Something from the Nightside n-1

by Simon R. Green

  "What happened? Where is she? I saw her!"

  "You saw an image from the past," I said carefully. "A footprint, left in Time. Cathy hasn't been here for at least two weeks, more than enough time for her to get into some serious trouble. But at least now we know for sure that she did get here, and that she was alive and well two weeks ago. Did you see the look on her face? She came here for a reason. She was headed somewhere specific."

  Joanna's face had quickly resumed its usual chilly mask, as though she was ashamed I'd caught her showing actual emotions. When she spoke, her voice was entirely calm again. "Specific. Is that good or bad?"

  "Depends," I said honestly. "This is the Nightside. She could be anywhere by now. She might have found friends, protection, enlightenment, or damnation. They're all pretty cheap here. I think… I'm going to need a little help on this one. How would you like to visit the oldest established bar and nightclub in the world?"

  One side of her dark red mouth twitched in something that might have been a smile. "Sounds good to me. I could use a stiff drink. Hell, I could use several stiff drinks and an adrenaline chaser. What's the name of this place?"

  I grinned. "Strangefellows."

  FOUR — Everyone Goes to Strangefellows. If They Know What's Good For Them

  You get to Strangefellows, the oldest drinking hole, conversation pit and scumbag attractor in the history of Mankind, by walking down the kind of streets that raise the hairs on the back of your neck, and then slipping into a side alley that isn't always there. Mostly, I think it's ashamed to be associated with such a dive. The alley is dimly lit and the street had cobbles. The entrance to Strangefellows is a flat slab of steel set flush with the grimy wall. Above the door is a small but dignified neon sign that spells out the name of the bar in ancient Sanskrit. The owner doesn't believe in advertising. He doesn't need to. If you're meant to find your way to the oldest pub in England, you will. And if you're not, you could search all the days of your life and never find it. There's no waiting list to get in, but the dues can be murder. Sometimes literally. I translated the sign for Joanna, and she looked at it expressionlessly.

  "Is this a gay bar?"

  I had to smile. "No. Just a place where the stranger people in the world can come to drink in peace and quiet. No-one bothers you, no-one will expect you to talk sports, politics or religion, and no-one will ask for your autograph. Good and Bad can buy each other drinks, and neutrality is strictly enforced. Strangefellows has been around, in various identities, for centuries. No-one's really sure how old it is, but it's always been a bar of some kind. The last time I was here, the current incarnation was decidedly upmarket. Glamorous in a threatening kind of way, with excellent booze and an… interesting clientele. But identities can change fast in the Nightside, so once we get in there stick close to me, hang on to your bag and don't talk to any strange women."

  "I have been to nightclubs before," Joanna said frostily.

  "Not like this one, you haven't."

  I walked up to the door, and it swung slowly open before me. Though I hated to admit it, I was more than a little relieved. The door only opens to people in good standing with the owner, and I hadn't been sure just what my standing was, after so long away. We hadn't exactly parted on good terms. Hell, I still had money owing on my bar bill. But the door had opened, so I made a point of walking in like I owned the place, with Joanna looking at her most alluring and intimidating at my side. Keep your chin up, and your gaze steady. Remember, they can smell fear here.

  I stopped in the middle of the foyer, and looked about me, taking my time. The old place hadn't changed much after all. The same Tudor furniture, with people draped over them like bendy toys, trying to sleep some of it off before they had to go home. The same obscene murals on the walls and ceilings, some of them in bas-relief. The same stains on the Persian carpet. I felt positively nostalgic. I glanced at Joanna, but she was carefully maintaining the straightest of straight faces. I led the way forward, stepping over outstretched legs where necessary, until we could look down the metal stairs and into the wide stone-walled pit that held the bar proper.

  The first word that came to mind on seeing the bar again was seedy. Though sleazy came a very close second. Clearly the upmarket experiment hadn't taken. I led the way down the stairs, which clanged noisily under our feet, by design. The bar's patrons preferred not to be taken by surprise. There was the usual sea of mismatched tables and chairs, with booths at the far end for those who felt in need of a little extra privacy. Or somewhere to hide a body for a while. The lights were always kept low — partly for atmosphere, and partly so you couldn't get too good a look at your surroundings. Or your fellow company. Most of the tables were occupied, by the kind of mixed crowd that reminded me why I'd left the Nightside in the first place. I recognised a lot of the faces; though most of them were ostentatiously not looking at me. The usual babble of raised voices was half-drowned out by loud heavy metal rock being blasted through concealed speakers. The close unmoving air was heavy with smoke, some of it legal, some of it earthly. A sign on the wall at the bottom of the stairs said Enter At Your Own Risk. Joanna drew my attention to it. "Are they serious?"

  "Sure," I said calmly. "The bar food's terrible."

  "So is the ambiance," Joanna said dryly. "I can feel my credit rating dropping just from being here. Tell me we're here for a purpose."

  "We're looking for information," I said patiently.

  It never hurts to spell it out for clients, especially when you know it irritates them. "We need to know who or what summoned Cathy into the Nightside, and where she went after my gift lost her. You can find the answer to practically any question at Strangefellows, if you know the right people to ask."

  "And if you know the right palms to grease?"

  "You see; you're learning. Money doesn't just talk in the Nightside; it shouts and screams and twists arms. It helps that most of the real movers and shakers have passed through here at one time or another, on their way up or on their way down. There are those who say this place has been around since civilisation began."

  Joanna sniffed. "Doesn't look like it's been cleaned much since then, either."

  "Merlin Satanspawn was buried here, under the wine cellar, after the fall of Logres. He still makes the occasional appearance, to keep everyone honest. Being dead doesn't stop you from being a major player, in the Nightside."

  "Hold everything. The Merlin?"

  "I'd hate to think there was more than one. I only saw him manifest once, but it scared the crap out of me."

  Joanna shook her head. "I need a very large drink, right now."

  "Lot of people feel that way in the Nightside."

  I headed for the extended mahogany bar at the end of the room. It was good to be back. I could feel long-buried parts of me waking up and flexing their muscles. Sometimes I hated the Nightside, and sometimes I loved it, but running away to the real world had only served to show me how much I needed it. For all its threats and dangers, its casual brutality and deep-seated wickedness, it was only here that I felt truly alive. And I'd had some good times in this bar, back in my younger days. Admittedly mostly because back then I'd been strictly small change, and no-one gave a damn about who I was, or might be. I led Joanna through the packed tables, and the noise of conversation didn't even slip as we passed. The record on the speakers changed, and the Stranglers began shouting about there being "No More Heroes." The bar's owner's way of letting me know he'd noticed my arrival. Joanna winced at the noise, and put her mouth next to my ear.

  "Is this racket all they play here?"

  "Pretty much," I said loudly. "This is Alex Morrisey's place, and he plays what he wants. He likes heavy rock, he doesn't believe in being cheerful, and he doesn't take requests. Someone came in here once and asked for Country and Western, and Alex shot him. A lot of people applauded."

  We came to the bar. Alex Morrisey was there, as always, a long streak of misery in basic black. He was the latest in a long line of bart
ender/owners, from a family that had been around longer than it was comfortable to contemplate. It's not clear whether they stick around to protect Merlin, or possibly vice versa, and no-one likes to ask because if you do Alex throws things. It's no secret he'd leave Strangefellows in a moment if he could, but he can't. His family is bound to the bar, by ancient and unpleasant pacts, and Alex can't leave until he can find someone else from his family line to take his place. And since Alex Morrisey is reputed to be the very last of his long line, it's just another reason for him to act up cranky and take it out on his customers.

  The word is Alex was born in a bad mood, and has only got worse since. Permanently seething, viciously unfair just for the hell of it, and notoriously cavalier when it comes to giving you the right change. Though God protect your soul if you hold back one penny when he calls in your marker. He claims to be the true heir to the British Throne, being a (more or less) direct descendant of Uther Pendragon, on the wrong side of several blankets. He also claims he can see people's auras if he bangs his head against the wall just right. He was currently taking his own sweet time about serving another customer, but he knew I was there. Nothing happened in Alex's bar that he didn't know about, sometimes even before you knew you were going to do it. His party trick is to answer a phone just before it rings.

  I leaned on the bar and studied him openly. He looked just as I remembered him, appalling and disturbing, in equal measures. Alex had to be in his late twenties by now, but looked ten years older; thin, pale and moody, and always thoroughly vexed about something. His scowl had etched a permanent notch above his nose, and on the few occasions when he smiled, you knew you were in trouble. He always wore black of some description, topped with designer shades and a snazzy black beret perched on the back of his head, to hide the bald spot that appeared when he was still a teenager. Proof if proof were needed, he always said, that God hated him personally. He shaved when he remembered, which wasn't often, and didn't wash the bar's glasses anywhere near often enough. His spiky black hair stuck out in tufts, because he tugged at it a lot, and his personal hygiene bordered on distressing.

  He still had a large glamour calendar behind the bar, showing Elvira Mistress of the Dark, in a series of photographic poses that would probably upset her greatly if she ever found out about them, and the designs on the bar coasters were cheerfully pornographic. On the whole, Alex is very bad with women, most of whom don't live down to his expectations. He was married once, and still won't talk about it. And that… is Alex Morrisey for you. Pissed off at the entire world and proud of it, and mixer of the worst martinis in the Nightside.

  I suppose we're friends. We both put up with a lot of things from each other that we wouldn't tolerate for a second from anyone else.

  He finally gave up pretending I wasn't there and slouched along the bar to glare at me.

  "I knew it was going to be a bad day when I woke up to find my rabbit's foot had grown itself a new rabbit," he said resentfully. "If I'd known it was a warning you were coming back into my life, I would have locked all the doors and windows and melted down the keys. What do you want?"

  "Good to see you again, Alex. How's business?"

  He sniffed, loudly. "Takings have dropped so low you'd need an excavator to find any profits, a poltergeist has moved into my cellar and is haunting my beer barrels, turning the taps on and off, and Pale Michael is claiming that since he is now a zombie and officially dead, with a coroner's certificate to prove it, he doesn't have to pay his not inconsiderable bar bill. And now you're here. It's nights like this that make me dream of bloody insurrection, and planting bombs in public places. What are you doing back here, John? You said you were never coming back, and it was the only sensible thing I ever heard you say."

  "The lady at my side is Joanna Barrett. Her daughter's gone missing, in the Nightside. And I've drawn a blank."

  Alex looked at me over his sunglasses. "I thought you could find anything?"

  "So did I. But my gift could only show me so much before I got locked out. Someone's hiding this runaway. I won't be able to pick up her trail again till I can get a lot closer to her. Which means I need a lead. Is Eddie around?"

  "Yes, and I do wish he wasn't. He's at his usual table in the corner, scaring off the reputable trade."

  And that was when the three yuppies appeared out of nowhere to surround me. I turned around unhurriedly as I spotted their reflections in the long mirror behind the bar, and looked them over curiously. They seemed fairly generic; all young, all dressed in the very best-cut suits, with razor-trimmed hair, a single ear-ring, and perfectly manicured hands. Old school ties, of course. They all looked very unhappy with me, but the one glaring right into my face seemed vaguely familiar. Joanna, I noticed, was making a point of being distinctly unimpressed with them. Good for her. I leaned back against the bar, and raised a single eyebrow with just the right amount of insolence. The big bad businessman before me pushed his face even closer to mine and breathed spearmint into my face. I hate spearmint.

  "John Taylor!" the yuppie said loudly, trying his very best to sound fierce and hard and menacing, in a high-pitched voice that really wasn't suited to it. "John bloody Taylor! Oh, God is good, isn't he? Sending you back to me. I always knew you'd come crawling back here someday, Taylor, so I could personally ensure you got what was coming to you!"

  "I get the impression you know me," I said calmly. "Can't say the same, I'm afraid. Do I owe you money, by any chance?"

  "Don't you dare pretend you don't remember! I told you never to come back here, Taylor. I told you never to show your face here again. You made me look bad."

  "It wasn't difficult," observed Alex from behind the bar. He was watching interestedly and making absolutely no move to intervene.

  The yuppie pretended he hadn't heard that. Mad as he was, he wasn't stupid enough to upset Alex. He turned the full force of his glare on me, his slightly bulging eyes all but protruding from their sockets, while his two friends did their best to lurk dangerously in the background, being supportive.

  "I said I'd do for you, Taylor, if I ever saw you again. Interfering little turd, meddling in the affairs of your betters!"

  "Ah," I said, the light finally dawning. "Sorry, but it has been five years. I remember you now. The limited vocabulary and repetitive threats finally rang a bell. Ffinch-Thomas, isn't it? You were in here one night slapping your girl about, because you were in a bad mood. And because you could. I wasn't going to interfere. Really, I wasn't. If she was stupid enough to go about with a hyphenated thug like you, just because you always had the money for the very best booze and blow and clubs, that was her affair. But then you knocked her down, and kicked her in the side till her ribs broke. Giggling while you did it. So I beat the crap out of you, stole all your credit cards, and finished up by throwing you through a window that happened to be closed at the time. As I recall, you made these famous threats of yours while hobbling away at speed, trying to pull bits of glass out of your arse. Anyone else would have derived a useful moral lesson from these events. Alex, I'm surprised you let this little swine back in here."

  Alex shrugged, leaning his elbows on the bar. "What can I tell you? His father's something big in the city. Both of them."

  The music in the bar broke off suddenly, and the general babble of voices quickly died away as people realised what was happening. There was interest from all sides now, and not a little money changing hands. Everyone wanted to see if John Taylor still had it. I was kind of curious myself.

  "You can't talk to me like that," said Ffinch-Thomas, his voice so strained it was practically breaking.

  "Of course I can. I just did. Weren't you paying attention?"

  He drew a slender golden scythe from inside his jacket, a nasty little instrument expertly crafted to fit his hand. The blade gleamed brightly, and I just knew the edges would be razor-sharp. The other two yuppies drew similar weapons. Must be the latest thing. Druid chic.

  "We're going to do it to you," said Ffin
ch-Thomas, grinning widely. His voice was light and breathy, and his eyes were bright with excitement. "We're going to do it and do it and do it. Make you scream, Taylor. Spread your blood and skin all over the bar, until you beg to be allowed to die. I never believed those stories about you. You just caught me by surprise last time. And after we've made you cry and squeal, we'll stop for a while, so you can watch us do it to your woman. And we'll… we'll…"

  His voice trailed away to nothing as I locked on to his eyes with mine. I'd heard enough. More than enough. Some insects just beg to be stepped on. He stood very still, trying to look away, but he couldn't. I had him. Beads of sweat popped out all over his suddenly grey face, as he tried to turn and run and found he couldn't. He whimpered, and wet himself, a large dark stain spreading across the front of his very expensive trousers. His hand opened, against his will, and the golden scythe tumbled from his nerveless fingers, clattering loudly on the floor in the hushed quiet. He was scared now, really scared. I smiled at him, and blood ran down his cheeks from his staring eyes. He was whining, a thin, trapped, animal sound, and then his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed unconscious on the floor. His two yuppie friends stood gaping down at him, and then they looked at me. They held up their golden scythes with shaking hands, nerving themselves to attack, and Alex raised his voice.

  "Lucy! Betty! Trouble!"

  Lucy and Betty Coltrane were suddenly right there, behind the yuppies. The Coltranes have been Alex's bouncers for years. Tall and formidable bodybuilders, the girls never wore anything more than T-shirt and shorts, the better to show off their impressive muscles. One is blonde and one is brunette, but otherwise there's not much to choose between them. They have a somewhat threatening glamour, and crack nuts by coughing loudly. They fell on the two yuppies, slapped the scythes out of their hands, slammed them back against the bar, kneed them briskly in the privates, and then frog-marched them out. The watching crowd cheered and applauded. A few wolf-whistled. I looked reproachfully at Alex.