“Even done some work for you, Walker, on the quiet,” said Dash, grinning nastily. “I can still show these youngsters how it’s done.”
“But not too often,” said Shirley. “We’ve earned our retirement.”
“Don’t you ever miss the old days?” I said.
“Sometimes,” said Shirley, a bit wistfully. “We had a good war, really, chasing saboteurs and fifth columnists all over America ... And the villains were all so colourful in those days. They had style. The Vril Power Gang, the Nazi Skull...”
“And Wu Fang,” said Dash. “Put him away a dozen times, but he always got out. We should never have let him drink that Dragon’s Blood, back in ‘forty-one.”
“Oh, hush, dear,” said Shirley. “He was dying. And he wasn’t a bad sort. For a Chinaman.”
“Things were different when the Timeslip kicked us out here, back in the seventies,” said Dash. “Appalling place, then and now. So we rolled up our sleeves and got to work. There was a lot to do.”
“Never much cared for the seventies,” said Shirley. “Terribly cynical times. Though the eighties turned out to be even worse ... I was glad to retire. We stayed involved, though, helping train our successors. I worked with Ms. Fate, you know, when she started out. She’s done very well for herself.”
“What do you want with us, Walker?” said Dash. “You never show up unless you want something.”
“I’m looking into Tommy’s disappearance,” I said carefully. “Working with his brother Larry, not Walker. And it would appear that your eldest, Hadleigh, is also involved in some way. I was hoping you could tell me something about him.”
Dash and Shirley looked at each other, and they suddenly seemed older and more frail. Dash’s hands closed together on the table before him, and Shirley put her hand over them.
“Can’t say I approve of what Hadleigh’s made of himself,” Dash said finally. “Detective Inspectre for God’s sake ... We should never have left him alone, all those years. Not our fault, of course, but...”
“He fell in with bad company,” said Shirley, glaring at Walker. “We’d hardly been back a year, before he disappeared. And when he came back ... We don’t talk any more. We never see him. He does write us the occasional letter, now and again. But it’s not the same.”
“He was our first-born,” said Dash. “He meant so much to us. We had such hopes for him ...”
“Larry and Tommy came later,” said Shirley. “Good boys, both of them. Nothing like their elder brother. We had hopes for them, too ... but Larry was murdered by his own partner, and we lost Tommy to the Lilith War.”
“Never did like Larry’s partner,” said Dash. “That Mag gie Boniface ... stuck-up little piece. Just because her family was big in voodoo ...”
“I never knew what he saw in her,” said Shirley.
Dash grinned suddenly. “I could make a good guess. She had a balcony you could do Shakespeare from ...”
“Oh, hush, you nasty old man,” said Shirley. And they smiled at each other.
“Larry hasn’t been the same, since he came back from the dead,” said Shirley. “We try to look after him, as best we can, but he keeps us at a distance. As though we might be bothered because he’s dead. The very idea. He’s our son.”
“Seen a lot worse than the walking dead,” said Dash, nodding. “Lot worse.”
“We spent a lot of time and money looking for Tommy,” said Shirley. “After the War was over. But it was chaos everywhere, everything in such a mess ... and there were so many people missing. No-one knew anything. Dash wore himself out, walking up and down the streets, looking for something, some sign ... until finally I made him stop. We did think about hiring you, Mr. Taylor; but we heard you’d already tried your gift, to no effect, so what was the point? So we got used to the idea that our poor Tommy was gone, another victim of that damned War.”
“Larry never gave up on his brother,” said Dash. “Always was stubborn as a mule, that boy.”
“They were both good boys,” said Shirley.
“Good boys,” said Dash.
They sat close together, holding hands, their heads bowed.
“We didn’t do so well with our children,” said Shirley. “Larry’s dead, Tommy’s gone, and Hadleigh ... God alone knows what Hadleigh is. Three sons, but no grandchildren, and never likely to have any now. Was all that we did for nothing? We saved the world, on at least three occasions. President gave us medals. In private. And all for what? To grow old and see our children lost to us. Don’t we deserve something for all we did?”
“We didn’t do it for the rewards,” said Dash, squeezing her hand. “We did it because it needed doing.”
“Duty and responsibility,” said Walker, nodding. “The only things that matter.”
“Oh, fuck off, Walker,” said Shirley.
I felt like applauding.
After the Londinium Club, Walker and I paid a visit to the Uptown Board of Unnatural Commerce. A big stately building right in the heart of the Nightside business sector. All very solemn, very dignified and businesslike; you could practically smell fresh bank-notes on the rarefied lobby air. Walker took me in and out of various offices, where no expense had been spared, and comfort and ostentatious luxury came as standard. He made a point of introducing me to a whole series of powerful and influential people, who all pretended to be glad to see me. Because if I was with Walker, then I must be a personage worth knowing. They offered me thick, murky sherry, which I declined, and listened to my every casual remark as though each contained the secrets of the world. I smiled and nodded and avoided answering any of their subtly probing questions as to what I was doing with Walker. Let them wonder and worry.
It didn’t take me long to work out why Walker wanted me to meet these high city types. These were the people who supplied Walker with private and confidential business information, from the inside. Such as who was on the way up, who was on the way down, and who could be pressured or blackmailed ... All so Walker could keep on top of things and apply corrections when necessary. More than one top business man with a pale and sweaty face eased me to one side to whisper how Walker had destroyed this person or that, or even made them disappear ... because they put their personal financial interests ahead of the Nightside’s.
No-one was allowed to threaten the status quo, not while Walker was on the job. No matter how rich and powerful they might think they were.
The Street of the Gods came next. Walker’s portable Timeslip was working overtime now, slamming us from one place to another. Walker and I strode down the Street, side by side, and a whole bunch of Beings, Powers, and Other-Dimensional Deities decided to retire to their various churches, lock the doors, and hide under their altars until we were gone. Other Beings and their congregations made a point of coming out into the Street, just to be seen conversing amiably with Walker and me and demonstrate to everyone else that they were on good terms with us. And not in any way afraid of either of us. Walker was very polite, as always, and even allowed a few of the gods to bless him.
“Doesn’t any of this ever go to your head?” I asked him, as we left our admirers behind.
“It’s pleasant enough, in its way,” said Walker. “One of the perks of the job. But it’s not real. There isn’t one of them that really likes or even respects me. It’s the position, and the power that comes with it. They’d bow down to you as quickly if you were in my position.”
“There was a time when people did that,” I said. “Back when some quarters saw me as a potential King in waiting. Can’t say I ever liked it much. They weren’t talking to me, just who they thought I might be.”
“You’ve made people respect you,” said Walker. “You’ve put a lot of effort into building your reputation. And unlike many in the Nightside, you really have done most of the awful things you’re supposed to have done.”
“A reputation helps keep the flies off,” I said. “But it’s there to protect me, not feed my ego.”
“And it is
a useful tool, to make people do what you want them to do.”
“Yes,” I said. “But...”
And then I stopped, because I didn’t know what came next. Walker just smiled. And so we carried on quietly together, for a while.
“Normally, I’d take you to the Exiles Club next,” said Walker. “Introduce you to all the otherworldly and other-dimensional royalty in exile; thrown up here on the Nightside’s shores through Timeslips or dimensional doors, or some other unfortunate celestial accident. All the lost Kings and Queens, Emperors and Divinities ... If only to show you that royalty can be a real pain in the arse, just like everyone else. Still, nothing like having a King or Queen bow their head to you to cheer up a dull day. Unfortunately, the Exiles are currently a bit mad at me, ever since I found it necessary to have some of them killed to maintain public order. You remember, John.”
I nodded. I remembered their severed heads set on iron spikes outside the Londinium Club. Queen Helena, Monarch of the Evening in a future twilight Earth. Uptown Taffy Lewis, crime boss, and the scumbag’s scumbag. And General Condor, a great leader of men from some future Spacefleet; who made some unfortunate alliances in his quest to do the right thing. Walker never hesitated to deal firmly with anyone who might challenge his authority.
Was he trying to tell me something in his own subtle way? Did he have an iron spike ready for my head if I turned him down?
That was Walker’s main strength; he always kept you guessing.
Somewhat to my surprise, our next stop turned out to be Rats’ Alley; where the homeless scrabble for thrown-out food or a place to lay their heads. Rats’ Alley is a wide, cobbled square and a few narrow tributaries, set behind some of the finest and most upscale restaurants in the Nightside. Here, out of sight of the fine clientele who swan in through the front door, exists a small community of those who have fallen off the edge and can’t find their way back. The homeless, the beggars, the lost and the ragged, the damaged and the damned, living in cardboard boxes, lean-to shelters, plastic sheeting, or only layers of clothing and the occasional blanket. Refugees from the world the rest of us take for granted.
I spent some time here, once.
Rats’ Alley was a rougher, more dangerous place these days, with the loss of their saint and guardian angel, Sister Morphine. Razor Eddie still slept there as often as not, keeping the vultures at bay, and, of course, they still had Jacqueline Hyde. She came lurching out of the shadows to block our way, wrapped in the grimy tatters of what had once been an expensive coat. Walker and I stopped, to show respect for her territory. Everyone knew Jacqueline’s story. This grim, bedraggled figure had once been a debutante and a high flyer, until she made the mistake of experimenting with her grandfather’s formula. Now she’s one of the Nightside’s sadder love stories. Jacqueline is in love with Hyde, and he with her, but they can only ever meet briefly, in the moment of the change.
She snarled at Walker and me, and her body exploded suddenly into muscle and bulk. Hyde stood swaying and growling before us, his huge hands clutching at the air, eager to rend and tear, break bones, and feast on their marrow. He towered over us, his brute face flushed with the hatred he felt for all Mankind. Jacqueline Hyde: two souls in one body, together and separated at the same time.
“Easy,” said Walker. “Slow and easy, that’s the way. You don’t want to hurt us, Hyde. It’s Walker. You remember Walker.”
If anyone else had tried the calm and reasonable routine, Hyde would have turned him into roadkill. But Walker was using the Voice, in a calm and soothing way, rather than his usual abrupt commands. Hyde’s great head swayed slowly back and forth, deep-set eyes blinking confusedly under heavy eye-brow ridges, then he turned away suddenly and was gone, back into the shadows.
“I didn’t know you could use your Voice like that,” I said.
“Lot you don’t know about me, John,” Walker said cheerfully. “I could write a book. If I only had the time.”
He moved easily among the soggy cardboard boxes and the piles of blankets, stepping carefully past and over the filth that covered the cobbled square. He greeted many of the homeless by name, as one by one they emerged from their shelters and hiding-places to crouch uneasily before him, like a pack of suspicious wild dogs. Most didn’t want to get too close, but others fawned openly, begging for food or spare change, or a kind word—some sign that they had not been entirely forgotten by the real world. Walker murmured soft words and let them sniff his hands, and they quickly lost interest and retreated back to their own private little worlds. Walker smiled easily about him, in the last place you can fall to before the grave claims you for its own.
“This used to be Peter Pendrake,” said Walker, gesturing at a bundled-up figure pressed up against the rear of its mould-covered box. “You used to work for me, didn’t you, Peter? Until I caught you with your hand in the till.”
“Long time ago, Henry,” said a dry, ghostly voice from the shadows at the back of the box. “I’m a different person now. You could take me back. I could still do the job.”
“That wasn’t all I caught you doing, was it, Peter? You really were a very bad boy. But I’ll tell you what; keep your eyes open and keep reporting in, and I’ll think about it.”
A painfully thin man, stained and filthy, in the ragged remains of a futuristic pressure suit, huddled against the cold under a very basic lean-to. He clutched possessively at his bottle and hugged it to his chest, glaring at Walker with sullen defiance.
“This was the famous Jet Ace Brannigan,” said Walker. “Air hero from some alternate time-line. Flew a supersonic jet of his own design, fighting crime in the skies. Then he flew through a Timeslip and ended up here. You used to work for me, too, didn’t you, Ace? Hunting dragons in the night sky? Until the drink got to you, and you crashed your jet on a main street, killing one hundred and twenty-seven people. You walked away with hardly a scratch; but I couldn’t let you fly again, after that.”
“I never used to drink,” said Ace. “Until I met you.”
The last person Walker wanted me to see was a shivering wreck of a man, trying to keep out the cold and the damp with a single thin blanket. He looked a hundred years old, his face the colour of bleached bone, his features hidden behind heavy wrinkles. He turned his head away, not wanting to be seen. Walker considered him for a long moment.
“This pathetic wreck used to be Somerset Smith, Gentleman Adventurer,” he said finally. “Worked for Hadleigh, then for me, taking care of all those important, necessary, but very unpleasant situations that sometimes have to be dealt with quietly, by expendable people like yourself, John. Quite a name in his time, was Somerset; had a hell of a reputation. But then he tried to bring me down, and I broke him. A lot of my enemies end up in places like this. So much more satisfying than simply killing them.”
“Are you warning me?” I said. “Or threatening me?”
“What do you think, John?” said Walker.
Everywhere we went, people noticed Walker. They smiled and bowed, glared and turned their faces away ... but no-one ever ignored him. Walker was the Man. Everyone knew who he was, and what he did. But the one thing they all had in common, when you looked past the smiles and pleasant words, was that no-one was ever genuinely pleased to see Walker. A lot of them faked it remarkably well, so well that perhaps only a trained and experienced eye like mine might have spotted the falseness; but I knew. And I was pretty sure Walker did, too. I had to wonder if Walker had any real friends any more, or if he’d only see that as a weakness others would exploit. He kept his wife and his sons outside the Nightside, in an entirely separate life.
I knew, though, that he used to have friends. Good friends. There were three of them, tight as brothers and thick as thieves, three young men determined to get on in the world and change it for the better. Henry, who became Walker. Mark, who became the Collector. And Charles, my father.
I said as much to Walker, but he just shrugged.
“I don’t have time for my fam
ily, let alone friends. The job is everything: my life, my wife, my mistress ... It’s very demanding. The thing about duty and responsibility is that they’re like the Old Man of the Sea. Once you pick them up, you can’t put them down again. Ever. You carry the weight of them until you drop in your tracks, and the best you can hope for is that there’ll be someone to take up the burden for you. I thought I knew what I was taking on, when I started; but I didn’t. You can’t know, you can’t understand, how big the job is until you’re carrying the whole weight of it on your shoulders. You think this is the life I wanted, John? The life I would have chosen for myself? I don’t run the Nightside; it runs me.”
“You’re not exactly selling me on taking over,” I said. “What about Hadleigh? He was in charge before you. How did he cope?”
“Arguably, he didn‘t,” said Walker. “He gave it all up and ran away to the Deep School, and now he’s the Detective Inspectre. Whatever the hell that is. No-one gets to retire from this job, John. We go crazy, or get killed, or drop in our tracks. But ... it’s the only job worth doing. There’s nothing else like it.”
We were walking through Uptown now, where the very best and the very worst came to wine and dine, to see and be seen. Walker moved easily amongst the celebrities and the Major Players, greeting them all by name and putting them in their places if they got too familiar. All he had to do was murmur his wishes, and people jumped to obey. I never got that, for all my hard-won reputation.
“You see, John?” Walker said finally. “My job isn’t to punish the guilty or strike down the wicked. Or even to rescue and preserve the good. It’s all about maintaining the status quo. Dealing with all the stresses as they arise, playing one faction against another, encouraging this individual or slapping down that one. I keep the lid on, maintain a steady balance, so that the wheels of business can turn smoothly, and everyone who comes here can get everything they think they want. The Nightside exists to cater to and contain all the darker elements in the world; and it’s my responsibility to prevent any of it from spilling over into the unsuspecting everyday world.
The Good, the Bad, and the Uncanny Page 17