DRINKING
MIDNIGHT WINE
A Nightside Novel
SIMON R. GREEN
GOLLANCZ
LONDON
Copyright © 2001
Bradford-on-Avon is a real town, with a real history. Most of the places described in this book really exist, as does much of the history. Anything else …
* * *
There is a world beyond the world; a place of magics and mysteries, evils and enchantments, marvels and wonders. And you are never more than a breath away from all of it. Open the right door, walk down the wrong street, and you can find waiting for you every dream you ever had, including all the bad ones. Secrets and mysteries will open themselves to you, if something more or less than human doesn’t find you first. Magic is real, and so are gods and monsters.
There is a world beyond the world. But some things never change.
Table of Contents
One When Lives Collide
Two The Reality Express
Three Dead Man Walking
Four Some Things Are Meant To Be
Five Secret Histories
Six The Comforts Of Strangers
Seven The Death-Walkers
Eight At Home With Leo Morn
Nine Dead Indoors
Ten Unexpected Encounters
Eleven Family Ties
Twelve The Morning After
ONE
WHEN LIVES COLLIDE
Bradford-on-Avon is an old town, and not all of its ghosts sleep the sleep of the just. Nestled in the rolling hills and valleys of the county of Wiltshire, in the ancient heart of the south-west of England, many kinds of people have lived in Bradford-on-Avon down the centuries, and some of their past deeds live on to trouble the present. The Romans have been here, and the Celts and the Saxons and the Normans. And other, stranger folk, less willing to be recorded in official histories. In this small county town, far and far from the seat of those who like to think they run things, the fate of two worlds will be decided, by one ordinary man who dares to love a woman who is so much more than she seems.
She was there on the train again that evening, in her usual seat—the woman with the most perfect mouth in the world. Not too wide and not too small, not too thin and not full with the artificial plumpness of injected collagen or surgically implanted tissues from cows’ buttocks. Just a wonderfully warm and inviting mouth, exactly the right shade of deep red that made the fuller lower lip look soft and tender and touchable. Toby Dexter wasn’t usually preoccupied with mouths, as opposed to the more prominent curves of a woman’s body, but there was something special about this one, and he liked to look at it and wonder what it might sound like, if he ever worked up the courage to introduce himself and start up a conversation.
Toby was travelling home from work on the 18.05 train, heading back to Bradford-on-Avon after a hard day’s work in the famous Georgian city of Bath. It was a tribute to that city’s relentless public relations machine that he always added the prefix Georgian whenever he thought of Bath, though the city was of course much older. The Romans built their famous baths there, that still stand today. They did other things there too, some of them quite appalling, in the name of the Serpent’s Son; but you won’t hear about those from the tourist board. Georgian society made visiting the baths the very height of fashion, and that was what people preferred to remember now. The past is what we make it, if we know what’s good for us. Now, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, Bath is a busy, bustling, prosperous modern city, and Toby was always glad to see the back of it.
The early-evening train was crowded as always, all the seats occupied and all the aisles blocked, carrying tired commuters home to Freshford, Avoncliff, Bradford-on-Avon and Trowbridge. Packed shoulder to shoulder, perched on hard seats or leaning against the closed automatic doors, men and women forced into physical proximity concentrated on reading their books and magazines and evening papers, so they wouldn’t have to talk to each other. The seats were fiendishly uncomfortable: there was no room to stretch your legs, and anyone who felt like swinging a cat would have clubbed half a dozen people to death before he’d even managed a decent wind-up. It was a hot and sweaty summer evening, and the interior of the long carriage was like a steam bath. Toby didn’t think he’d mention it to Great Western Railways. They’d just call it a design feature, and charge him extra for the privilege.
Toby was pretending to read an unauthorised X-Files tie-in edition of dubious veracity and unconcealed paranoia, while secretly studying the woman with the perfect mouth who sat opposite him. He didn’t have the energy to concentrate on the book anyway. He’d been on his feet all day, and the constant rocking back and forth of the carriage was almost enough to lull him to sleep, safe in the arms of the train, but he fought it off. Dozing on a train always left him with a stiff neck and a dry mouth, and there was always the danger he’d sleep past his stop. And you couldn’t rely on any of this bunch to wake you up. Toby looked briefly around him at the neat men in their neat suits, with bulging briefcases and tightly knotted ties, no doubt listlessly considering another endless day of shuffling papers from one pile to another … and sometimes back again. Deadly dull people leading deadly dull lives … Toby envied all of them because at least they had some kind of purpose.
Toby worked at Gandalf’s bookshop, right in the busy centre of Bath. He was officially in charge of the Crime & Thrillers section, but really he was just a shop assistant with a few extra duties. It wasn’t a bad place to work. The other assistants were pleasant company, and the shop itself was full of interesting nooks and crannies and intriguing out-of-print treasures. Gandalf’s consisted of four sprawling floors, connected by old, twisting stairways and the occasional hidden passage. It was an old building, possibly even Georgian, with many unexpected draughts, and floors that creaked loudly as you walked on them, despite the thick carpeting. And everywhere you went, there was the comforting smell of books; of paper and glue and musky leather bindings, of history and dreams compressed into handy volumes.
Every wall was covered with shelves, packed tightly with books on every subject under the sun, and a few best not mentioned in polite company. There were standing displays and dump bins and revolving wire stands, filled with more knowledge, entertainment and general weird shit than any man could read in one lifetime. Gandalf’s prided itself on catering for every taste and interest, from the latest paperback best-sellers to obscure philosophical discourses bound in goatskin. From science to mysticism, Gothic romances to celebrity biographies, from aromatherapy to creative knitting to erotic feng shui, you could be sure of finding something unexpected in every genre, on any subject.
Gandalf’s had books on everything, including a few it shouldn’t. The shop’s owner was fearless, and would stock anything he thought people wanted. There’d been a certain amount of controversial publicity just recently, when the owner refused to stop stocking the new English translation of the infamous Necronomicon, even though it was officially banned. Toby didn’t care; he’d already survived far greater scandals over selling copies of Spycatcher and The Satanic Verses. He’d flipped briefly through the Necronomicon, just out of curiosity, but found the dry prose style unreadable and the illustrations frankly baffling. People were still paying twenty quid a copy though, proof if proof were needed that you could sell absolutely anything if people thought they weren’t supposed to be reading it. He’d been much more taken with The Joy of Frogs, a sex manual where all the illustrations featured cartoon frogs going at it in unusual and inventive ways. Some customer had ordered the book over the phone, but so far hadn’t worked up enough courage to come in and pick it up. Just as well, really—the shop’s staff had pretty much worn the book out between them. One had
even made notes. The real money still came from the never-ending turnover of brand-name best-sellers: Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, J. K. Rowling and whoever the hell it was who wrote those marvellous children’s fantasies about Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat.
The only thing Toby really disliked about his current occupation was having to get up so damned early in the morning. He lived alone, in a characterless semi-detached he’d inherited from an uncle, and most mornings his bed felt like a womb. He’d had to put his alarm clock on the other side of the room, so he’d be forced to get up out of bed to turn it off. So; up at seven a.m. to catch the train at eight, in order to get to work at nine. No doubt there were those who had to get up even earlier, but Toby preferred not to think about them because it interfered with his self-pity. Shit, shower and shave, not necessarily in that order, grab the nearest clothes and then downstairs to breakfast. A quick bowl of All-Bran (motto: eat our cereal and the world will fall out of your bottom), two large cups of black coffee, and then out of the house and down through the town to the railway station, with eyes still defiantly half closed. The body might be up and about, but the brain still wasn’t ready to commit itself.
Though he’d never admit it, Toby quite liked walking through the town first thing in the morning. Down the seemingly endless Trowbridge Road, with its ranks of terraced houses with their bulging bay windows and gabled roofs on one side and old stone houses on the other, each one almost bursting with proud individuality. The street was mostly empty that early in the day, and there was hardly any traffic as yet. The town was still waking up, and only early risers like Toby Dexter got to see her with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and no make-up on. Down the hill and turn sharp left, past the old almshouses, and there was the railway station, supposedly designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunei himself, on a day when he clearly had a lot of other things on his mind. So far it had successfully resisted all attempts at modernisation, and the small monitor screens offering up-to-date train information had been carefully tucked away in corners so as not to detract from the building’s ambience. The occasional deadly dull lives … Toby envied all of them because at least they had some kind of purpose.
Toby worked at Gandalf’s bookshop, right in the busy centre of Bath. He was officially in charge of the Crime & Thrillers section, but really he was just a shop assistant with a few extra duties. It wasn’t a bad place to work. The other assistants were pleasant company, and the shop itself was full of interesting nooks and crannies and intriguing out-of-print treasures. Gandalf’s consisted of four sprawling floors, connected by old, twisting stairways and the occasional hidden passage. It was an old building, possibly even Georgian, with many unexpected draughts, and floors that creaked loudly as you walked on them, despite the thick carpeting. And everywhere you went, there was the comforting smell of books; of paper and glue and musky leather bindings, of history and dreams compressed into handy volumes.
Every wall was covered with shelves, packed tightly with books on every subject under the sun, and a few best not mentioned in polite company. There were standing displays and dump bins and revolving wire stands, filled with more knowledge, entertainment and general weird shit than any man could read in one lifetime. Gandalf’s prided itself on catering for every taste and interest, from the latest paperback best-sellers to obscure philosophical discourses bound in goatskin. From science to mysticism, Gothic romances to celebrity biographies, from aromatherapy to creative knitting to erotic feng shui, you could be sure of finding something unexpected in every genre, on any subject.
Gandalf’s had books on everything, including a few it shouldn’t. The shop’s owner was fearless, and would stock anything he thought people wanted. There’d been a certain amount of controversial publicity just recently, when the owner refused to stop stocking the new English translation of the infamous Necronomicon, even though it was officially banned. Toby didn’t care; he’d already survived far greater scandals over selling copies of Spycatcher and The Satanic Verses. He’d flipped briefly through the Necronomicon, just out of curiosity, but found the dry prose style unreadable and the illustrations frankly baffling. People were still paying twenty quid a copy though, proof if proof were needed that you could sell absolutely anything if people thought they weren’t supposed to be reading it. He’d been much more taken with The Joy of Frogs, a sex manual where all the illustrations recorded announcement sounded almost apologetic for disturbing the peace.
The station’s general elegance and smug solidity was entirely lost on Toby, who tended to stand on the platform like one of George Romero’s zombies, all dull-eyed and listless. Most mornings he had to be nudged awake to get on the train when it arrived, sometimes on time, and sometimes not. It all depended on how the train company felt about it. And if you didn’t like it, you were of course free to take your custom to some other train company. Except that there wasn’t another train company.
By the time the train lurched into Bath, the city was already wide awake and bustling with eager, impatient people hurrying to their jobs, positively radiating motivation and can-do. Toby tried not to look at them. He found them depressing beyond words. The streets were crowded, and the roads were packed bumper to bumper with snarling, cursing commuter traffic. At this time of the day, the air was so thick with pollution that even the pigeons were coughing, and the noise level was appalling. Head down, shoulders hunched, Toby trudged through the din, wearing his best get-out-of-my-way-or-I’ll-kill-you look.
Toby didn’t care for cities. They had far too much personality, like a bully forever punching you on the arm to get your attention. Toby had spent three years living in the East End of London, back when he was a student; an area that would have profited greatly from a heavily armed UN peacekeeping force. Lacking the funds necessary to reach the more civilised areas of London, Toby endured three very long years to get his BA (English Literature and Philosophy, Joint Honours) and then ran back to his home town at the first opportunity. Cities crammed too many people together in too confined a space, and then the powers that be wondered why people fought each other all the time. Toby thought cities were like natural disasters; enjoyable only if viewed from a safe distance. Bath, for example, had interesting places to look at like a dog has fleas, but for the most part Toby couldn’t be bothered to fight his way through the crowds to get to them.
Toby had worked in Bath for over a year, but had never once considered moving there to live.
By the time he got to Gandalf’s, ready for the great unlocking at nine a.m., Toby was usually awake enough to know where he was, but not nearly together enough to interact with customers, so the other staff usually provided him with useful, mindless activities to occupy him until he was fully conscious. “Carry these boxes down into the cellar. Carry these boxes up from the cellar. Plug in this hoover and follow it around for a while.”
Toby quite liked working in the bookshop. Stacking shelves appealed to his sense of order, and he liked dealing with customers, even the ones who came in ten minutes before closing time looking for a book, but couldn’t remember the title or the author’s name, though they were almost sure they could describe the cover … But at the end of each and every day he was still just a shop assistant; another faceless drone in the great hive of the city, doing the same things over and over, achieving nothing, creating nothing. Every day was just like every other day, and always would be, world without end, amen, amen.
Toby had just turned thirty-three, and he resented it deeply. He didn’t feel old, far from it; but his youth, supposedly the most promising part of his life, was now officially over. When he was younger, he’d always thought he’d have his life sorted out by the time he was thirty, that all the important decisions would be made by then. He’d have a chosen career, a wife and kids and a mortgage, just like everyone else. He’d have worked out who he was, and what he wanted out of life. But thirty came round as just another year, just another birthday, and brought no special wisdom with it. He’d had jobs, but n
one of them meant anything; and girlfriends, but none of them came to anything. He had ambition, but no focus; dreams, but no vocation. He drifted through his days, and years, and didn’t realise how much time had passed until he looked back and wondered where it had all gone.
Most of his contemporaries were married, usually for all the wrong reasons: companionship, regular sex, baby on the way. Peer pressure, fears of growing old, alone. There were remarkably few great loves or passions that Toby could detect. Some had already divorced, and were on their second or even third marriage. Sometimes Toby felt like a late developer. But in his own quiet way he was stubbornly romantic, and was damned if he’d marry just for the sake of getting married. It helped that women weren’t exactly beating down his door to get to him. And as for a career … Toby was still looking for a role to play that interested him; something to live for, to give his life purpose and meaning. He didn’t know what he needed, only what he didn’t want, and so he drifted through his life, sometimes employed and sometimes not achieving nothing, going nowhere. Knowing that his life was slipping away like sand through his fingers, but somehow unable to do anything about it.
Toby looked at his own reflection in the carriage window, and saw only a pale face under dark hair, with no obvious virtues; just another face in the crowd, really. He wore a rumpled jacket over T-shirt and jeans, the official uniform of the anonymous, and even his T-shirt had nothing to say.
He looked through the carriage window at the passing countryside, stretched lazily out under the dull amber glow of the lowering sun. Summer was mostly over now, and heading into autumn, and already the countryside was unhurriedly shutting up shop for winter. But still, it was home, and Toby found its familiar sights comforting. There were wide woods and green fields, and the River Avon curling its long slow way towards the town. There were swans on the river, white and perfect and utterly serene, moving gracefully, always in pairs because swans mated for life. They studiously ignored the crowds of chattering ducks, raucous and uncouth, darting back and forth on urgent errands of no importance to anyone except themselves, and perhaps not even to them. Ducks just liked to keep busy. Every now and again a rowing team would come sculling up the river, the long wooden oars swinging back and forth like slow-motion wings, and the swans and the ducks would move ungraciously aside to let them pass. The rowers never looked up. Heads down, arms and lungs heaving; all effort and concentration and perspiration, too preoccupied with healthy exercise and beating their own times to notice the calm beauty and heart’s-ease of their surroundings.