Something From the Nightside

  “I preserve the balance,” Walker said easily, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his impeccable sleeve. “Because someone has to.”

  “No-one knows who or what Walker reports to, or where his orders come from,” I continued, “Government or Church or Army. But in an emergency he has been known to call for backup from any damned force he wants; and they come running every time. His word is law, and he enforces it with whatever measures it takes. Always immaculately turned out, charming in a ruthless kind of way, and never, ever, to be trusted. No-one ever sees him coming. You can never tell when he’s going to come strolling out of the shadows with a smile and a quip, to pour oil on troubled waters, or occasionally vice versa.

  “He has a gift for getting answers. There aren’t many who can say no to him. They say he once made a corpse sit up on an autopsy table and talk with him.”

  “You flatter me,” said Walker.

  “You’ll notice he’s not denying it. Walker can call on powers and dominations, and make them answer to him. He has power, but no accountability. And damn all conscience, either. In a place where the Light and the Dark are more than just aphorisms, Walker remains determinedly grey. Like any good civil servant.”

  “It’s all about duty and responsibility, Taylor,” said Walker. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Walker disapproves of people like me,” I said, smiling coldly. “Rogue agents, individuals who insist on being in charge of their own destinies, and their own souls. He thinks we muddy the waters. It’s not often you’ll see him out in the open, like this. He much prefers to stay in the shadows, so people can’t see him pulling strings. Anyone at all could be working for him, knowingly or unknowingly, doing his bidding, so Walker doesn’t have to get his own hands dirty. And of course, if one of his unofficial agents should get killed in the process, well, there are always more where they came from. For Walker the end always justifies the means, because the end is keeping the Nightside and its occupants strictly separate from the everyday world that surrounds it.”

  Walker bowed his head slightly, as though anticipating applause. “I do so love it when you introduce me, Taylor. You do it so much better than I ever could.”

  “He’s been known to fit up people,” I said. The words were coming faster now, as my anger rose. “When he finds it necessary, to throw someone to the wolves. He is much feared, occasionally admired, and practically everyone in the Nightside has tried to kill him, at one time or another. At the end of the day, he goes home to his wife and his family, in the everyday world, and forgets all about the Nightside. We’re just a job to him. Personally, I think he sees this whole damned place as nothing more than a hideously dangerous freak show, full of things that bite. He’d nuke the Nightside and wipe us all out, if he thought he could get away with it. Except he can’t, because his mysterious masters won’t let him. Because they, and those like them, need somewhere to come and play the games they can’t play anywhere else, to wallow in the awful pleasures they can’t even admit to in the everyday world.

  “This is Walker, Joanna. Don’t trust him.” “How very unkind,” Walker murmured. He pulled up another chair and sat down at our table, exactly half-way between Joanna and me. He crossed his legs elegantly and laced his fingers together on the table before him. All around us conversations were starting up again, as it became clear Walker hadn’t come for any of them. He leaned forward across the table, and despite myself I leaned forward a little too, to hear what he had to say. If Walker had taken an interest in me and my case, the situation had to be even more serious than I thought.

  “People have been disappearing on Blaiston Street for some time now,” Walker said briskly. “It took us a while to realise this, because they were the kind of people no-one misses. The homeless, the beggars, the drunks and drug-users. All the usual street trash. And even after the situation became clear, I saw no reason to become involved. Because, after all, no-one cared. Or at least, no-one who mattered. If anything, the area actually seemed to improve, for a while. By definition, anyone who ends up on Blaiston Street by choice has already opted out of the human race. But just recently … a number of rather important people have walked into Blaiston Street, and never come out again. So the word has come down from Above for me to investigate.”

  “Hold everything.” I gave Walker my best hard look. “Just what would these rather important people have been doing in a cesspit like Blaiston Street?”

  “Quite,” said Walker. If my hard look was bothering him, he hid it very well. “None of them had any business being there. Blaiston Street has none of the usual attractions or temptations that might lead a normally sensible person to go slumming. It seems much more likely they were called, or possibly even summoned, there, by forces or individuals unknown. Except… if something that powerful had come into the Nightside, we should have detected its presence long before now. Unless it’s hiding from us. Which, strictly speaking, is supposed to be impossible. So, a mystery. And you know how much I hate mysteries, Taylor. I was considering what to do for the best when I learned you’d reappeared in the Nightside; and then everything just fell into place. I understand you’re tracking a runaway.”

  “This lady’s daughter,” I said. Walker inclined his head to Joanna again.

  “And your gift leads you to believe she’s in Blaiston Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have reason to believe she was called there?”

  “Not necessarily against her will.”

  Walker made a vague dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. “Then you have twelve hours, Taylor, to discover the secrets of Blaiston Street and do whatever is necessary to re-establish the status quo. Should you fail, I will have no choice but to fall back on my original plan, and destroy the whole damned street, and everything in it, now and forever.”

  “You can’t do that!” said Joanna. “Not while my Cathy’s still in there!”

  “Oh yes he can,” I said. “He’s done it before. Walker’s always been a great admirer of the scorched earth option. And it wouldn’t bother him in the least if he had to sacrifice a few innocents along the way.

  “Walker doesn’t believe anyone’s innocent. Plus, by involving me he doesn’t have to put one of his own people at risk.”

  “Exactly,” said Walker. He rose gracefully to his feet, checking the time on an old-fashioned gold fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Twelve hours, Taylor, and not a minute more.” He put the watch away and looked at me thoughtfully. “A final warning. Remember… that nothing is ever what it seems, in the Nightside. I’d hate to think you’ve been away so long that you’ve forgotten such a basic fact of life here.”

  He hesitated, and for a moment I thought he might be about to say something more, but then our waitress came trotting back with my freshly laundered trench coat, and the moment passed. Walker smiled tolerantly as the waitress displayed the spotless coat for my approval.

  “Very nice, Taylor. Very retro. I must be off now, about my business. So much to do, and so many to be doing it to. Welcome back, Taylor. Don’t screw up.”

  He was already turning away to leave when I stopped him with my voice. “Walker, you were my father’s friend.”

  He looked back at me. “Yes, John, I was.”

  “Did you ever find out what my mother was?”

  “No,” he said. “I never did. But if I ever do find her, I’ll make her tell me. Before I kill her.”

  He smiled briefly, touched his fingertips to the brim of his bowler hat, and left the café. No-one actually watched him go, but the general murmur of voices rose significantly once the door was safely shut behind him.

  “Just what is it with you and him?” Joanna said finally. “Why did you let him talk to you like that?”

  “Walker? Hell, I’d let him shit on my shoes if he wanted to.”

  “I haven’t seen you back down to anyone since we got here,” said Joanna. “What makes him so special?”

  “Walker’s differ
ent,” I said. “Everyone gives Walker plenty of space. Not for who he is, but for what he represents.”

  “The Authorities?”

  “Got it in one. Some questions are all the scarier for having no answer.”

  “But who watches the watchmen?” said Joanna. “Who keeps the Authorities honest?”

  “We are drifting into decidedly murky philosophical waters,” I said. “And we really don’t have the time. Finish your nice Coke, and we’ll go pay Blaiston Street a visit.”

  “About time!” said Joanna. And she gulped down the last of her icy Coke so fast it must have given her a headache.

  A House on Blaiston Street

  Blaiston Street butts onto the back end of nowhere. Shabby houses on a shabby street, where all the street-lights have been smashed, because the inhabitants feel more at home in the dark. Perhaps so they won’t have to see how far they’ve fallen. I could practically feel the rats running for cover as I led Joanna down the street, but otherwise it was almost unnaturally still and quiet. Litter was piled everywhere in great festering heaps, and every inch of the dirty stone walls was covered in obscene graffiti. The whole place stank of decay—material, emotional and spiritual. All down the street, windows were missing, patched up with cardboard or paper or nothing at all.

  Filth everywhere, from animals marking their territory, or from people who just didn’t care any more. The houses were two rows of ancient tenements, neglected and despised, that would probably have fallen down if they hadn’t been propping each other up.

  Maybe Walker was right. A good bomb here could do millions of pounds of civic improvements.

  And yet… something was wrong here. More than usually wrong. The street was strangely empty deserted, abandoned. There were no homeless huddled in doorways, or under sagging fire-escapes. No beggars or muggers, no desperate souls looking to buy or sell; not even a single pale face peering from a window. Blaiston Street usually seethed with life like maggots in an open wound. I could hear the sounds of traffic and people from adjoining streets, but the sound was muted, strangely far away, as though from another world.

  “Where the hell is everybody?” said Joanna quietly.

  “Good question,” I said. “And I don’t think we’re going to like the answer, when we find it. I’d like to think everyone just ran away, but… I’m beginning to suspect they weren’t that lucky. I don’t think anyone here got out alive. Something bad happened here. And it’s still happening.”

  Joanna looked around her, and shuddered. “What in sweet Jesus’ name could have summoned Cathy to a place like this?”

  “Let’s find out,” I said, and calling up my gift I opened my private eye again. My gift was getting weaker, and so was I, but I was so close now it was just strong enough to show me Cathy’s ghost prancing down the street, lit up from within by her own blazing emotions. I’d never seen anyone look so happy. She came to one particular house, that looked no different from any of the others, and stopped before it, studying it with solemn, child-wide eyes. The door opened slowly before her, and she ran up the stone steps and disappeared into the darkness beyond the door, smiling widely all the time, as though she was going to the best party in all the world. The door closed behind her, and that was that. I’d come to the end of the trail. For whatever reason, she’d never left that house again. I took Joanna by the hand and replayed the ghost so she could see it too.

  “We’ve found her!” said Joanna, her hand clamping down on mine so hard it hurt. “She’s here!”

  “She was here,” I said, pulling my hand free. “Let me check the house out before we go any further, see what my gift can tell us about the house’s past and present occupants.”

  We walked right up to the house, and stopped at the foot of the dirty stone steps that led up to the paint-peeling door. Old bricks and mortar, smeared windows, and no signs of life anywhere. The door looked flimsy enough. I didn’t think it could keep me out if I decided I wanted in, but this was the Nightside, so you never knew … I raised my gift and concentrated on the house, and despite myself I made a sudden, startled sound. There was no house before me. No history, no emotions, no memories, not even a simple sense of presence. As far as my gift was concerned, I was standing before a vacant lot. There was no house here, and never had been.

  I grabbed Joanna’s hand again, so she could see what I wasn’t seeing, and she jumped too.

  “I don’t understand. Where did the house go?”

  “It didn’t go anywhere,” I said. “As far as I can tell, there’s never been any kind of house here.”

  I let go her hand and dropped my gift, and there was the house again, right in front of me. Large as life and twice as ugly.

  “Is it another ghost?” said Joanna. “Like the café?”

  “No. I’d recognise that. This is solid. It has a physical presence. We saw Cathy go into it. Something here … is playing games with us. Disguising its true nature.”

  “Something inside the house?”

  “Presumably. Which means the only way we’re going to get any answers is to force our way in, and see for ourselves. A house … that isn’t just a house. I wonder what it is?”

  “I don’t give a damn what it is,” Joanna said hotly. “All that matters is finding my Cathy, and getting her the hell out of here.”

  I grabbed her by the arm to stop her from charging up the steps. Her face was flushed with emotion at coming so close to the end of the chase, and her arm trembled under my hand. She looked at me angrily as I stopped her, and I made myself speak calmly and soothingly.

  “We can’t help Cathy by plunging headlong into traps. I don’t believe in charging blindly into strange situations.”

  “Just as well I’m here then, isn’t it?” said Suzie Shooter.

  I looked round sharply, and there she was in the street behind me; Shotgun Suzie, smiling just a little smugly, the stock of her holstered pump-action shotgun peering at me over her leather-clad shoulder. I gave her my best glare.

  “First Walker, and now you. I can remember when people weren’t able to sneak up on me all the time.”

  “Getting old, Taylor,” said Suzie. “Getting soft. Found anything for me to shoot yet?”

  “Maybe,” I said. I gestured at the house before us. “Our runaway is in there. Only my gift says there’s something decidedly unnatural about this place.”

  Suzie sniffed. “Doesn’t look like much. Let’s do it. I’ll lead the way, if you’re worried.”

  “Not this time, Suzie,” I said. “I have a really bad feeling about this house.”

  “You’re always having bad feelings.”

  “And I’m usually right.”

  “True.”

  I made my way slowly up the stone steps. There still wasn’t anyone around, but I could feel the pressure of watching eyes. Suzie moved in beside me like I’d never been away, like she belonged there, her shotgun already in her hands. Joanna brought up the rear, looking a little upset at being pushed into the background by Suzie’s presence. The sound of our feet on the stone steps seemed unusually loud and carrying, but it didn’t matter. Whatever was waiting for us inside the house that wasn’t just a house, it knew we were there. I stopped before the door. There was no bell. No knocker or letter-box, either. I rapped on the door with my fist, and the wood seemed to give slightly under each blow, as though it was rotten. The sound of my knocking was eerily soft, muffled. There was no response from within.

  “Want me to blow the lock out?” said Suzie.

  I tried the door-handle, and it turned easily in my grasp. The discoloured metal of the door-knob was unpleasantly warm and moist to the touch. I rubbed my hand roughly on the side of my coat, and pushed the door open with the tip of my shoe. It fell back easily. Inside, there was only an impenetrable darkness, and not a sound anywhere. Joanna pushed in beside me, staring eagerly into the dark. She opened her mouth as though to call out to Cathy, but I stopped her. She glared at me again. There was an urgency in her now. I
could feel it. Suzie produced a flashlight from some hidden pocket, turned it on and handed it to me. I nodded my thanks, and played the bright beam back and forth across the hallway before me. Hardly anything showed outside the beam, but the hall seemed long and wide and empty. I moved slowly forward, and Joanna and Suzie came with me. Once we were safely inside, the door closed behind us if its own volition, and none of us were a bit surprised.

  In the Belly of the Beast

  The house was dark and empty, utterly quiet and almost unnaturally still. It was like walking into a hole in the world. It felt like something was holding its breath, while it waited to see what we would do next. My back and stomach muscles tensed as I walked slowly down the wide hallway, anticipating an attack that somehow never came. There was danger all around me, but I couldn’t put a name to it, couldn’t even tell what direction it might come from. I hadn’t felt this nervous in the future Timeslip. But some traps you just have to walk into to get to where you’re going.

  Shadows danced jerkily around me as I played the beam of my flashlight back and forth. For all its brightness, the beam didn’t make much of an impression on the dark. I could make out the hall before me, two doors leading off to the right, and a stairway to my left that led up to the next floor. Ordinary, everyday sights made somehow sinister by the atmosphere they were generating. This was not a healthy place. Not for three small humans, wandering blindly in the dark. The air was thick and oppressive, hot and moist, like the artificial heat of a greenhouse, where great fleshy things are forced into life that could not normally survive. Suzie moved silently along beside me, glaring about her. She hefted her shotgun and sniffed heavily.

  “Damp in here. Like the tropics. And the smell… I think it’s decay…”

  “It’s an old place,” I said. “No-one’s looked after it in years.”

  “Not that kind of decay. Smells more like … rotting meat.”

  We exchanged a look, and then carried on down the hallway. Our slow footsteps echoed hollowly back from the bare plaster walls. No furniture, no fittings; no carpets or comforts of any kind. No decorations, no posters or paintings or even calendars on the walls. Nothing to show that anyone had ever lived here. That thought seemed significant, though I couldn’t for the moment see how. We were, after all, in Blaiston Street. This wasn’t a place where people came to live like people …