Tales From the Nightside

by Simon R. Green

  Dr. West thrust both his hands into the cavity and started rooting around with quite unnecessary enthusiasm. “The heart is missing,” he said cheerfully. “Also, the liver. Yes. Yes . . . Not cut out, torn out . . . Made a real mess of this poor fellow’s insides, hard to be sure of anything else . . . Not sure what to put down as actual cause of death: blood loss, trauma, shock . . . Heart attack? Yes. That covers it. So, another victim for our current serial killer. Number six . . . how very industrious. Oh yes. Haven’t even got a name for your chart, have we, boy? Just another John Doe . . . But not to worry; I’ve got a nice little locker waiting for you, nice and cosy, next to your fellow victims.”

  “You have got to stop talking to the corpses like that,” I said sternly. “One of these days someone will catch you at it.”

  Dr. West stuck out his tongue at me. “Let them. See if I care. See if they can get anyone else to do this job.”

  “How long have you been Coroner, Dr. West?” said Ms. Fate, tactfully changing the subject.

  “Oh, years and years, my dear. I was made Coroner the same year Samuel here was made Detective. Oh yes, we go way back, Samuel and I. All because of that nasty Shock-Headed Peter . . . The Authorities decided that such a successful serial killer was bad for business, and therefore Something Must Be Done. It’s all about popular perception, you see . . . There are many things in the Nightside far more dangerous than any human killer could ever hope to be, but the Authorities, bless their grey little hearts, wanted visitors to feel safe, so . . .”

  He stopped and looked at me sourly. “You’d never believe he and I were the same age, would you? How do you do it, Samuel?”

  “Healthy eating,” I said. “And lots of vitamins.”

  “Why haven’t you called in Walker?” Ms. Fate said suddenly. “He speaks for the Authorities, with a Voice everyone has to obey; and I’ve heard it said he once made a corpse sit up on a slab and answer his questions.”

  “Oh he did, he did,” said Dr. West, pulling his hands out of the body with a nasty sucking sound. “I was there at the time, and very edifying it was, too. But unfortunately, all six of our victims had their tongues torn out. After our killer had taken the bits and pieces he wanted. Which suggests our killer had reason to be afraid of Walker.”

  “Hell,” I said. “Everyone’s got good reason to be afraid of Walker.”

  Dr. West shrugged, threw aside his scalpel and slipped off his latex gloves with a deliberate flourish, as though to make clear he’d done all that could reasonably be expected of him.

  Ms. Fate stared into the open wound again. “Our killer really does like his work, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s got an appetite for it,” I said solemnly.

  “Oh please,” said Ms. Fate.

  I moved in beside her, staring down into the cavity. “Took the heart out first, then the liver. Our killer must believe they hold the secret of the werewolf’s abilities. If he is a shape-changer now, he’ll be that much harder to take down.”

  Ms. Fate looked at me thoughtfully, then turned to Dr. West. “Do you still have all the victims’ clothes and belongings?”

  “Of course, my dear, of course! Individually bagged and tagged. Help yourself.”

  She opened every bag, and checked every piece of torn and blood-soaked clothing. It’s always good to see a real professional at work. Eventually, she ran out of things to check and test, and turned back to me.

  “Six victims. Different ages, sexes, occupations. Nothing at all to connect them. Unless you know something, Detective.”

  “There’s nothing in the files,” I said.

  “So how were the victims chosen? Why these six people?”

  “Maybe the people don’t matter,” I said. “Just their abilities.”

  “Run me through them again,” she said. “Names and abilities, in order, from the beginning.”

  “First victim was the godling, Demetrius Heracles,” I said patiently. “Then the farseer, Barbara Moore. The immortal, Count Magnus, though I doubt very much that was his real name. The teleporter, Cainy du Brec. The chat-show host, Adrian Woss, and finally the werewolf, Christopher Russell.”

  “This whole business reminds me unpleasantly of Shock-Headed Peter,” Ms. Fate said slowly. “Not the MO, but the sheer ruthlessness of the murders. Are you sure he hasn’t escaped?”

  “Positive,” I said. “No-one escapes from Shadow Deep.”

  She shook her masked head, her heavy cloak rustling loudly. “I’d still feel happier if we checked. Can you get us in?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m the Detective.”

  • • •

  So we went down into Shadow Deep, all the way down to the darkest place in the Nightside, sunk far below in the cold bedrock. Constructed . . . no-one knows how long ago, to hold the most vicious, evil, and dangerous criminals ever stupid enough to prey on the Nightside. The ones we can’t, for one reason or another, just execute and be done with. The only way down is by the official transport circle, maintained and operated by three witches from a small room over a really rough bar called the Jolly Cripple. If the people who drank in the bar knew what went on in the room above their heads . . . they’d probably drink a hell of a lot more.

  “Why here?” said Ms. Fate, as we ascended the gloomy back stairs. “Secrecy?”

  “Partly, I suppose,” I said. “More likely because it’s cheap.”

  The three witches were the traditional bent-over hags in tattered cloaks, all clawed hands and hooked noses. The great circle on the floor had been marked in chalk mixed with sulphur and semen. You don’t want to know how I found out. Ms. Fate glowered at the three witches.

  “You can stop that cackling right now. You don’t have to put on an act; we’re not tourists.”

  “Well, pardon us for taking pride in our work,” said one of the witches, straightening up immediately. “We are professionals, after all. And image is everything, these days. You don’t think these warts just happened, do you?”

  I gave her my best hard look, and she got the transport operation under way. The three witches did the business with a minimum of chanting and incense, and down Ms. Fate and I went, to Shadow Deep.

  • • •

  It was dark when we arrived. Completely dark, with not a ghost of a light anywhere. I only knew Ms. Fate was there with me because I could hear her breathing at my side. Footsteps approached, slow and heavy, until finally a pair of night-vision goggles were thrust into my hand. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and from the muffled squeak beside me, so did Ms. Fate. I slipped the goggles on, and Shadow Deep appeared around me, all dull green images and fuzzy shadows.

  It’s always dark in Shadow Deep.

  We were standing in an ancient circular stone chamber, with a low roof, curving walls, and just the one exit, leading on to a stone tunnel. Standing before us was one of the prison staff, a rough clay golem with simple preprogrammed routines. It had no eyes on its smooth face, because it didn’t need to see. It turned abruptly and started off down the tunnel, and Ms. Fate and I hurried after it. The tunnel branched almost immediately, and branched again, and as we moved from tunnel to identical tunnel, I soon lost all track of where I was.

  We came at last to the Governor’s office, and the golem raised an oversized hand and knocked once on the door. A cheery voice called out for us to enter, and the door swung open before us. A blinding light spilled out, and Ms. Fate and I clawed off our goggles as we stumbled into the office. The door shut itself behind us.

  I looked around the Governor’s office with watering eyes. It wasn’t particularly big, but it had all the comforts. The Governor came out from behind his desk to greet us, a big blocky man with a big friendly smile that didn’t touch his eyes at all. He seemed happy to see us, but then, he was probably happy to see anyone. Shadow Deep doesn’t get many visitors.

  “Welcome, welcome!” he said, taking our goggles and shaking my hand and Ms. Fate’s with great gusto. “The great Detective and the
famous vigilante; such an honour! Do sit down, make yourselves at home. That’s right! Make yourselves comfortable! Can I offer you a drink, cigars . . . ?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Ah, Detective,” said the Governor, sitting down again behind his desk. “It’s always business with you, isn’t it?”

  “Ms. Fate is concerned that one of your inmates might have escaped,” I said.

  “What? Oh no; no, quite impossible!” The Governor turned his full attention and what he likes to think of as his charming smile on Ms. Fate. “No-one ever escapes from here. Never, never. It’s always dark in Shadow Deep, you see. Light doesn’t work here, outside my office. Not any kind of light, scientific or magical. Not even a match . . . Even if a prisoner could get out of his cell, which he can’t, there’s no way he could find his way through the maze of tunnels to the transfer site. Even a teleporter can’t get out of here because there’s no way of knowing how far down we are!”

  “Tell her how it works,” I said. “Tell her what happens to the scum I bring here.”

  The Governor blinked rapidly and tried another ingratiating smile. “Yes, well, the prisoner is put into his cell by one of the golems, and the door is then nailed shut. And sealed forever with preprepared, very powerful magics. Once in, a prisoner never leaves his cell. The golems pass food and water through a slot in the door. And that’s it.”

  “What about . . . ?” said Ms. Fate.

  “There’s a grille in the floor.”

  “Oh, ick.”

  “Quite,” said the Governor. “You must understand, our prisoners are not here to reform or repent. Only the very worst individuals ever end up here, and they stay here till they die. However long that takes. No reprieves, and no time off for good behaviour.”

  “How did you get this job?” said Ms. Fate.

  “I think I must have done something really bad in a previous existence,” the Governor said grandly. “Cosmic payback can be such a bitch.”

  “You got this job because you got caught,” I said.

  The Governor scowled. “Yes, well . . . It’s not that I did anything really bad . . .”

  “Ms. Fate,” I said, “allow me to introduce to you Charles Peace, villain from a long line of villains. Burglar, thief, and snapper-up of anything valuable not actually nailed down. Safes opened while you wait.”

  “That was my downfall,” the Governor admitted. “I opened Walker’s safe, you see; just for the challenge of it. And I saw something I really shouldn’t have seen. Something no-one was ever supposed to see. I ran, of course, but the Detective tracked me down and brought me back, and Walker gave me a choice. On-the-spot execution, or serve here as Governor until what I know becomes obsolete and doesn’t matter any more. That was seventeen years ago, and there isn’t a day goes by where I don’t wonder whether I made the right decision.”

  “Seventeen years?” said Ms. Fate. She always did have a soft spot for a hard-luck story.

  “Seventeen years, four months, and three days,” said the Governor. “Not that I obsess about it, you understand.”

  “Is Shock-Headed Peter still here?” I said bluntly. “There’s no chance he could have got out?”

  “Of course not! I did the rounds only an hour ago, and his cell is still sealed. Come on, Detective; if Shock-Headed Peter was on the loose in the Nightside again, we’d all know about it.”

  “Who else have you got down here?” said Ms. Fate. “Anyone . . . famous?”

  “Oh, quite a few; certainly some names you’d recognise. Let’s see; we have the Murder Masques, Sweet Annie Abattoir, Max Maxwell the Voodoo Apostate, Maggie Malign . . . But they’re all quite secure, too, I can assure you.”

  “I just needed to be sure this place is as secure as it’s supposed to be,” said Ms. Fate. “You’d better prepare a new cell, Governor; because I’ve brought you a new prisoner.”

  And she looked at me.

  I rose to my feet, and so did she. We stood looking at each other for a long moment.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” she said. “But it’s you. You’re the murderer.”

  “Have you gone mad?” I said.

  “You gave yourself away, Sam,” she said, meeting my gaze squarely with her own. “That’s why I had you bring me here to Shadow Deep, where you belong. Where even you can’t get away.”

  “What makes you think it was me?” I said.

  “You knew things you shouldn’t have known. Things only the killer could have known. First, at the Library. That anthropology text was a dry, stuffy, and very academic text. Very difficult for a layman to read and understand. But you just skimmed through it, then neatly summed up the whole concept. The only way you could have done that was if you’d known it in advance. That raised my suspicions, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to be wrong about you.

  “But you did it again, at the autopsy. First, you knew that the heart had been removed before the liver. Dr. West hadn’t worked that out yet, because the body’s insides were such a mess. Second, when I asked you to name the victims in order, you named them all, including the werewolf. Who hasn’t been identified yet. Dr. West still had him down as a John Doe.

  “So, it had to be you. Why, Sam? Why?”

  “Because they were going to make me retire,” I said. It was actually a relief, to be able to tell it to someone. “Take away my job, my reason for living, just because I’m not as young as I used to be. All my experience, all my years of service, all the things I’ve done for them, and the Authorities were going to give me a gold watch and throw me on the scrap heap. Now, when things are worse than they’ve ever been. When I’m needed more than ever. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  “So I decided I would just take what I needed, to make myself the greatest Detective that ever was. With my new abilities, I would be unstoppable. I would go private, like John Taylor and Larry Oblivion, and show those wet-behind-the-ears newcomers how it’s done . . . I would become rich and famous, and if I looked a little younger, well . . . this is the Nightside, after all.

  “Shed no tears for my victims. They were all criminals, though I could never prove it. That’s why there was no paper-work on them. But I knew. Trust me; they all deserved to die. They were all scum.

  “I’d actually finished, you know. The werewolf would have been my last victim. I had all I needed. I teleported in and out of the Library, which is why no-one saw me come and go. But then . . . you had to turn up, the second-best Detective in the Nightside, and spoil everything. I never should have agreed to train you . . . but I saw in you a passion for justice that matched my own. You could have been my partner, my successor. The things we could have done . . . But now I’m going to have to kill you, and the Governor. I can’t let you tell. Can’t let you stop me, not after everything I’ve done. The Nightside needs me.

  “You’ll just be two more victims of the unknown serial killer.”

  I surged forward with a werewolf’s supernatural speed and grabbed the front of Ms. Fate’s black-leather costume with a godling’s strength. I closed my hand on her chest and ripped her left breast away. And then I stopped, dumbstruck. The breast was in my hand, but under the torn-open leather there was no wound, no spouting blood. Only a very flat, very masculine chest. Ms. Fate smiled coldly.

  “And that’s why you’d never have guessed my secret identity, Sam. Who would ever have suspected that a man would dress up as a superheroine to fight crime? But then, this is the Nightside, and like you said; we all have our secrets.” And while I stood there, listening with an open mouth, she palmed a nausea-gas capsule from her belt and threw it in my face. I hit the stone floor on my hands and knees, vomiting so hard I couldn’t concentrate enough to use any of my abilities. The Governor called for two of his golems, and they came and dragged me away. They threw me into a cell, then nailed the door shut and sealed it forever.

  No need for a trial. Ms. Fate would have a word with Walker, and that would be that. That’s how I always did it.

 
So here I am, in Shadow Deep, in the dark that never ends. Guess whose cell they put me next to. Just guess.

  One of these days they’ll open this cell and find nothing here but my clothes.

  THE DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

  ONE

  It was three o’clock in the morning, in the oldest bar in the world, and I was killing time drinking with a dead man. Dead Boy is an old friend, though he’s only seventeen. He’s been seventeen for some thirty years now, ever since he was mugged and murdered for the spare change in his pockets. He made a deal to come back from the dead and take his revenge on his killers; but he should have read the small print. He’s been trapped inside his dead body ever since, searching for a way out. He’s surprisingly good company, for a man with so many strikes against him.

  I’m John Taylor, private investigator. I don’t do divorce work, I don’t chase after the Maltese Falcon, and I am most definitely not on the side of the angels. Either variety. I do, however, wear a white trench coat, get in over my head more often than not, and get personally involved with my female clients far more often than is good for me. I have a gift, for finding things and people.

  I’d just finished a case that hadn’t ended well. A man hired me because his imaginary friend had gone missing, and he wanted me to find out why. Apparently this man’s imaginary friend had been his constant companion since childhood, and had never gone off on his own before. The client got quite tearful about it, so I gave him my best professional look, and my most reassuring smile, and promised him I would waste no time in tracking down his imaginary friend. As cases go, it wasn’t that difficult. I found the imaginary bastard in the first place I looked. He was having an affair with the client’s wife. I put the three of them together in the same hotel room, and left them to it, knowing there was no point in even sending in my bill.

  It was all the client’s fault, really. Far too imaginative, except when it came to his wife.