Nightingale lament n-3

by Simon R. Green

  "Damn," said Dead Boy. "That is seriously nasty. You know, I have to wonder . . . how many pieces could you cut me into, and I'd still be able to put my­self back together again?"

  "Well, unless you fancy life as a jigsaw, stop won­dering about it and bloody well do something," I said, stridently.

  "Boys," said Rossignol. "They really are getting ter­ribly close. Please tell me one of you has something re­sembling a plan."

  "When you get right down to it," said Dead Boy, "I'm just a walking corpse who's picked up a few un­pleasant strategems along the way. There's nothing in my bag of tricks that could even slow those bastards down. You have really powerful enemies, John."

  "Okay," I said, my mouth almost painfully dry. "That's it. Dead Boy, grab Ross and run like hell. As long as you're not a threat, they might not bother with you. They're only here for me."

  "What will they do to you?" said Rossignol.

  "If I'm lucky, they'll kill me quickly," I said. "But I've never been that lucky. The Harrowing are horror and despair. Please, get out of here."

  "I can't leave you," said Dead Boy. "Good deeds, re­member? Abandoning you now would set me back years."

  "And I won't leave you," said Rossignol. "If only because you're my only hope of breaking free from the Cavendishes."

  "Please," I said. "You don't understand. If you stay, they'll do ... horrible things to you. I've seen it hap­pen before."

  "You'll think of something, John," said Rossignol. "I know you will."

  But I didn't. I'd never been able to face the Harrow­ing, only run from them. My very own pursuing demons. The first of the Harrowing grabbed one edge of our barricading table with a puffy corpse-pale hand and threw it aside as though it were nothing. Dead Boy braced himself, and I pushed Rossignol behind me, sheltering her with my body. And then all the Harrowing stopped and turned their featureless faces, as though listening to something only they could hear. They started to shake and shudder, and then one by one they fell apart into rot and slime, slumping shapelessly to the floor. One moment a dozen menacing figures were closing in on us, and the next there was nothing but thick puddles of reeking ooze, spreading slowly. Dead Boy and I looked at each other, and then we both glared round sharply at the sound of soft, mocking laughter. And there, standing on the stage at the end of the room was Billy Lathem, the Jonah, in his smart, smart suit. He looked very pleased with himself. Standing on either side of him in their undertakers' clothes were Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish.

  "I told you, John," said the Jonah. "I am far more powerful than you ever realised. I am entropy, the end of all things, and not even sendings like those ugly bas­tards can stand against me. Now, you have something that doesn't belong to you. And I have come to repos­sess it."

  "Come along, dear Rossignol," said Mr. Cavendish. "You'll be late for your show."

  "You don't want to be late for your show, do you?" said Mrs. Cavendish.

  Rossignol was still gripping my arm tightly. "I won't go with them. Don't let them take me, John. I can't go back to being the half-asleep thing I was, nodding and smiling and agreeing to everything they said. I'd rather die."

  "You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to," I said, but it didn't sound convincing, even to me. I was still stunned at how easily the Jonah had destroyed the Harrowing. He had become a Power and a Domination, like his late father, Count Entropy, and I was just a man with a gift. And a bad reputation ... I raised my head and gave Billy Lathem one of my best enigmatic looks.

  "We've done this dance before, Billy. Back off, or I'll use my gift..."

  "You don't dare," said the Jonah, grinning nastily. "Not now your enemies know where you are. What do you think they'll send next, if you're dumb enough to open up your mind again? Something so appalling even I might not be able to deal with it. No, your only option now is to hand over the girl and skulk off out of here, before your enemies track you down anyway." He laughed suddenly. "You'll never be able to bluff any­one ever again, John. Not after I tell everyone how I saw you cringing and helpless, and hiding behind a table. And all from things I turned to rot and slime with just a wave of my hand. Now, you back off, John. Or I'll use my power to find the one piece of bad luck that will break you forever."

  Nine - Seeing the Light, at Last

  And so, one of the messiest and most messed-up cases of my career came to this - showdown at the Divas! sa­loon. The only trouble was, in the Jonah the Cavendishes had by far the biggest gun. His reducing of the Harrowing to so much multi-coloured mush had been truly impressive. Never thought the boy had it in him. Perhaps staring him down and humiliating him in front of his employers hadn't been such a great idea after all. Certainly something had put a rocket up his arse. You could practically see his power crackling on the air around him, writhing and coiling, bad luck wait­ing to be born and cursed on the living.

  We stood there in our two groups, at opposite ends of the ballroom, separated by a sea of overturned tables and chairs, and the suppurating remains of the Harrow­ing. Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish in their shabby undertak­ers' outfits, and the Jonah in his smart, smart suit, standing by the entrance doors. And me, Dead Boy, and Rossignol, standing by our abandoned barricade. The good guys and the bad guys, face to face for the in­evitable confrontation.

  I was looking unobtrusively around for an exit. I've never been much of a one for this kind of confrontation if there's an exit handy.

  "Kill them," said Mr. Cavendish, in his cold, clipped voice.

  "Kill them all," said Mrs. Cavendish, in her sharp clear voice.

  "No," said the Jonah, and both the Cavendishes looked at him, surprised. He smiled, unmoved. "I want to see them suffer first."

  The Cavendishes looked at each other. Both of them started to say something, then stopped. They considered the Jonah thoughtfully. Something had just changed in their relationship with their hired gun, and they weren't sure what.

  "Come up onstage, all of you," said Billy Lathem, the Jonah, son of Count Entropy. "I want you to know exactly how badly you've failed, John. I want to ex­plain it all to you, so you can see you never really stood a chance."

  "Why should I do anything you say, Billy?" I said, genuinely interested in what his answer would be.

  "Because I'll tell you the truth about what we did to poor dear Rossignol," said the Jonah.

  Just like that he had me where he wanted me, and we both knew it. So I shrugged casually and headed for the stage, with all my hackles stirring. Something bad was coming, I could feel it, and it was aimed right at me. Dead Boy and Rossignol came with me. The Jonah said a few low words to the Cavendishes, and they followed him up onto the opposite side of the stage. We all stopped a cautious distance apart, then we all looked at the Jonah, to see how he wanted to play this. He was smiling a happy cruel smile, a predator about to play with his prey, for a while.

  "We allowed Rossignol to escape from Caliban's Cavern," the Jonah said easily, "in order that we could follow her, to you. We were waiting for someone to make contact with her, and it wasn't really any surprise when the go-between turned out to be the besotted and predictable and stupidly loyal Ian Auger. The Cavendishes wanted me to trail Rossignol, then . . . take care of things, but I persuaded them to come along. I wanted them to see me take you down, John, to watch and appreciate as I destroy you, inch by inch. They don't get out much these days. Well, you can tell that from their awful pallor, can't you? I've seen things crawl out from under rocks sporting better tans. And they really don't like to be out and about in public, but I wanted them to be here, so here they are. Isn't it mar­velous how things can work out, if you just put your mind to it?"

  "So the servant becomes the master," I observed to the Cavendishes. "Or the monster turns on his creator, if you prefer. Not for the first time, of course. You do remember Sylvia Sin, don't you?"

  "Charming girl," said Mr. Cavendish. "Always said she'd go far, didn't I, Mrs. Cavendish?"

  "Indeed you did, Mr. Cavendish." The woman looked at
me thoughtfully. "Have you seen the dear girl recently?"

  "Yes," I said. "She was a monster. So I put her out of the misery you put her into."

  "Oh good," said the woman. "We do so detest loose ends. And as for the Jonah - why, he is our dear friend andally, and we are very proud of him. We predict great things for him, in the future."

  "Couldn't have put it better," said the man. "A per­son to be watched, and studied."

  "What happened to Ian?" Rossignol said suddenly. "What did you do to him?"

  "Ah yes," said the Jonah. "Never cared much for the shifty little runt. Let's just say that the trio . . . has now become a duet." He sniggered loudly at his own wit, while Rossignol turned her head away. The Jonah looked at the Cavendishes. "Tell them. Tell them every­thing. I want them to know it all, to know how badly they've failed, before I do terrible things to them. You can start by telling them who you really are."

  "Why not?" said the man. "It's not as if they will be around to tell anyone else."

  "You tell it, Mr. Cavendish," said the woman. "You have always had a way with words."

  "Butyou have always been the better storyteller, Mrs. Cavendish, and I won't have you putting yourself down."

  "And I thank you kindly for saying that, my dear, but. . ."

  "Get on with it!" said the Jonah.

  "We are older than we look," said the man. "We have assumed many names and identities, down the years, but we are perhaps still best known for our original nom de guerre, in the nineteenth century - the Murder Masques."

  "Yes," said the woman, smiling for the first time as she took in our expressions. "That was us. Uncontested crime lords of old London, the greatest villains of the Victorian Age. No sin was ever practiced there, but we took our commission. We laughed at police and politicians. We even brought down the great Julien Advent himself."

  "Or rather, you did," said the man. "Credit where credit is due, my very dear."

  "But I couldn't have done it without you, dearest. Now, where was I? Ah yes. We became involved with corruption in business, along with everyone else, and discovered to our surprise that there was far more money to be made in business than in crime, if business was approached with the right attitude. So we put aside our famous masques, cut off our old contacts, and made new names for ourselves in Trade. We prospered, mostly at the expense of our more timid competitors, and soon enough we became a Corporation. And as corporations are immortal, so we became immortal. Such things happen, in the Nightside. As our business thrives, so do we. As long as it exists, so shall we. Money is power, power is magic. And, of course, when the well-being of Cavendish Properties is threatened, so are we."

  "So we take all such threats very seriously," said the man. "And we take all necessary steps to defend ourselves."

  "You're just vultures," said Dead Boy. "Profiting from the weaknesses of others, feeding on the carcasses of those you bring down."

  "The very best kind of business," said Mrs. Cavendish. "Born of the Age of Capitalism, we now embody it."

  "That's why you call yourself Mr. and Mrs. all the time," I said, just to feel I was contributing something. "Because you've had so many identities, you have to keep reminding yourselves who you are these days."

  "True," said Mr. Cavendish. "But irrelevant."

  "Julien Advent will track you down," I said. "He's never forgotten you."

  The Cavendishes shared a warm smile. "And we have never forgotten him," said the woman. "Because there's one part of the story, that oft-told legend, which dear Julien has never got around to telling. The great love of his life, the one who betrayed him to the Mur­der Masques and their waiting Timeslip, was me. I shall never forget the look of shock and horror on his face when I took off my Masque. I thought I'd never be able to stop laughing."

  "He cried," said the man. "Indeed he did. Real tears. But then Julien always was a sentimental sort."

  "He really had no-one but himself to blame," said the woman. "I was working as a dancer in the chorus line when he met me. Just another pretty face with an average voice and a good pair of legs, but he took a fancy to me. Gentlemen often did, in those days. He in­troduced me to a better life, to all sorts of expensive tastes and appetites. Some of which he proved unwill­ing to provide. He thought he was saving me. He should have asked me whether I wanted to be saved.

  "Since he wouldn't give me what I wanted, I went looking for someone who would, and at one of Julien's soirees, I made the acquaintance of the generous gentleman at my side. The Murder Masque himself. He showed me a whole new world of monies and plea­sures, and I took to it as to the manner born. And so I took up a Masque, too, and I found far more thrills as a lord of crime than I ever did in poor Julien's arms. In the end, when I pushed him into the Timeslip to be rid of him, I didn't feel anything at all."

  "Tell them," the Jonah said impatiently. "Tell John what we did to Rossignol. I want to see his face, once he realises there's nothing he can do to save her."

  "Our Rossignol grew just a little too independent as she became more popular," said Mr. Cavendish. He sounded stiff and even bored, as though he was only saying this to satisfy the Jonah's wishes. "She started taking meetings on her own, without consulting us first. Executives at the record companies professed to be concerned by the terms of our deal, though Rossig­nol had been glad enough to sign it at the time, when no-one else would touch her. Those executives assured Rossignol she could do much better with them. They promised their lawyers would easily break the contract, if she would only transfer her allegiance to them. So she came to us and demanded a better deal, or she would leave."

  "The impudence of the girl!" said Mrs. Cavendish. "Of course, we couldn't allow her to do any such thing. Not after all the money we'd already invested in her. And all the money we stood to make. We found her, we made her, we groomed her. We made Rossignol into a viable product. We had a right to protect our invest­ment. Don't think you're fighting the good fight here, Mr. Taylor. This damsel in distress doesn't need rescu­ing. From what, after all? Fame and fortune? We promised we would make her a star, and so we shall. But she is our property, and no-one else's."

  "What about freedom of choice?" I said.

  "What about it?" said Mr. Cavendish. "This is busi­ness we're talking about. Rossignol signed away all such nonsense when she put her fate in our hands. Rossignol belongs to Cavendish Properties."

  "Is that why you murdered her?" said Dead Boy. "Because she wanted to leave and run her own life?"

  The Cavendishes didn't seem at all surprised by the accusation. If anything, they preened a little.

  "We didn't actually kill her," said the woman.

  "Not quite," said the man.

  "She isn't entirely dead," said the woman. "The poi­son we gave her took her to the very edge of death, then the Jonah found and imposed the one chance in a mil­lion that held her there, at death's very door, in an ex­tended Near-Death Experience. And when she came back from the edge, and we revived her, the profound shock had reduced her will and vitality to such a mal­leable state that she imprinted on us and accepted us as surrogate parents and authority figures. We had to keep her isolated, of course, to preserve this useful emo­tional connection. But even so, she persisted in dis­playing annoying signs of independence ... perhaps we need to poison her again and repeat the process, to put her back in the right frame of mind."

  "You bastards," said Rossignol.

  "Oh hush, child," said the man. "Artistes never know what's best for them."

  "But the best bit," said the Jonah, beaming happily, "the best bit is that only my will holds her where she is, on the very edge of death. My magic, my power. Her life is irrevocably linked to mine now. If you attack me, John, if you kill me, she goes all the way into the dark. Forever and ever. You don't dare threaten me."

  "That's as may be," Dead Boy said mildly. "But what can you threaten me with? I only just met this girl, and her life and death are a small thing to me. You, on the other hand, have dared to medd
le in my province, and I won't have that. I think I'll kill you anyway, Billy boy."

  "Don't call me that! That's not my name any more! I'm . . ."

  "The same irritating little tit you've always been, Billy."

  "I'll..."

  "You'll what? Kill me dead? Been there, done that, stole the T-shirt. And you're nowhere near powerful enough to break the compact I made."

  "Perhaps not," said the Jonah, and suddenly he was smiling again. I stirred uneasily. I really didn't like that smile. The Jonah stepped forward to lock glares with Dead Boy. "You've done a really good job of stitching and stapling yourself together, down the years. All the wounds and damage you took, and never thought twice. Holding your battered and broken body together with superglue and duct tape. But. . . what if none of it had ever held? What if all your repairs just. . . failed?"

  He made a short chopping gesture with one hand, and it was as though Dead Boy's body exploded. His back arched as black duct tape suddenly unwrapped and sailed away like streamers. Stitches and staples shot out, pattering softly to the stage, and his clothes were only tatters. No blood flew, or any other liquid, but all at once there were gaping wounds opening everywhere in Dead Boy's death-white flesh. He collapsed as his legs failed him, pale pink organs and guts falling out of him, and he hit the stage hard. One hand fell away entirely, the fingers still twitching. Dead Boy lay still, wounds opening slowly like flowers. I'd never realised how much damage he'd taken. Rossignol gripped my arm so hard it hurt, but didn't make a sound. And I just stood where I was, because I couldn't think of a single damned thing I could do to help my friend.

  "Entropy," the Jonah said smugly, "means every­thing falls apart. Look at you now, Dead Boy. Not so big now, are you? Can you still feel pain? I do hope so. You must have made a hell of a deal, to be able to sur­vive so much punishment. . . Not that it's done you any good, in the end. Tell you what, Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish, why don't you come over here and do the honours. Send him on his way. I wouldn't want to be accused of hogging all the fun."