something in it of the cruelty of cats. Larry pulled out his magic wand, started to say something, then stopped abruptly.
“That won’t work here,” I said, looking quickly about for possible escape routes and maybe even a weapon. “The Collector has wards in place for unexpected items like yours.”
“Pretty little thing,” said the Collector, from behind the safety of his robots. “Elven, isn’t it? Thought so. Wasted on a dead thug like you, Oblivion. But it’ll make a fine addition to my new elf annex. And you needn’t try raising your gift, either, Taylor; I’ve got shaped charges hanging on the air, bristling with anticipation, ready to do really quite appalling things if you even peek through your inner eye. Should have set them up years ago.”
“Come on, Collector,” I said, doing my best to sound brave and heroic and not in any way panicking. “You can’t kill me. You know lots of people will track you down to avenge me.”
“I’ll bet a hell of a lot more will celebrate,” said the Collector. “Hell. Half of the Nightside will probably throw a party. With streamers and balloons. Besides, no-one will ever know it was me. You and your unpleasant associate will join my collection, as very small portions in a series of very small boxes. Then maybe I’ll be able to get some proper sleep at last.”
I’d looked everywhere and run out of options. The cat robots had covered every possible escape route, and there were no obvious weapons out on display. None of the usual cursed needles, singing swords, or interstellar blasters. Not even anything heavy enough to pass for a blunt instrument. The robots were all around us now and pressing closer. The Collector didn’t allow them weapons, in case they might damage any of his beloved exhibits, but they still had their inhuman strength and wickedly sharp claws.
“Don’t suppose you’ve a gun on you, by any chance?” said Larry.
“I don’t like guns,” I said. “Besides, most of the time I’m smart enough to avoid getting caught in situations where I might need them. I really thought I had the Collector intimidated ... or at the very least, sufficiently guilt-tripped ...”
“On the whole, I’d have to say he doesn’t look intimidated,” said Larry. “And no; I don’t have a gun on me either. I’ve grown far too dependent on my wand since I died.”
“Yes,” I said. “Tricky.”
“Well, don’t just stand there; do something! Those robots are getting bloody close! I do not want to spend the rest of my life as kitty litter! I’m dead, not invulnerable.”
“I told you that,” I said. “And will you please stop hyperventilating? It’s really very unattractive in a dead person. Dead Boy never makes a fuss like this when we work together.”
“Dead Boy is crazy!”
“There is that, yes ... I think we should grab some of the more fragile-looking exhibits, and build a barricade between us and the robots. The Collector won’t let them damage anything.”
“Are you sure about that?” said Larry.
“I’m betting my life on it.”
It didn’t take long to drag some of the shelves and display cases into place around us, pushing the more delicate objects to the front. A glass phallus from the Court of Cleo patra, engraved with snake scales; dainty china butterflies from the Court of Versailles, with tiny erotica hand-painted on the wings; and half a dozen paper ghosts from Hiroshima. And sure enough, once the Collector realised what we were doing, he stopped his robots in their tracks rather than have them break anything. Things would always matter more to him than any human emotions, even revenge. He glared at us, and we glared right back at him, and there was no telling where the stalemate might have taken us, if we hadn’t been distracted by the sound of deliberate, approaching footsteps. We all looked round sharply, and there was Walker; strolling through the packed shelves and cases, as calm and composed and elegantly dangerous as ever.
The cat robots immediately forgot all about Larry and me and turned as one to focus on Walker. The Collector gestured urgently for them to stand still, and they did. Walker ignored them completely, smiling and nodding to the three of us as though we’d just happened to meet in the street. He walked through the still ranks of robots and finally came to a halt before the Collector. Walker smiled at him warmly.
“Hello, Mark. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
The Collector scowled at him. “Don’t come the old-chums act with me, Walker. That was a long time ago. We’re both different people now. And don’t try your Voice, either; it won’t work here.”
“Never occurred to me that it would,” murmured Walker.
“How did you find me?” said the Collector, plaintively. “I put a lot of hard work into choosing this site and hiding it from unfriendly eyes.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” said Walker. “I just followed John.”
“I didn’t see you!” I said.
“People don‘t, unless I want them to,” said Walker.
“You lied to me,” I said. “You used me to find the Collector for you!”
“Needs must, when the Devil’s knock knock knocking on your door,” said Walker.
The cat robots were still watching Walker with their glowing green eyes, almost visibly straining against the orders that held them motionless. They knew a real threat to their master when they saw one. Walker ignored them all with magnificent disdain. The Collector and Walker stood face-to-face, and when the Collector finally spoke, his voice was quieter, and more human, than I expected.
“It has been a long time, hasn’t it, Henry? But with your resources, you could have found me at any time if you’d really wanted to. I’ve always known that. Why did you stay away so long? We might have been on opposing sides, but that never stopped you with other people. Why did you wait until you were dying to come and see me? Yes, I know; of course I know. All those years we were friends, and I had to hear it from someone else? What were you thinking? Why didn’t you come to me the moment you found out? I could have come up with something! I have all of Time to look in!”
“But I am running out of Time,” said Walker. “And I couldn’t bring myself to trust anything you might find for me. Our relationship has always been ... complicated.”
“And whose fault is that?” said the Collector. “I had such plans, such dreams, before you swept me along with your damned ambitions!”
Walked nodded slightly, accepting the point. “And what have you made of your life, Mark? All the great things you boasted you were going to do ... and you gave it all up to collect toys?”
“What have you done with your life, Henry?” the Collector said angrily. “You wanted to fight the establishment, and instead you became it. You’re the Man now; everyone knows that. You’ve become everything we despised! And for what? To be king of shit heap? Caretaker of a freak show? Errand and bully-boy for the Powers That Be!”
; Walker didn’t flinch once, even as the Collector spat hot, hateful words at him. He waited politely for the Collector to run down, then spoke calmly and reasonably in return.
“Time changes all things, Mark. You of all people should understand that. And you ... have become too dangerous and too unpredictable to be left running around loose, making trouble when I am gone. I did help towards making you the man you are; and that makes you my responsibility.”
“I made myself what I am,” snapped the Collector. “I don’t owe you anything!”
“You never did listen, Mark,” murmured Walker, almost sadly. “This isn’t about what you owe me.”
“You always did have too high an opinion of yourself,” said the Collector. “I made myself the greatest Collector in the Nightside, through my own hard work and determination. Despite everything you or anyone else could do to stop me!”
“I should have tried harder,” said Walker. “But I always had so much else on my plate, and you were my friend, so ... If I’d known you were going to end up like this, I would have done something. I can’t help feeling this is all my fault.”
“What are you talking about?” said the Collector.
“Oh, wake up, Mark!” snapped Walker. “Look around you! What kind of a life is this for anyone? No family, no children, no friends; just ... things?”
“You have family, children, and friends,” said the Collector. “Did they make you happy, Henry? Did they make you content? We were never going to be happy, or content, or satisfied. It wasn’t in our nature.”
“We have come a long way from the idealistic young men we once were,” said Walker. “When did we lose our innocence, Mark?”
The Collector laughed harshly. “We didn’t lose it, Henry; we threw it away first chance we got. Don’t waste my time with nostalgia just because you’re dying. Those days, and those people, are long gone.”
“No,” said Walker. “That was yesterday. And I would give everything I own to have it back.”
“What do you want here?” said the Collector. “I’m busy.”
“I came to say good-bye,” said Walker.
He was standing right in front of his old friend, smiling kindly, holding the Collector’s eyes with his, when the knife he’d concealed in his left hand slammed between the Collector’s ribs. The cat robots started forward, and Walker’s other hand opened to reveal his gold pocket-watch. It snapped open, and the Timeslip inside snatched up every one of the cat robots and whisked them away, all in a moment.
The Collector cried out once as the knife went in, sounding as much surprised as anything. He grabbed Walker with both arms, pulling him close. Walker let go of the knife, and held him, too. The Collector’s legs buckled, blood pouring thickly down his side, staining the old Roman tunic. Walker lowered the Collector slowly to the ground. The Collector tried to say something, and blood ran from his mouth. Walker snapped his gold watch shut and tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket. He never once took his gaze off the Collector’s dying face. He knelt down and helped the Collector to lie back on the floor, in a spreading pool of blood. The Roman tunic was soaked with gore now. The Collector clutched at Walker with weakening hands, looking confused.
“It’s all right, Mark,” said Walker, quietly, tenderly. “I’m here, Mark.”
“Henry ... ?”
“It’s all right. I’m here. I’ll stay with you.”
Walker looked at me. “You can go now. I don’t need you any more. Leave me here with my friend.”
Larry didn’t want to go, but I hustled him out. In his current mood, Walker was capable of anything. I only looked back once, to see Walker kneeling beside his dying friend, holding one of the Collector’s hands in both of his, saying good-bye. One dying man to another.
NINE
Old Truths Come Home to Roost
In the Nightside, it always pays to expect the worst; but the old girl can still surprise you. Back on Lud’s Gate platform, I reached out with my gift to find a train that could take us back to the city, and was pleasantly amazed to find one already waiting for us, right outside the station. It was the same train we’d arrived in, scared to stay but hanging around anyway, in case we might need it. I was genuinely touched and made a point of sending profuse mental apologies for my previous bad manners. The train just shrugged. Apparently trains are used to that sort of thing.
The gleaming steel bullet slammed back into Lud’s Gate Station, the carriage doors opened long enough for Larry and I to climb aboard. Then the doors slammed shut, and the train shot out of the station at full speed. Something dark and dripping raised itself from the receding platform, but I didn’t look back. Larry and I sprawled tiredly on our seats, staring at nothing in particular.
It’s not every day you see a legend murdered in cold blood.
“What about Walker?” Larry said finally.
“He can find his own way home,” I said.
“Not what I meant,” said Larry. “I meant: what are we going to do about Walker?”
“Nothing,” I said. “You can’t do anything about him. He’s ... Walker.”
“Is he? The Walker I remember from before I died might have been a ruthless bastard, but he made a point of never getting his own hands soiled. Someone else always did his dirty work for him. And usually with at least the appearance of law or justice to back him up. He didn’t just stick knives into people he thought he couldn’t trust.”
“Yes,” I said. “He murdered his oldest friend, right in front of us. As though ... he doesn’t give a damn any more.”
“Did he ever?” said Larry.
“Oh yes,” I said. “Walker was always a stickler for the rules and regulations, even if he did make most of them up himself.”
“He can’t expect us to keep quiet about this?”
“No. He’s counting on us to tell everyone. He wants people to know. When a man knows for sure that his time is running out ... he can’t be bothered with the little things. He wants to tidy up his messes while he still can.”
“So I did hear right?” said Larry. “The great and mighty Walker is dying.”
“Yes. And that makes him more dangerous than he ever was before. There’s nothing left to hold him back.”
“I had no warning,” said Larry. “Before I was killed. There are a lot of things I would have liked to do ... Things I could have said, things I could have put right ... I mean, I’m still here, still around, still taking care of business ... But there are some things only the living can do and have it mean anything.”
I waited, but that was all he had to say. We were, after all, professionals, only partners on a case, not friends. But perhaps there are some things you can only say to a stranger.
“Anyway,” Larry said finally, “the important thing is that Walker lied. We have to start hunting for Tommy all over again.”
“Looks like it,” I said. “And I haven’t the faintest idea where we should look next. No clues, no sightings, no suspects to threaten or intimidate ... We could try some of the augurs or farseers. I know a wishing well that often comes through...”
“Hell with them,” Larry said firmly. “They’ll charge an arm and a leg for a rhyming couplet that will only make sense seven years from now or when it’s too late to do any good.”
“Sometimes ... things, and people just vanish,” I said. “It’s the Nightside.”
Larry glared at me. “You’re not suggesting we give up, are you?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m being realistic. If my gift can’t find Tommy, he must really be lost.”
“He’s not dead!”
“No, I’d know if he was dead.” I wasn’t actually sure of that until I said it, but it made sense. My gift would have found a body. “We could try the Street of the Gods. A lot of the Beings there claim to be all-knowing.”
“Why would they talk to us?” said Larry.
I grinned. “Because Razor Eddie is a friend of mine. And half the Beings on the Street would wet themselves
if the Punk God of the Straight Razor even looked harshly in their direction.”
“It’s nice to have friends,” Larry said solemnly.
We sat in silence for a while as the train roared through darkness and dark places.
“What do you suppose will happen to the collection?” Larry said finally. “It did look ... very impressive. Will Walker put it up for auction, do you suppose?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. Walker can get sentimental over the strangest things. I think he’ll leave it where it is: all the treasures and curios, and the body of the man who collected them. Let it all remain lost, in a far place, and become its own legend. The Collector would have liked that.”
“Will you miss him?” said Larry.
“He was my enemy. He tried to have me killed half a dozen times. He was my uncle Mark. Of course I’ll miss him.”
Larry and I emerged from the Underground again at Cheyne Walk Station, just in case we’d missed anything the last time. And once again, the Nightside managed a pleasant surprise. No fog, no rain, no showers of frogs; rather a pleasant night under a starry sky. The air was heavy with the scents of a dozen different cuisines, drifting out of restaurant doorways, open invitations for meals so ethnic they didn’t even have names outside the Nightside. Forgotten food, from countries and cultures that don’t exist any more. Kodo and Burundi drums held long, rolling conversations in the distance, and the barkers outside the members-only clubs chanted their harsh come-ons. People came and went and didn’t even look around; but that’s the Nightside for you. My mobile phone rang, and I answered it cautiously. The ad mail had been getting pretty aggressive recently, even with the best bullshit filters money can buy.
“Hello, John,” said a calm, familiar voice. “This is Walker.”
I paused. You had to admire the sheer nerve of the man. “What makes you think I want to hear anything you have to say?” I said finally.
