The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny n-10

by Simon R. Green

"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.

  "Hadleigh Oblivion has been sighted at the Church of St. Jude."

  "And I should believe you because…?"

  "Oh, don't take my word for it, dear boy," said Walker. "Ask anyone. If you can get them to stop screaming long enough. The Detective Inspectre has never been one to hide his appalling light under a bushel."

  The phone went dead. I thought for a moment, then called my secretary, Cathy. She knew everything. Especially if it involved celebrity gossip.

  "Oh hell yes," she said, as soon as I mentioned Hadleigh Oblivion. "Word's coming in from all over the Nightside, according to these gossip sites on the computer that I just happened to be glancing at when you called. The Detective Inspectre is out and about, punishing the wicked with vim and vigour. Hadleigh's blown up a dozen dubious establishments, made twenty-three notorious scumbags vanish simply by looking at them, and no-one can even find Blaiston Street any more. It's gone, as though it was never there in the first place. Not a great loss there, admittedly, but… People haven't been this scared since the Walking Man was here last month, mowing down the bad guys and giggling while he did it. Everyone I know is at home, locked in their bathrooms, waiting for the storm to pass. And, I might add, if Hadleigh Oblivion even looks as though he's heading in my direction, I am taking the day off. Possibly the whole year."

  "You really must learn to breathe occasionally while you're talking," I said, when she finally paused long enough for me to jam a word in edgeways. "Are there any sightings of Hadleigh near the Church of St. Jude?"

  "Let me check." There was a long pause. No doubt she was doing things with the extremely complicated office computers that I paid for but have never been able to understand. "Right, yes, word just in-definite sighting of Hadleigh exploding a fat guy two streets down from the church. Ooh, messy. Ick. That one's going to end up on YouTube."

  "Listen to me, Cathy," I said. "This is important. Walker's lost it. He's killed the Collector. Get the word out; warn people. Walker… doesn't give a damn any more."

  She sniffed loudly. "News to me he ever did. Always said he was mad, bad, and dangerous to be within a hundred miles of, behind all that polite public school facade. You watch yourself, boss. I know you like to think you and Walker have a connection, an understanding; but I've always known he'd cut you down in a minute if he thought it served his purposes."

  She shut down the connection before I could argue with her, but I wasn't sure I would have. When a man knows he's going to die, his thoughts can turn in strange directions. Walker had surprised me when he called me son, and again when he asked me to take over his position. And yet again when he murdered the Collector. Who knew how many other surprises he had in store?

  I filled Larry in on Hadleigh and St. Jude's, and he scowled. "That's a long way off. Too long by the Underground…"

  "We could try a taxi," I said. "They can't all be psychopaths, mind robbers, and licensed thieves. You could put it on expenses."

  "I think we can do better than that," said Larry, not quite condescending. "I run a large organisation, remember? Just because I'm dead, it doesn't mean I've been lying down on the job."

  He got out his mobile phone and called for one of his drivers to come and pick us up. He'd barely put the phone away before a long pearl grey limousine eased out of the traffic and purred to a halt. The driver got out to open the door for Larry and me, a tall, blonde, Valkyrie type in a white leather chauffeur's uniform, complete with peaked cap. She smiled at Larry, winked at me, and was back behind the wheel before I'd even finished doing up my seat belt.

  "Image is everything these days," Larry said comfortably. "Act important, and everyone will treat you as though you're important. You might be more comfortable with the traditional ways, walking the mean streets in your iconic white trench coat; but I've always believed in travelling in style. Take us to St. Jude's, Priscilla."

  "You see a lot more from the street than you do from a car," I said, but my heart wasn't in it.

  The limousine must have been heavily armed, on the quiet, because the
rest of the traffic gave us plenty of room. We swept smoothly through the night, leaving the bright lights behind us as we headed into the darker and more obscure areas. Where the shadows have substance, and even the moonlight seems corrupt. Like slipping out of a dream and into a nightmare, leaving everyday temptations behind in favour of darker and more malicious impulses. I watched the streets and squares drift by, swept along in the smooth comfort of the limousine; and all the sharp neon and Technicolor come-ons seemed like a dream within a dream, far, far away.

  You find the Church of St. Jude tucked away in a quiet corner, in the back of beyond, far and far from the fields you know. It has no sign outside, no name on any board, no promise of hope or comfort. It's just there for when you need it. The only real church in the Nightside. The limousine eased to a halt a respectable distance away, and Larry and I got out. The night air was cold and sharp, brisk and bracing, alive with possibilities. Larry told his chauffeur to stay put, and he and I headed for the church, neither of us in any hurry. The Church of St. Jude is not a welcoming place.

  An old, cold stone structure, older than history, older than Christianity itself, St. Jude's consists of four bare greystone walls with a slate roof, narrow slits for windows, and only one door. Never locked or bolted, always open; and let any man walk into the lion's mouth who would. No priests here, no services or sermons; just a place where a man can talk with God and stand a real chance of getting an answer. Your last chance in the Nightside for sanctuary, salvation, or sudden and terrible justice.

  Not many people come to St. Jude's. It is not a place for mercy or compassion. St. Jude's deals strictly in the truth.

  It didn't take me long to realise that the church had undergone a change since I was last there. It didn't seem quiet or brooding any more. Brilliant shafts of light blazed out of every window-slit, piercing the dark. A great and mighty power was abroad in the night, emanating from the ancient stone building, pulsing and pounding on the air. There was nothing of Good or Evil in it, only pure naked power. Larry and I looked at each other, hunched our shoulders, and pressed on. The closer we got, the more it was like breasting a tide, or facing into a storm, and we had to fight our way forward through sheer will-power. Whoever or whatever had made itself at home in the church, it clearly wasn't keen on visitors.

  "Never been here before," Larry said casually. "Is it always like this?"

  "Not usually," I said. "Sometimes it's actually quite dangerous."

  "Who do you suppose is in there?"

  "Beats me. Maybe someone got a prayer answered."

  Larry smiled briefly. "Looks more like a personal appearance."

  "Could be."

  Larry looked at me. "I was joking!"

  "I wasn't. This is St. Jude's."

  "Could that be Hadleigh, do you think?"

  "What would he be doing in there?"

  "I don't know. Talking to his boss?"

  "Now, that I have got to see," I said.

  The moment we forced our way through the open door and into the church, the pressure on the air disappeared. The sense of power was still there, but it was no longer directed at us. The whole church was full of light, so stark and brilliant it seemed to blaze right through me, throwing all my hopes and needs and secrets into sharp relief, so that anyone could see them. But bright as it was, I could still see clearly without squinting or blinking, for this was no ordinary earthly light. The source was a man, fuelled by heavenly fires but not consumed. The Lord of Thorns had come back into his power again.

  He was striding up and down and back and forth, his long white robes flapping about him, raging and raving and brandishing his bony fists. I'd never seen anyone look so purely angry in my whole life. His footsteps were like thunder, slamming on the bare stone floor, and his every movement sent shock waves across the air, as his bearded face contorted with rage. His eyes bulged, and his long grey hair swept about his head as he snarled and roared. His hands worked fiercely, as though eager, desperate, to get a hold on whoever had provoked this fury in him. His presence filled the whole church like an endless ongoing explosion.

  Larry and I stopped just inside the door. We both knew a real and present danger when we saw one.

  "Who or what is that?" said Larry, leaning close to speak right into my ear.

  "That is the Lord of Thorns," I said. "The original Overseer of the Nightside, first and final dispenser of truth and justice for all who live here. Last I saw, he was a broken old man, stripped of his power, nothing but the self-appointed caretaker of St. Jude's. He would appear to have got his mojo working again, and if you and I had any sense, we'd get the hell out of here before he notices us."

  "The Lord of Thorns?" said Larry. "Really? I thought he was a myth, a legend."

  "Anything can turn out to be true, in the Nightside."

  "And you've met him before? What am I saying; of course you have. You're John Taylor. All right; fill me in. The short version, preferably."

  "The Lord of Thorns was appointed to be judge and protector of the Nightside," I said patiently.

  "Appointed by whom?"

  "Who do you think?" I said, glancing about me.

  "Oh. Sorry. Carry on."

  "He was to be Overseer of the Great Experiment; the one place in the world where neither Good nor Evil could intervene directly. The Lord of Thorns was to be our last chance for truth, justice, and revenge; but some centuries back he went down into the World Beneath and slept a long, long sleep. Until I woke him up."

  "Of course," said Larry. "It would have to be you."

  "He reappeared in the Nightside just in time to go up against my mother in the Lilith War; and she slapped him down as though he was nothing. It broke his heart, and it broke his spirit; because if he wasn't the divinely appointed protector of the Nightside and its people, then what was he? Who was he? He came here, looking for answers; and from the look of him, I'd say he's finally found some."

  "Don't think he liked them much," said Larry.

  The Lord of Thorns didn't even know we were there. He raged back and forth inside the church, a giant of a man again, with eyes full of fire. So angry he couldn't speak, only utter great cries and roars of rage. His white robes blazed like the sun, and with his long grey hair and beard, he looked very much like an Old Testament prophet, back from the desert to tell us all the bad news. Every now and again, lightning would strike down on the church, discharging harmlessly into the stone floor and sparking the air with the scent of ozone.

  The Lord of Thorns stopped abruptly and thrust out his right hand, and a long wooden staff appeared in it out of nowhere. I gaped with equal parts shock and amazement. This was no ordinary staff; supposedly it had been grown from a sliver taken from the original Tree of Life itself I had seen my mother, Lilith, take that staff from the Lord of Thorns and break it into pieces in her awful hands. Now here it was again, true and whole, powerful and potent; re-formed in the hand of the Lord of Thorns by his will alone.

  "I am the stone that breaks all hearts. I am the nails that held the Christ to His cross. I am the necessary suffering that makes us all stronger. I maintain the Great Experiment, watching over it, and sitting in judgement on all who would endanger it, or tamper with its essential nature. I am the scalpel that cuts out infection, and the heart-break that makes men wiser. I am the Lord of Thorns, and I am back; and God help the guilty!"

  His voice had the inhuman certainty of a man touched by something far greater.

  "Welcome back," I said, stepping forward. "Now would you mind telling me what in God's name is going on here?"

  He looked right at me, and his gaze stopped me dead in my tracks, as though he'd slammed a cold hand against my chest. I gave the Lord of Thorns my best friendly smile and hoped that he'd remember me. Preferably kindly.

  "Walker!" The Lord of Thorns made a curse of his name. "This is all down to him! He betrayed me… I will strike him down for this crime, and the Authorities who ordered it!"

  I looked at Larry. "D
idn't you somehow know Walker was going to be behind all this?"

  "Does seem to be his day," said Larry.

  "The Authorities are dead," I said to the Lord of Thorns, with all the politeness I could muster. "Lilith's children killed and ate them all, during the War. There's a new Authorities now. Good people. Mostly."

  "They'd better be," said the Lord of Thorns. The more he talked, the more human he seemed, his presence falling away to more bearable levels. Didn't make him any less scary, though. This one man had been set in judgement over the whole Nightside, with power to back it up; and he looked in the mood to pass judgement on every damned one of us.

  "Excuse me for asking," I ventured, cautiously. "But what exactly has Walker done? What's made you so angry? And what brought you back from the… quiet man I met here last time?"

  "That would be me," said Hadleigh Oblivion.

  We all looked round sharply, and there he was, standing in the church doorway. In his long black leather coat, so dark it seemed made from a piece of the night itself, with his bone-white face and long mane of jet-black hair, his dark, unblinking eyes and his arrogantly cheerful smile, he looked utterly black and white; because there was no room for shades of grey in his world.

  The world of the Detective Inspectre.

  He seemed entirely unaffected by the Lord of Thorns' angry presence, or by the power that still blazed so very brightly inside the church. In fact, Hadleigh gave the distinct impression that he'd seen it all before and hadn't been impressed then. And perhaps he had; he was a product of the Deep School, after all. Hadleigh gave the impression that wherever he was, that was where he was supposed to be. He might not have possessed the power of the Lord of Thorns, but there was no doubt he was still a power in himself

  He strode forward into the church, bowed slightly to the Lord of Thorns, nodded to me, and smiled easily at Larry.

  "Hello, little brother. Sorry I couldn't make it to your funeral."

  "Not many did," said Larry, staring openly at his older brother. "I ended up having to put flowers on my own grave. There wasn't any body in it, of course; I'm still using it. But our parents wanted a grave and a headstone and flowers, so that's what they got. Hell, they miss you more than they do me. Would it kill you to visit them once in a while?"