Tales From the Nightside
Page 13
“This is what I want. What I’ve always wanted. What I need . . . And what you could never give me. I’ve dreamed of this for years . . . of flesh and metal coming together, moving together. Thought it was just a fetish, never told anyone . . . Knew they could never understand. Until someone told me about the Nightside, the one place in the world where anything is possible; and I knew I had to come here. This is the place where dreams come true.”
“Including all the bad ones,” murmured Dead Boy.
“What about us, Frank?” said Liza, tears streaming down her face.
“What about us?” said Frank.
“You selfish piece of shit!”
Suddenly she was back on her feet again, heading for Frank with her hands stretched out like claws, moving so fast even the robots couldn’t react fast enough to stop her. She jumped up and into the coffin, punched her fist into a hole in Frank’s side, and thrust her hand deep inside him. His whole body convulsed, the machines going crazy, and then Liza laughed triumphantly as she jerked her hand back out again. She dropped back down onto the crystal floor, brandishing her prize in all our faces. Blood dripped thickly from the dark red muscle in her hand. I grabbed her arms from behind as she shouted hysterically at her husband.
“You see, Frank? I have your heart! I have your cheating heart!”
“Keep it,” said Frank, growing still and content again, in the metal arms of his lover. “I don’t need it any more.”
And already the machines were moving over him, mopping up the blood and sealing off his wound, working to replace the heart with something more efficient. While the computer heaved and groaned and sweated, Frank sighed and smiled.
It was too much for Liza. She sank to her knees again, sobbing violently. Her hand opened, and the crushed heart muscle fell to the crystal floor, smearing it with blood. She laughed as she cried, the horrid sound of a woman losing her mind, retreating deep inside herself because reality had become too awful to bear. I gave her something to breathe in, from my coat pocket, and in a moment she was asleep. I eased her down until she was lying full length on the floor. Her face was empty as a doll’s.
“I don’t get it,” said Dead Boy, honestly puzzled. “It’s just sex. I’ve seen worse.”
“Not for her,” I said. “She loved him, and he loved this. To be betrayed and abandoned by a husband for another woman or even a man is one thing, but for a machine? A thing? A computer that meant more to him than all her love, that could do things for him that she never could? Because for him, simple human flesh wasn’t enough. He threw aside their love and their marriage and all their life together, to have sex with a computer.”
“Can you do anything for her?” said Dead Boy. “We’ve got to do something, John. We can’t leave her like this.”
“You always were a sentimental sort,” I said. “I know a few things. I’m pretty sure I can find a way to put her back the way she was, when she came to us, and this time make sure the memories stay repressed. No memory at all, of the Nightside or Silicon Heaven. I’ll take her back into London proper, wake her up, and leave her there. She’ll never find her way back in on her own. And in time, she’ll get over the mysterious loss of her husband, and move on. It’s the kindest thing to do.”
“And the metal messiah?” said Dead Boy, curling his colourless lip at Frank in the computer. “We just turn our back on it?”
“Why not?” I said. “There’s never been any shortage of gods and monsters in the Nightside; what’s one more would-be messiah? I doubt this one will do any better than the others. In the end, he’s just a tech fetishist, and it’s just a mucky machine with ideas above its station. Everything to do with sex, and nothing at all to do with love.”
• • •
You can find absolutely anything in the Nightside; and every sinner finds their own level of Hell, or Heaven.
SOME OF THESE CONS GO WAY BACK
London’s heart is old and cold and sometimes very cruel. The sick, secret, magical heart of London is called the Nightside, but you won’t find its teeming streets on any official map. Hidden by ancient agreements and protected by terrible forces, the Nightside is where the really wild things live. But if you can find your way in, by hook or by crook, you can find everything you ever lusted after in your dreams. Especially the bad ones. In the Nightside, it’s always dark, always three o’clock in the morning, and the dawn never comes. Heroes and villains, gods and monsters get together to make the kind of deals you can only make in the dark; and afterwards they go clubbing together. Hot neon blazes over crowded streets where the buzz never stops, and love is for sale on every street-corner. Love, or something like it.
London has a heart; but it’s rotten to the core.
• • •
My name is Harry Fabulous. These days. Always glad to see you, with a face to break your heart and clothes to break your wallet. I’m everyone’s friend, when they need a friend in a hurry. I’m the Go To man, for all your pharmaceutical needs. I can get you anything your little heart desires, or I can put you in touch with someone who can. For a percentage. Of course, a lot of what I supply isn’t exactly what I say it is; but most of my clients are too dumb or too desperate to make a fuss. Because, you see, I’m not really a dealer man. I’m a con man, and my delight is the nature of the deal. I could talk you out of both your legs, and you’d never even notice until you tried to chase after me. I’m Harry Fabulous, and you’ll never see it coming till it’s far too late.
But every profession has its ups and downs, and on that particular night I was out on the streets, losing myself in the crowds, staying one step ahead of certain indignant individuals who were after my body, and not in a good way. So I headed into Uptown, home to all the very best bars and night-clubs, looking to make a few unobtrusive scores and raise some serious cash in a hurry. The rich always make the best marks. They always think it can’t happen to them. People and other types hurried past on either side of me, intent on their own business, chasing the kinds of dreams you can’t even discuss with your loved ones. Perhaps especially your loved ones.
The Nightside doesn’t judge. The Nightside doesn’t care.
Hot jazz and heavy bass lines drifted out of the temptingly-half-open doors of night-clubs, where the show never ends, and you can dance till your feet bleed. Parties that go on forever, and the piper is never paid in money. All the latest bands, all the latest sounds. Everything that’s hot, everything that’s cool, everything that’s bad for you, starts out in the Nightside.
I had my sights set on the club of clubs, Heaven’s Doorway. As always, there was a long line of young hopefuls waiting outside the entrance, clamouring to get in, dropping names and even hard cash to the disinterested doorman, in the hope of jumping the queue. As if. Heaven’s Doorway is the place to go, to get the kind of highs you can’t get anywhere else. When taduki and tanna leaves don’t do it for you any more, and you’ve run out of Martian red weed to smoke, you can be sure someone at Heaven’s Doorway will have the very latest thing, at an only mildly extortionate price.
I strolled right past the queue like I hadn’t a care in the world and nodded familiarly to the doorman, but he took a step forward to block my way more completely. We knew each other of old, he and I. I kept smiling. I have a very nice smile, chummy and charming in equal measure, with a winning touch of roguishness. I’ve put in a lot of practice in front of the mirror, getting that smile just right. The doorman scowled fiercely, utterly unimpressed. Prince Albert was a big, butch steroid queen, entirely naked, and secured to his position at the club’s entrance by a long silver chain connecting his genital piercings to the door-post. The club’s owners say it’s because they couldn’t bear to lose him to anyone else, but I think it’s to make sure he stays in a permanent bad mood. Albert loomed over me, sneering down from his full six feet seven of bulging muscles.
“Now, now, Mr. Fabulous, we don’t want any trouble, do we?” he said, in a voice like a low rumble of thunder. “The nice la
dies and gentlemen come here for a bit of fun, not to be cheated out of their hard-earned by a cheap little con man like you, Harry.”
“You wound me, Albert,” I said. “I am never cheap. And besides, I have an invitation to a private party here, from the owners.”
And I produced the very impressive piece of embossed pasteboard to prove it. Albert accepted it gingerly, the small card lost in his huge paw, and studied it carefully. I kept my smile going, but inside I was holding my breath. The card was actually a very impressive forgery, produced by one of my more useful junkie clients. Does really nice work when his hands aren’t shaking. Albert finally scowled, shook his head in a what’s-the-world-coming-to sort of way, and lifted the golden rope to let me pass. I swept past him as though I’d never had a doubt in the world. It’s all about attitude. Albert hung on to my invitation, no doubt intending to have it checked by someone further up the food-chain, but I’d expected that. By the time the owners had confirmed the bad news, I’d have done my business and would be long gone.
I love it when a con comes together.
• • •
Inside, the dance floor was full, and the joint was jumping. I eased my way through the excited crowd, looking for a good vantage point from which to view the scene. Along the way, I used my old pick-pocketing skills to acquire several attractive objects, just to keep my hand in. I discovered a pleasantly rococo little stairway at the side and ascended the plush-carpeted stairs just high enough to get a good look. The usual unusual suspects were out in force, everything from teeny-boppers to elves to vampires, and even the odd Grey alien, all of them dancing with more enthusiasm than style. And all the usual pretty young things, with their hard faces and harder hearts, partying like there’s no tomorrow to the surging sound of the very latest hot band, Night’s Dark Agents. But I wasn’t here for them. I was much more interested in the small groups forming and re-forming in the shadowy corners, drinking or smoking or popping the pills that the local faces were handing out as free samples. There’s never any shortage of willing guinea-pigs at Heaven’s Doorway. I descended the stairs like royalty, smiling and waving, and headed for one of the biggest groups, inwardly flexing my sincerity muscles.
I had some powdered black centipede meat I was hoping to pass off as demon’s blood, along with a few other useful items that could look pretty damned tempting in a bad light. I needed to raise some decent money fast, pay off a few old debts, and get myself back into the high-stakes games. Because of a few rather misjudged business deals and a couple of cons that had gone spectacularly bad, I was temporarily embarrassed, financially speaking. I needed to make some new connections, get my feet under someone’s table. When you’ve burned as many people over as many bad deals as I have, you always need to be moving on, moving up. And never ever look back.
I passed a small gathering of Bright Young Things in borrowed finery, crowded anxiously around one of their own, who was currently thrashing about on the floor in a somewhat theatrical way. I paused for a quick look. The girl didn’t look too good. “Should that purple stuff be coming out of her ears?” said one of her friends, doubtfully. I didn’t hang around to see the outcome. It was all I could do to keep from shaking my head in an adult, knowing way. I never touch any of the things I sell. I’ve got more sense. I get all my kicks from the thrill of the con.
There were a handful of celebrities in that night, and I had them in my sights. The Lord of the Dance stood as though posing for photographs, ostentatiously ignoring his ex only a few feet away, the Dancing Queen. Both had their own little coterie of fans and followers, glaring jealously at each other. The Lord was affecting a Celtic look, all black leather straps and splashes of blue woad, while the Queen had reverted to her most successful look, as a silver lamé diva. Any club would be glad to pay either of them to show up because no-one could inspire or madden a crowd like the Lord of the Dance or the Dancing Queen; but they only ever went where the mood or the fashion took them.
Also making the scene was that eternally reinventing phenomenon, the ultimate pop star, the Thin White Prince. Impossibly good-looking, infuriatingly tasteful, he dominated any scene he chose to favour with his presence. He wore a pure white suit, exquisitely cut, and all those gathered around him waited impatiently for their chance to tell him how wonderful he was. It would only have spoiled it for them to tell them he wasn’t actually human; and I never do anything unless there’s a profit in it for me.
And then there was the Painted Ghoul, resplendent in his tacky clown’s outfit and sleazy clown’s make-up. Never welcome, never turned away, because he could do things for you, get things for you, that no-one else could. Or would. The quintessential clown at midnight, who could make you laugh till you coughed blood. He was addressing a small, somewhat captive audience, who laughed in all the right places, until they could get a word in edgeways to plead very politely for what they needed. I’ve never found him amusing.
There’s nothing funny about a clown with an erection.
But when I approached these stars of the scene, these celebrities of the night, all of whom had good reason to remember me fondly from the past, they froze me out. Turned their backs on me, pretended I wasn’t there. Word of my current predicament had clearly preceded me. And after all the things I’d done for them, the bastards . . . But no-one ever wants to know you when you’re down. Failure might rub off.
And that was the way it went, all through the club.
• • •
Refused and rebuffed, I retreated to the rococo stairway to lick my wounds and consider new strategies. I stood at the top of the stairs, pulling my pride back about me, and looked for some weaker members of the herd I could prey on. I couldn’t afford to leave the club without doing somebody down, for the good of my reputation. And that was when I heard the singing. A woman’s voice, trapped and plaintive, urgent and eerie, and the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. It sure as hell wasn’t coming from the band. I turned slowly, while the song built a fire in my heart and raised all the hackles on the back of my neck. There was a door at the top of the stairs, set so flush into the wall I hadn’t even noticed it before. I headed towards it, drawn by the woman’s voice. I tried the door-handle, but it was locked. I smiled.
I looked back, but no-one seemed to be paying me any attention. I reached into one of my many hidden pockets and brought out a very special skeleton key. Fashioned from the finger bones of the greatest locksmith who ever lived, I got it in return for a vial of what I swore was the pure Jekyll and Hyde formula. It was really an Adrenalin/amphetamine mix, but it had much the same effect, and by the time my client had come down, I was long gone with the greatest skeleton key ever made. I slipped it into the keyhole before me, and it worked the lock like a lover; and then all I had to do was open the door and slip inside.
I eased the door shut behind me, and the roar of the club cut off immediately. The singing stopped, too, and I turned to look. And in that bare and empty room, crouched on the bare floor-boards, within the glowing red lines of a pentagram, was an angel with broken wings. Even squatting on the floor, trapped and helpless, she was still heart-stoppingly beautiful. She was pure white, like an alabaster statue glowing from within, but her eyes were sea-green, and her long, flowing hair was a vivid red. She had a perfect figure and no navel, and her crushed wings slumped down her back like all the cruelty in the world. Seeing her there, broken and imprisoned, was like looking at the most beautiful butterfly in the world, pinned and mounted on a display card, but still alive, still suffering. I walked slowly towards her. I’d heard stories about an angel, trapped in some club’s private room, kept for the amusement of its very special patrons; but I’d thought they were just stories.
She was so beautiful. She touched my heart in a way I’d have sworn was no longer possible.
Hello, she said, and her voice sounded in my mind like the chiming of silver bells, like a lover’s voice as she lies cuddled in your arms after sex. Are you here to hurt me, or enjoy me?
“What?” I said. “I’m sorry, I don’t . . .”
It’s what men come to me for. Why I’m kept here, against my will. But you’re not with them . . . are you?
“No,” I said. “No, I’m not.” My mouth was dry, and I was having trouble getting the words out. I crouched before her, at the very edge of the pentagram’s glowing lines. They flared up briefly in warning, red as hell-fire. I felt drunk on her beauty, on the nearness of her. “Why . . . Why do they keep you here?”
There’s a market for angel blood, and angel tears, and angel urine. She smiled sadly. The price we messengers pay, for becoming material. I have been made into a commodity, nothing more. Sometimes they give me to really important people, for sex. Sex with an angel is better than any drug could ever be. But they never touch . . . me. I deny them that, at least.
And just like that, I wanted her. Wanted her body, her unbelievable beauty, wanted her so badly I ached. My heart slammed painfully in my chest, and it was all I could do to breathe. She smiled, understanding.
“This . . . isn’t right,” I said. “You shouldn’t be here. How can I free you?”
You mustn’t. It’s too dangerous. They would kill you if . . .
“I can’t leave you here. Not like this. I can’t. What do you need me to do?”
A good man has come at last. I had almost given up hope. The pentagram is the key. Its lines were drawn in the blood of a murdered unbaptised baby, mixed with salt and semen and sweat from the parents. Only the heart’s blood from one of those parents can break these lines and set me free. She looked at me so sadly, my heart almost broke. Do you understand what it is I’m saying? What I’m asking of you? To free me, you would have to commit one terrible, unforgivable act of your own free will. I can’t ask you to do that for me.
“I can’t leave you here! It’s . . . wrong. I can’t walk away, not now I know . . .”
She smiled at me, and my heart leapt. Most wonderful of men, and most beloved. I will worship you with my body and give you what I never gave anyone else—my heart. Sweet Harry. But you must move quickly. The mother of the murdered child is here, now. Her name is Aimee Driscoll.