The Unnatural Inquirer

by Simon R. Green

  He sniffed dismally. “Worth a try. Follow me. Sir.”

  He led me into the inner offices of the Unnatural Inquirer. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, incense, sweat, and tension. People bustled importantly back and forth around the various reporters, who were all working with furious concentration at their desks, hammering their computer keys like their lives depended on it. They kept calling out to each other, mostly without looking up from what they were doing, demanding information, opinions, and the very latest gossip, like so many ravenous baby birds in a nest. They all sounded cheerful enough, but there was a definite undercurrent of malice and cut-throat competition. The general noise level was appalling, the air was almost unbreathable, and the whole place seethed with talent and ambition.

  It was everything I’d hoped it would be.

  The copy-boy slouched down the main central aisle with me in tow, and everyone ostentatiously ignored me. There was a definite bunker atmosphere to the inner offices; probably because most people really were out to get them, for one reason or another. The industrious men and women of the Unnatural Inquirer drank and smoked like it was their last day on Earth, because it just might be. Their readers might love them, but nobody else did. For the staff here it was always going to be Us versus Them, with everything and everyone fair game. There were always lawsuits, but the Editor & Publisher could afford the very best lawyers and took pride in keeping cases in court forever and a day. The paper might never have won a case, but it had never lost one either, mostly because the paper outspent or outlived the litigants. The Unnatural Inquirer had never once apologised, never printed a retraction, and never paid a penny in compensation. And was proud of it. Which was why the staff had to hide away in a bunker and take out special insurance against assassination attempts.

  There was a prominent sign on one wall. YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE VICIOUS, PETTY-MINDED, AND MEAN-SPIRITED TO WORK HERE; BUT IT HELPS. Anywhere else, this would have been a joke.

  Jimmy the copy-boy finally brought me to the Sub-Editor’s office, knocked on the door like he was announcing the imminent arrival of the barbarian hordes, and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. I followed him in, shutting the door carefully behind me, and Scoop Malloy himself stood up from behind his paper-scattered desk to greet me. He was a short, dumpy figure, with a sad face and a prematurely bald head, wearing a pullover with the phrase SMILE WHEN YOU CALL ME THAT embroidered over his chest. He popped a handful of little purple pills from a handy bottle, dry-swallowed them in one, and came out from behind his desk to give me a limp, almost apologetic handshake. I shook his hand gingerly. Partly because I was remembering where his nickname came from, and partly because his hand felt like it might come off in mine.

  He glared at the copy-boy. “What are you still doing here? Isn’t there some important tea you should be making?”

  “Fascist!” Jimmy hissed, slamming the door behind him on his way out. Then he opened it again, shouted, “I’m nineteen! Nineteen!” and disappeared again.

  Scoop Malloy sighed deeply, sat down behind his desk, and gestured for me to take the visitor’s chair. Which was, of course, hard and uncomfortable, as visitor’s chairs always are. I think it’s supposed to imply you’re only there on sufferance.

  “Puberty’s a terrible thing,” said Scoop. “Particularly for other people. I’d fire him if he wasn’t someone’s nephew…Wish I knew whose…Welcome to the salt mines, Mr. Taylor. Sorry to drag you all the way in here, but you see how it is. The price of freedom of the Press is eternal vigilance and constant access to heavy-duty armaments.”

  “I was given to understand that the matter was urgent,” I said. “And that the pay would be quite staggeringly good.”

  “Oh, quite,” said Scoop. “Quite.” He looked at me searchingly. “I understand you’ve done some work for Julien Advent, at the Night Times.”

  “On occasion,” I said. “I approve of Julien.”

  Scoop smirked unpleasantly. “I could tell you some things about him…”

  “Don’t,” I said firmly. “First, I wouldn’t believe them; and second, if you were to insult my good friend Julien Advent, I would then find it necessary to beat you severely about the head and shoulders. Quite probably until your head came off, after which I would play football with it up and down the inner offices.”

  “I never believed those stories anyway,” Scoop said firmly. He leaned forward across his desk, trying hard to look business-like. “Mr. Taylor, here at the Unnatural Inquirer we are not in the news business, as such. No. We print stories, entertainment, a moment’s diversion. We employ a manic depressive to write the Horoscopes; to keep our readers on their toes, we run competitions with really big prizes, like Guess where the next Timeslip’s going to appear; and we’re always first with news about what the rich and famous are up to. Even if that news isn’t exactly accurate. We print the stories people want to read.”

  “And to Hell with whether they’re true?” I said.

  Scoop shrugged, smiling his unpleasant smile again. “Oh, you’d be surprised how close to the truth we get, even if it is by accident.”

  There was a knock at the door. Scoop looked up with a certain amount of relief that he wouldn’t have to face me alone any more. He called for the new arrival to enter, the door opened, and both Scoop and I stood up to greet the newcomer. She was tall and athletic-looking, and drop-dead gorgeous. Long jet-black hair framed a heart-shaped face, with high cheek-bones, sparkling eyes, and one of those old-fashioned pouting rosebud mouths. She wore a smart polka-dot dress, carefully cut to show off as much of her excellent body and magnificent bosom as possible.

  She also had two cute little horns curling up from her forehead, poking out of her Bettie-Page-style bangs.

  “This is one of our most promising young journalists,” Scoop said proudly. “John Taylor, may I present to you Bettie Divine. And vice versa, of course. She’ll be partnering you on this case.”

  I’d been reaching out to shake Bettie’s hand, but immediately withdrew it. I glared at Scoop.

  “I don’t think so. I choose my own partners on cases, people I know can keep up with me and look after themselves. I can’t guarantee you results if I have to drag a passenger around with me. No offence, Bettie.”

  “None taken,” she said cheerfully in a rich husky voice. “But I work for the Unnatural Inquirer. Let’s see if you can keep up with me.”

  She sat on the edge of the Sub-Editor’s desk, crossing her legs to show off an awful lot of thigh, and leaning back so she could arch her back and point her breasts at me. Good tactics. Good legs. Really good breasts.

  “Hey,” she said, amused. “My face is up here.”

  “So it is,” I said. “What exactly is it you do here, Bettie?”

  “I am a demon girl reporter, darling. And I do mean demon. Daddy was a Rolling Stone, on one of their Nightside tours, Mummy was a slut lust demon groupie. Somebody ought to have known better, but here I am. Large as life, and twice as talented. I really am a first-class journalist, and you’re going to need me on this case, darling. So, just lie back and enjoy it.”

  “She’s right,” Scoop said heavily. He sat down behind his desk again, and I lowered myself back onto the unwelcoming visitor’s chair. Scoop laced his fingers together and looked at me steadily. “Bettie’s accompanying you is part of the deal, Mr. Taylor. If we’ve got to spend the kind of money it’s going to take to get you to do this for us, we are determined to get our money’s worth. And the best way to recoup some of the expense is by running our very own exclusive story of how you did it.”

  “On the case with John Taylor!” said Bettie. “An intimate account of our time together, traversing the darkest depths of the Nightside! Honestly, sweetie, we won’t be able to print copies fast enough. The bouncer might as well be outside throwing them in. No-one’s ever had a story like this.”

  “No,” I said.

  She slid forward off the desk and leaned over me, so close I could
feel her breath on my face. “You’re going to need me on this case, darling. Really you are. And I can be very helpful.”

  I stood up, and she retreated a little. “Put the brakes on, darling,” I said. “I’m spoken for.”

  “Ah, yes!” said Bettie, clapping her dainty little hands together and giving me a knowing look. “We know all about that! The infamous John Taylor and the sexy psycho killer Shotgun Suzie! We’re already taking odds as to which of you will end up killing the other. Do tell us all about her, John; what’s Suzie really like? Is she still sexy when the bedroom door is shut? What do you talk about in those special little moments? Inquiring minds are positively panting to know all the sordid little details!”

  “Let them pant,” I said, and something in my voice made her fall back a step. “Suzie is a very private, very dangerous person.”

  “Why don’t I explain exactly what the case entails,” Scoop said quickly. I sat down in my chair again, and Bettie leaned against the side of the desk, facing me, her arms folded under her impressive bosom. I concentrated on Scoop.

  “There has been a broadcast from the Afterlife,” Scoop said bluntly. “And the broadcast has been intercepted. It turned up on someone’s television set, quite out of the blue with no warning; and the possessor of that television set, one Pen Donavon, was sharp enough to record it, and burn it onto a DVD. He then approached us, offering the Afterlife Recording for sale; and we bought exclusive rights to it for one hell of a lot of money.”

  “An intercepted broadcast?” I said. “From Heaven, or Hell?”

  “Who knows?” said Scoop. “For that matter, who cares? This is actual information, from the Great Beyond! Our readers will eat this up with spoons.”

  “Am I to understand you haven’t actually seen what’s on this DVD yet?” I said.

  “Not a glimpse,” Scoop said cheerfully.

  “It could be a fake,” I said. “Or it could be a broadcast from some other world or dimension.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Scoop. “We own it. We want it. But unfortunately, Donavon has disappeared. He was on his way to us, with the DVD, in return for the very generous cheque we had waiting, but he never got here. We want you to find it, and him, for us. We have to have that Recording! We’ve been trailing it all week, for its appearance in the Sunday edition! If someone else gets their hands on it, and pips us to the post…And it’s not just the story; do you have any idea how much we could make selling copies of the DVD?”

  I was still unconvinced, despite his enthusiasm. “This isn’t going to be like that transmission from the future that someone taped off their television back in the nineties, is it? Suzie bought a copy of the tape off eBay, and when we played it, it was only a guy in a futuristic outfit, showing his bare arse to the camera and giggling a lot.”

  Scoop leaned forward over his desk, doing his best to fix me with his watery eyes. “The Unnatural Inquirer authorises you to find and recover this Afterlife Recording, and its owner, by any and all means you deem necessary. Bring the DVD to us, preferably with the owner but not necessarily, and the Unnatural Inquirer will pay you one million pounds. In cash, gold, diamonds, or postage stamps; whatever you prefer. We’ll also pay you a bonus of another fifty thousand pounds, if you will agree to watch the Recording and give us your expert opinion as to whether or not it’s the real thing. The word is, you are qualified to know.”

  I nodded, neither confirming nor denying. “And if I say it’s a fake?”

  Scoop shrugged. “We’ll put it out anyway. We can always spice it up with some specially shot extra footage. We can use the same people we’ve got working on Lilith’s diaries.”

  “Wait just a minute!” I said. “I know for a fact that my mother never left any diaries!”

  “We know!” said Scoop. “That’s why we’ve got three of our best people writing them now, in the next room. They’re going to be big, I can tell you! Not as big as the Afterlife Recording, of course, which will be a license to print money…Not that we’d do that, of course. Not after the last time…You have to find this DVD for us!”

  “And I go along with you to tell the story of how you tracked it down!” said Bettie.

  I thought about it. A million pounds was an awful lot of money…“All right,” I said. “Partner.”

  Bettie Divine jumped up and down, and did a little dance of joy, which did very interesting things to her breasts. I looked back at Scoop.

  “If this Afterlife Recording should turn out to be the real thing,” I said, “I’m not sure anyone should be allowed to see it. Real proof of Heaven or Hell? I don’t think we’re ready for that.”

  “It’s the headline that’s important,” said Scoop. “That’s what will sell lots and lots of papers. The DVD…can be fixed, one way or the other. It’s the concept we’re selling.”

  “But if it is real,” I said. “If it is hard evidence of what happens after we die…the whole Nightside could go crazy.”

  “I know!” said Bettie Divine. “A real story at last! Who would have thought it! Isn’t it simply too wonderful, darling!”

  THREE

  Faith, Hope,

  and Merchandising

  Bettie and I stepped out of the Unnatural Inquirer’s offices and shot straight back to the same street corner I’d left, appearing abruptly out of nowhere thanks to Bettie’s dimensional key. No-one paid us any attention. People appearing out of nowhere is business as usual in the Nightside. It’s when people start disappearing suddenly that everyone tends to start screaming and taking to their heels, and usually with good reason. I realised Bettie was looking at me expectantly, and I sighed inwardly. I knew that look.

  “I know that look,” I said to her sternly. “You’ve heard all the stories, studied up on the legend, and now you expect me to solve the whole case with one snap of my fingers. Probably while smiling sardonically and saying something wickedly witty and quotable. Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way.”

  “But…everyone knows you have a gift!” said Bettie, fixing me with her big dark eyes like a disappointed puppy. “You can find anyone, or anything. Can’t you?”

  “You of all people should know better than to believe in legends,” I said. “Reality is always far more complicated. Case in point: yes, I do have a gift for finding things, and people, but I can’t just use it to pinpoint the exact location of Pen Donavon or his DVD. I need a specific question to get a specific answer. But with the information I’ve got, I should be able to get a rough sense of where to start looking…”

  I concentrated, waking my third eye, my private eye, and the world started to open up and reveal its secrets to me…and then I cried out in shock and pain as a sudden harsh pressure shot through my head, slamming my inner eye shut. Some great force from Outside had shut down my gift as quickly and casually as a dog shrugging off a bothersome flea. I swore harshly, and Bettie actually retreated a couple of steps.

  “Sorry,” I said, trying to ease the scowl I could feel darkening my face. “Something just happened. It would appear that Someone or Something big and nasty doesn’t want me using my gift. They’ve shut me down. I can’t See a damned thing.”

  “I didn’t know anyone could do that,” said Bettie.

  “It’s not something I’m keen to advertise,” I said. “Has to be a Major Player of some kind. I hope it’s not the Devil again…”

  “Again?” said Bettie delightedly. “Oh, John, you do lead such a fascinating life! Tell me all about it!”

  “Not a chance in Hell,” I said. “I don’t discuss other client’s cases. Anyway, it’s not like I’m helpless without my gift. We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way: asking questions, following leads, and tracking down clues.”

  “But…if a Major Player is involved, doesn’t that mean the Afterlife Recording must be the real deal?” said Bettie. “Or else, why would they get involved?”

  “They’re involved for the same reason we are,” I said. “Because they want to discover whether the Rec
ording is the real deal, or not. Or…because Someone wants us to think it’s real…Nothing’s ever simple in the Nightside.”

  And then I stopped and looked thoughtfully at Bettie Divine. There was something subtly different about her. Some small but definite change in her appearance since we’d left the Unnatural Inquirer offices. It took me a moment to realise she was now wearing a large floppy hat.

  “Ah,” said Bettie. “You’ve noticed. The details of my appearance are always changing. Part of my natural glamour, as the daughter of a succubus. Don’t let it throw you, dear; I’m always the same underneath.”

  “How very reassuring,” I said. “We need somewhere quiet, to think and talk this through…somewhere no-one will bother us. Got it. The Hawk’s Wind Bar and Grille isn’t far from here.”

  “I know it!” said Bettie, clapping her little hands together delightedly. “The spirit of the sixties! Groovy, baby!”

  “You’re like this all the time, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Of course!”

  “I will make your Editor pay for this…”

  “Lot of people say that,” said Bettie Divine.

  * * * *

  The Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille started out as a swinging café and social watering hole for all the brightest lights of the 1960s. Everyone who was anyone made the scene at the Hawk’s Wind, to plot and deal and spread the latest gossip. It was wild and fabulous, and almost too influential for its own good. It burned down in 1970, possibly self-immolation in protest at the splitting up of the Beatles, but it was too loved and revered to stay dead for long. It came back as a ghost, the spirit of a building haunting its own location. People’s belief keeps it real and solid, and these days it serves as a repository for all that was best of the sixties.

  You can get brands of drink and food and music that haven’t existed for forty years in the rest of the world at the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille, and famous people from the sixties are always dropping in, through various forms of Time travel, and other less straightforward means. It’s not for everyone, but then, what is?