The Bride Wore Black Leather

by Simon R. Green

  “Ah, Juliet,” he said. “We were so happy together, for a time.”

  Juliet was a beautiful and vivacious English rose, with a porcelain complexion and long blonde hair, pale pink lips and flashing blue eyes, and a single small flower painted on one cheek. She wore a dress of black-and-white go-go checks, and tall, white, plastic boots with stiletto heels. And she was so alive: gesturing excitedly as she talked, tossing her long hair so it danced around her head, and silently teasing her more stolid and reserved companion.

  “Why did I ever let you go, Juliet?” said Julien, in a voice so quiet I could barely hear it. There was something in that voice that would have broken the hearts of the two young people before us if only they could have heard it. “I want to warn them, John, about so many things; but I can’t, and I know I won’t, because I didn’t.”

  “This is why I hate Time travel,” I said. “Nothing good ever comes of it. This is the only truth that ever comes out of the Past—that nothing lasts.”

  “But sometimes, people make comebacks,” said Julien. He moved in beside me, maintaining his grip, and looked thoughtfully at the crowd behind him. “Can any of you hear me? Do you know I’m here? Do you know what’s happened, or what’s about to happen? Come on, you’re all ghosts; if anyone’s not fixed in Time, it’s you. Help us to help you.”

  But there was no response. No-one said anything, or even turned a head to look. It was only an echo of the Past, after all.

  “Did you really expect anyone to answer?” I said.

  Julien shrugged. “It’s the Nightside. Normal rules do not apply.”

  And then we both looked round sharply as the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille began to shake and shudder. All around us, people jumped to their feet, shouting silently at each other. The young girls stopped dancing and rattled their golden cages, screaming noiselessly to be let out. A great light seemed to burn in from all directions at once, a fierce, consuming light that ate up everything it touched. People started to fade away, to disappear. The walls of the Bar began to break up as thick beams of light punched through them like battering rams.

  Let the sun shine in . . . A few people ran for the door. Most of them didn’t make it, fading softly and silently away, often in midstep. A few tried to fight. The younger Julien Advent tried to protect his Juliet, holding up a large golden amulet with an unblinking eye set in it. They still disappeared, clutching each other’s hands so they wouldn’t be separated. Zodiac the Mystical surrounded himself with a shield of coruscating energies, silently chanting and stabbing his hands in all directions; but the light sneaked up on him when he wasn’t looking and snatched him up, and he was gone in a moment. The English Assassin got his sister to the door, fighting his way through the incandescent light beams, and threw her out the door. He stopped in the doorway to glare about him, sonic pistol in hand; but there was nothing he could shoot at. The light blazed up, dazzling, blindingly bright, then it snapped off; and the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille was gone.

  I let go of the Past, and we were back where we’d started, looking down into the hole. It looked much the same. Some of the Tantric Troops started towards us, but Julien stopped them with a look. Showing rather more sang-froid than I would have shown, in the face of so many naked people. Julien beckoned to one naked woman, and she came forward to stand before him. I concentrated on her face.

  “Right at the end there,” Julien said brusquely. “What did you see?”

  “Light burst in from everywhere,” said the naked woman. “Forcing back the night. And then it was as though the two of you were there, and not there, at the same time. Strobing back and forth . . . and then the light was gone, and you were back.”

  “You didn’t see the ghost building?” said Julien. “The Hawk’s Wind?”

  “No,” said the naked woman. “Only you and Walker.”

  “Thank you,” said Julien. “I want this whole area sealed off. No-one in or out until I tell you otherwise, or the Hawk’s Wind returns.”

  “Is that likely?” asked the naked woman.

  Julien gave her a hard look. “It’s the Nightside. Who knows anything?”

  “Good point,” said the naked woman, and she hurried back to join the other naked people and started shouting at the watching crowd to back the hell off. And they did. Julien looked sharply at me.

  “You felt the strength of that light, didn’t you? It could have taken us, along with the Bar. So why didn’t it?”

  “Perhaps because we weren’t really there,” I said. “We were walking in the Past, not part of it. So what do we do now?”

  “There is a place we could go,” Julien said slowly. “Somewhere that might provide answers. Green Henge.”

  “Of course,” I said. “The Nightside’s very own Ring of Standing Stones. Where better to look for an old hippy?”

  SIX

  The Very Righteous Sisters Meet the Sun King

  I have seen many impressive walls, in the Nightside. Everything from the Great Wall of Porcelain China, down by the Desolation Docks, to the Moebius Wall of Murder Mile, which surrounds itself. But the huge stone wall that surrounds the Garden of Green Henge is still one hell of an impressive sight in its own right. My gold watch dropped Julien and me off outside the wall, in one of the shabbier areas of the Nightside. Either the trip was getting easier, or Julien and I were getting used to it, because after a few moments of deep breathing, silent cursing, and carefully not looking at each other, we were both back in command of ourselves and ready for business.

  The massive stone wall before us rose some forty to fifty feet into the air, constructed from great stone slabs fitted expertly together, without the need for mortar or cement. Each slab was set so tightly in place, you couldn’t fit a knife blade between them; and given the major magical protections I could sense built into the wall, that would probably be a really bad idea anyway. There was no obvious door, and the wall stretched away in each direction for as far as I could see. As though someone had decided long ago, This far into the Nightside shall ye go, and no further. Where the wall met the ground, old blood stained the stones in a regular pattern, like a bloody tide-mark soaked deep into the stone so long ago that no shade of red remained in the dark stains.

  Julien studied the blood-stains thoughtfully. “Is this what happened to the last people who tried to get in, do you think?”

  “No,” I said. “This is what’s left from human sacrifices. When they were building the wall, men and women were butchered right here, so their blood and deaths would strengthen the magics protecting the wall and so that their ghosts would remain here, bound to the wall, to hold it up against any forces that tried to bring it down. Old Druidic tradition. Very practical and unpleasant people, the Druids.”

  “You’re saying the ghosts are still here?” said Julien.

  I looked up and down the wall. “No. No ghosts here. Somebody screwed up.”

  Julien sighed quietly. “You can be really spooky sometimes, John. You know that?”

  “Only sometimes?” I said. “I must try harder.”

  Julien was giving rather more of his attention to the less than salubrious surroundings we’d arrived in. The buildings were dark and decrepit, with boarded-up windows and gaping doorways, and most of the street-lights had been smashed. Dark shadows everywhere; with ragged people lurking in them. A few of the braver ones were already shuffling out into the uncertain light to get a better look at whoever had been foolish enough to venture into their territory. Other things, that might or might not have been human but gave the impression of being just as hungry, moved in the shadows and alleyways.

  “It’s times like this make me wish I still carried my old sword-stick,” said Julien. “Couldn’t you have materialised us inside the Garden?”

  “Possibly,” I said. “But I didn’t want to upset the Righteous Sisters who run the place. There’s always the chance they’re old school Druids, the kind who would burn you alive in a giant wicker man, or nail your guts to the old oak
tree, then chase you round it, as soon as look at you. We’re going to need their cooperation, so I’m being polite. I never used to bother much with that, back when I was only a private investigator, but now that I’m Walker . . . it’s that much harder to do appalling things to people in public and not get noticed. And anyway . . .”

  “The wall has protections?” said Julien, keeping a watchful eye on the local wildlife.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” I said. “You can’t sacrifice this many people in one place and not get something for your trouble. I’m sensing defensive magic here that could tie your insides into square knots and send your balls back up the way they came down. Over and over again. So I think we’re going to be very patient and polite . . . right up to the point where I don’t give a toss any more. There’s supposed to be an alcove here somewhere, with a bell . . .”

  “Can’t you use your gift to find it?” said Julien.

  I gave him a stern look. “I have a strong feeling the Garden might take that as an affront, or an attempt to break in. Either way, if I upset the wall, you can bet the alcove will disappear itself in a moment.”

  “What if we can’t find a way in?” said Julien. “Some of these shabby gentlemen are getting a bit too close for my liking.”

  “Follow me,” I said. “Keep your head up; they can smell fear. And don’t get too close to the wall. It might bite.”

  We walked casually beside the wall for a while, both of us doing our best to appear confident and dangerous. Julien carried it off rather better than I did, with his great opera cape swirling around him. I’m more used to being sneaky and dangerous. Some of the rougher elements inhabiting the neighbourhood moved along with us, sticking to the shadows and maintaining a safe distance. They moved more like animals than anything human, their eyes gleaming brightly in the varying light. It didn’t take me long to find the alcove, built right into the wall, which I now realised had to be five to six feet thick. What did the original builders fear so much that they had to build a wall like this to keep it out? Or what did they need to keep inside their Garden?

  The stone of the alcove was grey and dusty, nothing more than a rough enclosure to hold a single silver bell, hanging from a thick silver chain. The bell was delicately made and shone brightly in the gloom, as though it had been placed there only moments before. The surface of the bell had been deeply inscribed with old Celtic lettering that read, roughly, Ring Me.

  “Oh, that is entirely too twee,” said Julien, when I translated it for him. “If a cake turns up that says Eat Me, there will be trouble. Never did like that book.”

  I checked the floor of the alcove carefully, for trap-doors and other booby-traps. You can’t be too careful, in the Nightside. I rang the bell sharply, and a clear, crystal sound rang out on the quiet night air, like a single note of grace in a hopeless setting. The local scavengers froze where they were, half out of their protective shadows, their grimy faces full of a strange wonder. The bell rang on and on, an intense but still beautiful sound, and still the scavengers didn’t move. They didn’t experience much in the way of beauty in what was left of their lives. The sound of the bell continued, long after it should have died away, as though it had to travel some unimaginable distance to reach the proper ears. But it finally fell silent, fading and fading away, and the cold, empty silence of the street returned. Julien and I waited for something to happen. The scavengers began to remember who and what they were and emerged from the shadows in larger and larger groups. Ragged men in ragged clothes, with wild, feral eyes and mouths full of broken, pointed teeth. Their clothing was such a mess I couldn’t even tell what it might have been originally. Bare hands and faces were grey with ground-in grime, and they padded on their bare feet as much as walked. These were beyond homeless; denied any of the comforts of civilisation, they had sunk down to brute basic needs and hungers, to the way of the beast.

  “They say that in London, you’re never more than ten feet from a rat,” Julien observed carelessly. “In the Nightside, it would be more true to say that you’re never more than ten feet away from murder and sudden mayhem. I really don’t like the look of these unruly individuals. If a door doesn’t open in this wall very soon, it may become necessary for us to show these unfortunates exactly which of us is in charge here.”

  “I think they already know that,” I said. “Given how many of them there are. Oh, look, they’ve moved to both sides of the street now, to surround us. How very ingenious of them. I suppose I could use my gift to find a hidden fault in this wall, and make a door . . . but there’s no telling how the wall’s protections would react to that. We might end up caught between a hard place and a very angry rock. Can’t you do something to scare them off? Go on, scold them in your posh voice. Nothing like an aristocratic tone to put the lower orders in their place.”

  “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John,” said Julien. “Oscar told me that, at one of Whistler’s parties. I suppose I could tell them all about the overheads of running a daily newspaper. God knows that scares the crap out of me, every quarter. But I really don’t see why I should have to do the scary thing. You’re John Taylor! And Walker! You scare them off.”

  I looked around. The scavengers were getting very close now, on every side, and growing steadily bolder as their numbers increased. Some had knives, some had broken bottles, some had chair legs and other improvised blunt instruments. They wanted our warm clothes and anything of value we had, and after they were finished taking that, they’d kill and eat us. Hopefully in that order. Nothing goes to waste in a place like this. When you fall off the edge in the Nightside, you fall all the way. I thought for a moment, considering my options, and I reached out with my gift and found the nearest over-priced restaurant. (Which you are also never very far from, wherever you go in the Nightside.) I gathered up all the food in the restaurant, made a connection with where I was, and it was the easiest thing in the world to bring all the food to me. (Simply a reverse variation on the magic I use to make things disappear.) (I’d been working on it.) Food rained down out of the night sky, hot and steaming and succulent. It hit the ground with a series of soft slaps, and lay there temptingly, while more and more of it fell from nowhere. For a moment the scavengers just stood where they were, watching with wide and unbelieving eyes. It had been a long time since they’d been anywhere near proper food. And then they rushed forward, forgetting all about Julien and me, and fell on the growing piles of food. They didn’t even have to fight over it; there was more than enough for everyone.

  Julien looked at me. “All right . . . First, how the hell did you do that? And second, since when did you become altruistic?”

  “First,” I said, “I am known for my useful little tricks. And second, I have been down and out in my time and know what it is to be hungry. And lost, and desperate. There was a time I looked a lot like them, and you would have walked right past me in the street, carefully not making eye contact. Always put a penny in the blind man’s hat, Julien, because the wheel always turns, and it turns for you as for anyone else.”

  “You never cease to amaze me, John,” said Julien. “But this is no time to be getting soft.”

  “Not going to happen,” I said. I turned away from him to study the alcove carefully. “Tell me about the Garden of Green Henge. You know more about the history of this place than I do. You know everything about the Nightside’s history.”

  “No-one knows everything about the Nightside,” said Julien. “But Green Henge has always been an interest of mine . . . Yes. Well . . . Of course the Nightside would have its own Stonehenge, its very own Circle of Sacred Standing Stones. The Nightside has pretty much one of everything from all of recorded human history. And a whole lot of things it shouldn’t have, that got edited out of history, or written over. Palimpsests cover a multitude of sins. Except this particular item is a fake. A folly. It was constructed back in Victorian times, as part of the fashion. Society was very big on fake but picturesque ruins, back then, expertly des
igned to look dark and Gothic and battered by the weather, as though they were ready to fall apart or fall down at any moment.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “It was a fad,” Julien said patiently. “It didn’t have to make sense. It was the fashion, to have half a barn or a decrepit old water-wheel in your back garden, or to have an exact copy of some famous house or monument, so you could visit it without having to track half-way across the countryside. And the Nightside has never been a stranger to strange fads and fancies. Remember the craze for Pet Rocks?”

  “Ah yes,” I said. “Just the things—for people with rocks in their heads.”

  “How about the pet alien fad, from the eighties? You were nobody then, if you didn’t have your very own pet BEM, to parade through the park on a leash and make do tricks . . . to the admiring or at the very least envious gazes of all. I remember a whole bunch of complaints about that, from the various Alien embassies in the Nightside.”

  “There aren’t any Alien embassies in the Nightside,” I said.

  “Not any more, there aren’t. Apparently just because something is small, green, and cute doesn’t mean it isn’t some race’s Most Honoured Ambassador, who got a collar snapped round his neck when he was out taking a stroll. It also turned out that a lot of the little beggars were actually alien sociology students, observing Humanity. They decided the collars and leashes meant we were all serious S&M freaks, and called for their Home Bases to mount an Intervention, on moral-health grounds. The previous Walker put an end to that by taking them to the Pit night-club and showing them what real S&M looks like. Never heard another word from them, after that. They’re probably still holed up in their other-dimensional universities, writing very deep psychological papers about us. And don’t even get me started on the Great Tamaguchi Rebellion . . .”