by Mike Mignola
It had taken nine years and two beautiful daughters to relieve him of that notion. Tina would say that she had spent those years striving to make things work between them. Colin’s opinion was that she had spent them trying to beat his square-peg philosophy into the round hole of what her idea of his life should be. In the end the two of them had emerged from the fray bruised and exhausted, but clutching their spoils of the struggle.
Tina, of course, had got the biggest prize, which was the girls, Chloe and Jasmine. Proctor had been resigned to losing them, but having to say goodbye and move out of the family home had been a dreadful wrench all the same. Although aware of his many failings, Colin knew that one of the accusations that could never be leveled at him was that he was a bad father. He might not have been around a lot of the time, but he was a doting dad nonetheless. He loved his daughters and he’d do anything for them. Well . . . almost anything.
“If you really loved them you’d stop this . . . this debauched life of yours!” Tina had raged at him once during one of their countless rows.
Proctor had known that in essence what she was saying was true. But his “debauched life,” as she called it, was part of his nature, imprinted into his DNA. It was more than an addiction, it was a necessity, like food and drink and air. When he had tried to explain this to her, when he had said that he could no sooner give up his “debauched life” than he could shed his skin, or grow an extra head, she had curled her lip and sneered at him.
“You’re pathetic,” she had said. “You’re a sorry excuse for a man.”
“Maybe that’s true, but unlike you at least I’m happy,” he had retorted.
She had flown at him then, lashing out with her fists, spitting vitriol. “If I’m unhappy, then it’s only because you’ve made me like that.”
Even now, more than a year after it had become officially over between them, the arguments kept raging. They had had their latest this morning. Proctor had called Tina to tell her what he was buying Jasmine for her birthday.
“A Walkman?” she had scoffed. “She’s eight, Colin.”
“So?”
“So she’s too young. What the hell do you think she’s going to use it for?”
“Duh . . . listening to music?” he had said, as if she were a retard.
Curtly Tina had said, “She’s not into music. She’s still a kid. She likes riding her bike and playing with her Barbies.”
“You’re never too young to get into music,” Colin had argued. “I’ll buy her a couple of CDs to go with it.”
“You will not,” Tina had snapped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can’t buy her affection, Colin. You can’t stay out of her life for ninety-nine percent of the time, then lavish her with gifts for the other one percent. That’s not how it works.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Proctor said contemptuously.
“Yes, I do. I do think you don’t know that. You’re not around all the time. You don’t look after your girls, and kiss them good night, and listen to their problems, and dry their tears, and do all the other things a parent is supposed to do. You just do exactly as you please, and assuage your guilt every so often by buying them something expensive, as a result of which they think the light shines out of your arse.”
“Oh, and that’s my fault, is it?”
“Yes it is. It is your bloody fault.”
“All right,” he had said, “I’ll move back in then, shall I?”
“Over my dead body.”
He had bought Jasmine the Walkman. And he had bought her five CDs to go with it. Sod Tina. What was she going to do when Jasmine opened her present on her birthday? Take it away from her? Tell her she couldn’t have it?
He shook his head. Thoughts of Tina were souring his mood, and he was damned if he was going to allow that to happen. He was a bon viveur, a man about town, and if he wasn’t young, then at least he was free and single. He had just spent an uproarious two hours in the company of Fat Reggie Lipton, a gossip columnist from a rival rag. Reggie was a screaming queen, who didn’t give a monkey’s ass about world affairs. His only concern in life was to scoop the crap on the rich and famous, and the smellier and dirtier the better.
Reggie’s was a clandestine world of secrets and rumors and hearsay. The things he knew! The things he claimed were true! Even if only ten percent of it turned out to be bona fide, then the world was still a far stranger place than even Proctor had ever suspected.
Stranger, but also more entertaining. Because Proctor loved trailing Reggie around the gay bars of Dean Street and Old Compton Street. Here they would pick up all the gossip from Reggie’s many contacts—dancers, hairstylists, set designers, makeup artists. Bit-part players in the warped and lavish world of showbiz.
Reggie was now on his way to a select little club off Brewer Street, hot on the heels of a “scrummy” young actor who was purported to be cheating on his pregnant wife with some stunning but underage soap star. Reggie had invited Proctor along, but fun though it was to be in Reg’s company, Proctor had declined. He was eager to catch up with his pals at the Nero.
The Nero was Proctor’s favorite drinking den, his home from home. Established in the early sixties, it had quickly become the primary after-hours haunt of ambitious young journos like himself. Owner of the club was a brusque but warm-hearted lesbian known as Mama Lou. She favored loud checked suits and was often seen brandishing a gold-topped cane. She was well into her sixties now, but she still ran her little kingdom like a benevolent dictator. Colin had first encountered her when he had been a raw twenty-year-old back in the seventies. He had been introduced to her by his late, lamented mentor, Cyril Moon. Cyril had told Proctor that Lou tried to intimidate newcomers as a kind of initiation test, and that Colin should not allow her to give him any crap.
Sure enough, the moment Proctor had first set foot through the door, Lou had cast a contemptuous eye over him. “You’re a scrawny little sod, aren’t you?” she had declared. “I hope you’re not going to sit in my bar all night nursing a bleedin’ Babycham.”
Proctor had looked back at her without flinching and had replied evenly, “I’ll drink you under the table any time, you fat cow.”
Lou had guffawed. “Oh, I like this one, Cyril,” she had said. “He can stay.”
He had stayed. And the next day, when Proctor went back, Lou greeted him like an old friend. She had been doing that now, several times a week, for the past twenty-five years.
The Nero was at the far end of Frith Street, near Soho Square. Despite the drizzle, Proctor felt the weight of history each time he walked these grimy, gritty pavements. Although he had never been a scholar, he loved London, and Soho in particular. He had picked up enough snippets of information over the years—most of them imparted to him in the dead, sozzled hours before dawn, but still miraculously retained in his spongelike brain—to have become quite an authority on the area.
Walking down Frith Street, he knew that John Constable, Mozart, and William Hazlitt had once resided here. He knew that Casanova and Thomas de Quincey had had lodgings on Greek Street just around the corner. He knew that nearby Broadwick Street had been the birthplace of William Blake, and that Karl Marx and his family had once lived in a couple of cramped rooms above a shop on Dean Street.
Maybe, he sometimes thought, in years to come, people will whisper my name with such reverence. Perhaps a century from now some old soak will lean across to a pissed-up young Turk in the Nero and mutter, “You know who used to drink in here, don’t you? Only Colin bleedin’ Proctor!”
Still dreaming his dreams, Proctor arrived at an unassuming, graffiti-daubed door squeezed between a Vietnamese takeout restaurant and a perfumed candle shop. He rapped three times, whereupon the door opened on a chain and a jaundiced eye peered out.
“Evening, Barney,” he said to the owner of the eye, a tall, shaven-headed black man, whose gleaming arms resembled stockings stuffed with bowling balls.
; The eye crinkled and teeth flashed in a grin. “Mr. Proctor!” Barney exclaimed, unhooking the chain and pulling the door wide. He enfolded Proctor’s hand in one twice its size and shook it vigorously. “How’s it hanging, my man?”
“Unfortunately, hanging is about all that it is doing,” Proctor replied. “You know, Barn, I’m beginning to suspect that I’m losing my boyish good looks.”
Barney’s answering chuckle was like an earth tremor. It rumbled behind Proctor as he ascended the dingy, twisting staircase to the upper floor.
A door on the first-floor landing stood ajar. Sprawled across its entrance was a handsome young man with spiky hair, designer jeans, and a smart gray jacket. Deathly pale, he kept turning his head to one side and semi-heaving. Proctor recognized him as the current enfant terrible of British literary fiction, Simon something-or-other. Only twenty-two, the kid’s first novel, Claptrap, had been nominated for the Whitbread, and the film rights snapped up by Miramax for an obscene amount of money.
“You all right, son?” Proctor inquired kindly.
“Piss off,” said Simon Something.
“Fair enough,” Proctor replied, and stepped over him.
Lou, resplendent in a suit of yellow-and-black tartan, greeted him in her usual exuberant manner.
“Bit quiet tonight,” remarked Proctor, looking around.
“It’s the week before payday, darling,” Lou said. “And it’s Monday. Only the die-hards like you are out tonight.”
Proctor shook his head. “It’s a sad indictment of my profession, Lou,” he said. “All these new kids on the block, and not a single one of ’em with stamina. Where’s Jeffrey Bernard when you need him, eh?”
Lou was already placing a pint of bitter and a double Scotch on the bar in front of him. She raised her own tumbler of rum—she drank it neat, like a pirate.
“Here’s to him,” she said.
Proctor chinked his glass against hers.
Couple of hours later he was ready to call it a night. Lou was always good company, but tonight the place was dead. Okay, so there was Simon Something and his rowdy pals in the corner, but they were very much a closed shop. None of Proctor’s usual crowd were in, not even Terry Miles, who was all but a permanent fixture.
All at once he felt old and depressed. The booze sideswiped him like that sometimes. Not often, but now and again, when his defenses were down. He’d step outside himself for a moment and be appalled at what he saw. He’d wonder what the point of it all was, what the future held, and he’d see nothing but a slow and lonely decline.
Bloody Soho, he’d think then. What a dump. What a place to live and die.
“Excuse me? Mr. Proctor?”
Proctor turned. The young man standing behind him looked nervous, eyes darting everywhere. He was wearing a black puffer jacket and a baseball cap, the brim pulled down low. He was no street kid, however. His clothes looked new, like a disguise, and he himself looked a little soft around the edges, as if he were already too used to the good things in life.
“Who are you?” Proctor asked, and noticed how the man glanced around to ensure he wasn’t being overheard.
“My name’s Charles Dexter, Mr. Proctor. You are Colin Proctor, aren’t you? The Star journalist?”
Despite himself, Proctor felt a puff of pride. This man, Dexter, had said the Star journalist as someone might say the actor or the footballer. It made him feel important, well known. However, he let none of that show in his face. “Yes, I am,” he said, “but what is it to you?”
The man glanced around again. “Can I talk to you in confidence, Mr. Proctor?”
“Buy me a drink, son, and you can talk to me any way you like. I’ll have a large Scotch—and for God’s sake, get one for yourself. You look as though you need it.”
The man looked slightly taken aback. “What? Oh no, I’m fine, thanks.”
“Bollocks,” said Proctor. “No one talks to me in here without a drink in their hand. House rules.”
With a miserable look on his face, the man half raised a hand to attract Lou’s attention. Proctor vacated his barstool and went to sit at a nearby table. A couple of minutes later Dexter toddled across with a Scotch for Proctor and a small glass of red wine for himself.
“Pull up a chair, son,” Proctor said.
Dexter did so. He leaned forward, shoulders hunched, like an underage drinker trying to be unobtrusive.
“Now then,” Proctor said, “what can I do for you?”
“I hear your paper buys stories,” Dexter muttered.
Proctor took his time before replying. He took a sip of his drink, then shrugged dismissively. “That depends on the story, doesn’t it?”
“This is big,” said Dexter.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes,” replied Dexter. “This is really big.”
Proctor sighed. “That’s what they all say, son.”
Dexter shook his head irritably. “I’m not messing you about, Mr. Proctor. I’m only here because . . .”
He trailed off. Proctor finished his sentence for him. “Because you need the money.”
The kid clammed up, but the truth was written all over his face. Proctor regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said, “Look, son, I don’t like bullshit and I don’t see the point of pussyfooting around. Why don’t you just tell me what this is about, and I’ll see what I can do for you?”
“I’m not telling you anything until you promise you’ll pay for my story,” said Dexter quickly.
Proctor shrugged again. “In that case you’re wasting my time. See you, son. Thanks for the drink.”
He pushed his chair back and halfrose to his feet.
“Wait!” the kid almost yelped.
Proctor paused. “Well?”
The kid puffed out his cheeks. “Are you an honorable man, Mr. Proctor?”
Proctor laughed. “Blimey, I’m not sure how to answer that. Put it this way, son—I’ll do whatever I can to get a story, and like any good journalist I’ll give it a bit of a spin if I think it’ll sell a few more papers. But I don’t piss people about, especially not potential contacts.”
“I was told you could be trusted,” said Dexter, nodding.
“Bloody hell,” said Proctor. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Proctor looked relaxed, but his mind was working furiously. He could feel his Spidey senses tingling. Instinct told him there might well be something here, maybe even something big, as the kid had said. Dexter clearly needed money, which usually meant he was up to his eyeballs in either drugs or debt. But at the same time he was nervous, and evidently new to all this, which made Proctor aware of not making the wrong move and causing him to bolt like a startled rabbit.
Settling back, he said, “You’re right, son, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is this so-called story you’ve got for me. What we need to do, though, is lay a few ground rules. First off, let me reassure you that a good journalist never reveals his sources—and believe me, son, I’m a bloody good journalist. Now what I need in order to enable us to proceed is a little hint from you of what this story of yours is about. You don’t have to tell me everything; just drop me a few clues, tantalize my tastebuds. I’m sure you understand that I can’t promise you anything by way of financial remuneration until I know what it is you’re selling. That’s not me messing you about. You’d get the same response from any journalist you talked to.” He spread his hands, a gesture of openness. “Now, I can’t be any fairer than that, can I?”
Dexter looked uncertain for a moment, and then he muttered, “Suppose not.”
“So come on, son,” Proctor said in his best kindly uncle voice, “give me something to think about.”
Dexter swallowed, hunching even lower in his seat. For a few seconds he was silent as he struggled with his innermost thoughts. Finally he said, “I . . . work in central government. I work with a number of very senior figures, which gives me access to . . . certain information.”
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br /> He glanced at Proctor from under the brim of his cap. Proctor nodded. “Sounds promising. Go on.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware,” Dexter said, “but there have been a number of . . . incidents in the city over the past twenty-four hours. Unusual incidents.”
“The torso murders, you mean?”
Dexter flinched, as though Proctor’s voice had boomed around the room. “Those, yes, but others too. Things even more unusual. Things that have been deemed . . . supernatural.”
He grimaced at this last word. Proctor stared at him.
“Hang on a minute,” he said quietly. “I take it we’re not talking silly-season stuff here? Nutters who think they’ve been probed by aliens? Elvis in the supermarket? That sort of crap?”
Dexter shook his head. “For the most part we’re talking reliable, multiple witnesses. And we’re talking about a proliferation of incidents. Not just a spike on a radar, but a great jagged mountain.”
“Too many for it to be a coincidence, you mean?”
Dexter nodded.
Proctor raised his eyebrows, as if to show that although he wasn’t impressed yet, he was cautiously prepared to be. “So how come, if these incidents are so widespread, news of them hasn’t leaked out?” Almost immediately, however, he raised a hand. “Hang on. There was that kid who went missing on the underground, wasn’t there? His girlfriend said they’d been attacked by a monster or something?”
Dexter nodded again. “Bits and pieces have leaked out, but for the most part the authorities have been able to keep things under wraps. So far, that is.”
Proctor’s eyebrows rose a little higher. “They’re really taking it that seriously?”
“Yep.” Dexter leaned forward. He seemed to be warming to his subject now. One thing that Proctor had found over the years was that, given a little encouragement, most people loved to show off their superior knowledge. “And I’ll tell you something else. I’ll tell you just how seriously they’re taking it.”
“Go on.”