“Taylor! Find the Unholy Grail for me, or suffer an eternity of my wrath!”
While the sorcerer’s attention was fixed on me, Alex calmly produced a heavy bung-starter from behind the bar. He plucked off the sorcerer’s tall pointy hat and hit him over the head with the bung-starter. The sorcerer yelped once, and collapsed. Alex raised his voice.
“Lucy! Betty! Time to take out the trash!”
Lucy and Betty Coltrane, Alex’s body-building bouncers, arrived and cheerfully hauled away the unconscious sorcerer. Alex glared at me.
“Unholy Grail?”
“Trust me, Alex. You really don’t want to know.”
He sighed. “Taylor, get out of here. You’re bad for business.”
THREE
Meetings in Dark Places
The long and narrow alleyway outside Strangefellows was as dark, gloomy, and filthy dirty as always. The heavy blue light from the huge moon hanging over head gave the cobbled alley a bleak, sinister air, like the uneasy streets we walk in our dreams, and never to anywhere good. Business as usual, in the Nightside. I headed for the bright city lights at the end of the alley, picking my way carefully through the rubbish littering the way. There were severed hands everywhere, and not a few feet, all hard as ice and dusted with hoar-frost. The Little Sisters of the Immaculate Chain Saw had been busy tonight. The Christmas season must be starting early this year.
A figure appeared suddenly at the far end of the alley, standing silhouetted against the glaring neon, and I stopped dead in my tracks. For a moment my heart slammed painfully against my chest, and I forgot how to breathe. The last time I’d walked down this alley, I’d been ambushed by my enemies. The faceless horrors of the Harrowing had come for me, and I’d only escaped with the help of my old friend Razor Eddie. Of course, he’d been the one who set me up for the ambush; but that’s friends for you, in the Nightside.
But this time there was only the one figure, with a distinctly female silhouette, and as she started down the dark alleyway towards me, a soft golden glow appeared around her, lighting her way. She was exceedingly blonde and pretty, and almost overpoweringly voluptuous, moving with easy grace in her own pool of light. Marilyn Monroe, in her glorious prime, in her iconic white halter dress. Not a look-alike or a double, but indisputably the real thing, wrapped in glamour, bursting with life and laughter, just like in her films. Sweet and sexy Marilyn, walking in her own spotlight.
She came to a halt before me, and smiled dazzlingly. She smelled of sex and sweat and sandal-wood, of roses and rot, and though her smile was as inviting as ever, there was no matching warmth in her eyes.
“Hello, sugar,” she said, in a voice like a caress. “I’m so glad I found you. I’ve got a message for you.”
“That’s nice,” I said, carefully non-commital.
She laughed her famous laugh, wrinkled her nose at me, and handed me a long white envelope with the tips of her fingers. “This is for you, sweetie. Inside the envelope, there’s a blank cheque! Signed by Mr. Hughes himself. He wants the Unholy Grail for his collection. All you have to do is find it for him, and you can fill in the cheque for whatever amount you like. Isn’t that generous of him?”
“Pardon me for asking?” I said. “But aren’t you dead?”
She laughed huskily and tossed her head. Her wavy hair moved in slow sensuous waves. Being bathed in the glow of her open sexuality was like staring into a blast furnace.
“Oh, that wasn’t me. Howard looks after his friends.”
“I rather thought he was dead too.”
“Men that rich don’t die, sugar. Not if they don’t want to. They just move to another plane, for tax reasons. He’s mixing with some really powerful people these days.”
“People?”
“Loosely speaking.”
I weighed the envelope in my hands thoughtfully. I’d never been offered a blank cheque before. I was tempted. But…I smiled regretfully at Marilyn.
“Sorry, dear. I already have a client. I’m spoken for.”
“I’m sure Mr. Hughes can match any offer…”
“It isn’t the money. I gave my word.”
“Oh. Are you sure…I couldn’t do anything to persuade you?”
She took a deep breath, and her breasts seemed to surge towards me. I was finding it hard to breathe again.
“I’m probably going to hate myself in the morning,” I said finally, “but I have to say no. My services are for sale, but I’m not.”
She pouted at me with her luscious mouth. “Everyone has their price, darling. We just haven’t found yours yet.”
“I’m always loyal to my client,” I said. “It’s all the honour I have left.”
“Honour,” said Marilyn, wrinkling her nose again. “See how far that gets you, in the Nightside. See you again, sugar. Boop boop de boop.”
She blew me a kiss, turned elegantly on her left high heel, and strode off down the alley. Her shoes made no sound on the cobbles. She walked in glamour, still in her own spotlight, like the star she was. I watched her disappear back into the neon noir of the city streets, and only then looked down at the envelope in my hand. My first impulse was to tear it up, but wiser thoughts prevailed, and I put it carefully in my inside coat pocket. You never knew when a cheque with Howard Hughes’s signature on it might come in handy.
I looked around for a dark doorway. They tended to come and go, but you could always rely on a few, this close to Strangefellows. I walked over to the nearest, kicked a few hands aside, and sat down cross-legged. No-one would disturb me here, and I had work to do. If one major player already knew I was on the trail of the Unholy Grail, then it was a safe bet everyone knew. Or at least, everyone that mattered. They’d all be looking for me, and the people they’d send wouldn’t all be as pleasant and polite as Marilyn. This was the kind of treasure hunt that started serious turf wars. And the last thing I needed was the Authorities getting involved. No, I needed to get my hands on the Unholy Grail as quickly as possible, and that meant using my gift. I’m always reluctant to do that, because when I use my special talent, my mind blazes like a beacon in the darkness of the Nightside, signalling to all my enemies exactly where I am. But it’s my gift that makes me what I am, that enables me to be so very good at what I do.
My gift. I can find anything, or anyone. No matter how well hidden they are.
So I sat there in the deep dark shadows, my back pressed against the wall, breathed deeply, and closed my eyes, concentrating. And opened the eye deep in my mind; my third eye, my private eye. Energies swirled within me, rough and roaring, then flowed out of me, rushing off in all directions, lighting up the night so I could See everything. The thunder of a million voices descended upon me, not all of them in any way human, and I had to struggle to focus, to narrow my vision to the one thing I was searching for. The bedlam died away, and already I could begin to sense a direction, and the beginnings of distance. And then Something reached down out of the overworld, snatched my mind right out of my body, and bore it away. There was a sensation that might have been flying or falling, as the alley and the material world disappeared. And I was somewhere else.
This time, it was my turn to stand in the spotlight. A light stabbed down from somewhere above me, brilliant and blinding, holding me in place like a bug transfixed on a pin. I felt horribly naked and exposed, as though the light showed up everything inside me, the good and the bad. All around me there was only darkness, a deep concealing darkness, and somehow I could tell it was there to protect me, because I was not worthy or strong enough to see what lay beyond my small pool of light. But I could sense that I was not alone, that to either side of me there were vast and powerful presences, two great armies assembled on an endless unseen plain. There was a feeling of restless movement, and what might have been the fluttering and flapping of wings. My mind, or more likely my soul, had been hijacked. Brought into the overworld, the boundaries of the immaterial. The overworld wasn’t Heaven or Hell, but it was said you could see them
both from there.
A voice spoke to me from one side, and it was a harmony of many voices, like a crowd chanting in syncopation, a choir that sang only in descants. My skin crawled at the sound of it. I’d heard such a voice before, in St. Jude’s. It was a powerful, imperious voice, steeped in ancient, unanswerable authority.
“The dark chalice is loose once more, travelling in the world of mortal men. This cannot be permitted. It is too powerful a thing to be abandoned to merely human hands, and so it has been decided that we shall descend from the glory plains and walk in the material world again.”
A second harmonied voice spoke from the other side, rich and complex and full of discords. “Too long has the Unholy Grail wandered at random in the world of mortal men. The sombre chalice, the great corrupter. It must be placed in the right hands and allowed to fulfill its purpose. Its time has come round at last. And so it has been decided that we shall ascend from the infernal plains and walk in the material world again.”
All I could think was Oh shit…
“Tell us what you know of the Unholy Grail,” said the first voice, and the second echoed, “Tell us, tell us…”
“I don’t really know anything yet,” I said. It didn’t even occur to me to lie. “I’ve only just started looking.”
“Find it for us,” said the first voice, implacable as fate, as an iceberg seeking out a ship.
“Find it for us,” said the second voice, relentless as cancer, as torture.
Both their voices were very loud now, beating about me in the darkness, but I refused to allow myself to flinch or quail. Show weakness before over-bearing bastards like these, and they’d walk all over me. I was scared, but I couldn’t afford to show it. Both sides could destroy me in a moment, for any reason or none. But they wouldn’t, as long as they thought I could be of use to them. I glared out into the dark, showing impartial contempt. Angels or devils, they both spoke with the arrogance of anyone who speaks from a position of strength. But I felt pretty sure I had a question that would reveal their true position.
“If you’re so powerful,” I said, “why can’t you find the Unholy Grail for yourselves? I thought nothing was hidden from you, or your bosses?”
“We cannot see it,” said the first voice. “Its nature hides it.”
“We cannot see it,” said the second voice. “Its power hides it.”
“But you can See what is hidden.”
“So See for us.”
“I don’t work for free,” I said flatly. “And if either of you could compel me, you’d have done it by now. So stop trying to bully me, and make me a proper offer.”
There was a long pause, and the voices said together, “What would you want?”
“Information,” I said. “Tell me about my mother. My missing, mysterious mother. Tell me who and what and where she is.”
“We cannot tell you that,” said the first voice. “We only know what it is given to us to know, and some things are forbidden, even to us.”
“We cannot tell you that,” said the second voice. “We know only what is said in darkness, and some things are too awful, even for us.”
“So essentially,” I said, “you’re really nothing more than glorified messenger boys, working on a need-to-know basis. Send me back. I’ve got work to do.”
“You do not speak to us that way,” said the first voice, its harmonies rising and falling. “Defy us, and there will be punishment.”
I looked across at the other presences. “Are you going to let them get away with that? If I’m hurt or damaged, you risk losing the one person who can definitely find the Unholy Grail for you.”
“Do not touch the mortal,” the second voice said immediately.
“You do not speak to us that way!”
“We speak how we will! We always have!”
There was a stirring and a disturbance in the darkness, as of two great armies readying themselves for war. There were angry voices, with vicious threats and vows, and ominous intent. And it was the easiest thing in the world for me to quietly slip away from them, and drop back into my body, which waited in the doorway in the alley outside Strangefellows. It had grown cold and stiff in my brief absence, and I groaned aloud as I made myself stretch reluctant muscles and pounded my hands together to get the circulation moving again. I closed my mind down tightly, pulling all my strongest mental shields into place. You don’t last long in the Nightside if you don’t learn a few useful tricks to guard your mind and soul from outside attack or influence. Walk around here with an open mind, and your head will end up more crowded than the underground during rush hour.
But it did mean I wouldn’t be able to use my gift again. Anytime I let down my defences long enough to See, you could bet agents from Above and Below would be waiting for a chance to grab me again. And make me an offer I wouldn’t be allowed to refuse. So it looked like I was going to have to solve this case the hard way: lots of legwork, asking impertinent questions, and the occasional twisting of arms.
Which meant I was going to need Suzie Shooter even more than I’d thought.
Shotgun Suzie lived in one of the sleazier areas of the Nightside, up one of those narrow side streets that lurk furtively in the shadows of the more travelled ways. Lit starkly by glaring neon signs advertising nasty little shops and studios, offering access to all the viler and more suspect pleasures and goods, at extortionate prices, of course, it was the kind of place where even the air tastes foul. The neon flickered with almost stroboscopic intensity, and painted men and women and others who were both and neither smiled coldly from backlit windows. Somewhere music was playing, harsh and tempting, and somewhere else someone was screaming, and begging for the pain to never stop.
I walked down the centre of the street, avoiding the greasy rain-slick garbage-strewn pavements. I didn’t want anyone tugging at my arm or whispering coaxingly in my ear. I was careful not to catch anyone’s eye, or even glance at the shop windows. It was safer that way. I didn’t want to have to hurt anyone this early in the case. Suzie’s place was set right in the middle of it all, between a flaying parlour and a long pig franchise. From the outside, her section of the old tenement building looked broken-down, decayed, almost abandoned. The brickwork had been blackened by countless years of pollution and neglect, covered over with layers of peeling posters, and the occasional obscene graffiti. All the windows had been boarded up. But I knew that the single paint-peeling door had a thick core of solid steel, protected by state-of-the-art locks and defences, both high-tech and magical. Suzie took her security very seriously.
I was one of the very few people she’d ever trusted with the correct entry codes. I looked around to make sure no-one was too close, or showing too much interest, then I bent over the hidden keypad and grille. (No point in knocking or shouting; she wouldn’t respond. She never did.) I punched in the right numbers, and spoke my name into the grille. I waited, and a face rose slowly up out of the door, forming its details from the splintered wood. It wasn’t a human face. The eyes opened, one after another after another, and studied my face, then the ugly shape sank back into the wood again and was gone. It looked disappointed that it wasn’t going to get to do something nasty to me after all. The door swung open, and I walked in. I was barely out of its way before it slammed shut very firmly behind me.
The empty hallway was lit by a single naked light bulb, hanging forlornly from the low ceiling. Someone had nailed a dead wolf to the wall with a rivet gun. The blood on the floor still looked sticky. A mouse was struggling feebly in a spider’s web. Suzie never was much of a one for housekeeping. I strode down the hall and started up the rickety stairs to the next floor. The air was damp and fusty. The light was so dim it was like walking underwater. My feet sounded loudly on the bare wooden steps, which was, of course, the point.
The next floor held the only two furnished rooms in the house. Suzie had a room to sleep in, and a room to crash, and that was all that mattered to her. The bedroom door was open, and I looked i
n. There was a rumpled pile of blankets in the middle of the bare wooden floor, churned up like a nest. A filthy toilet stood in one corner, next to a battered minibar she’d looted from some hotel. A wardrobe and a dressing table and a shotgun rack holding a dozen different weapons. No Suzie. The room smelled ripe, heavy, female, feverish.
At least she was up. That was something.
I walked down the landing. The plastered walls were cracked, and pocked here and there with old bullet holes. Telephone numbers, hexes, and obscure mnemonic reminders had been scrawled everywhere in lipstick and eyebrow pencil, in Suzie’s thick blocky handwriting. The door to the next room was closed. I pushed it open and looked in.
The blinds were drawn, as always, blocking out the lights and sounds of the street outside, and for that matter, the rest of the world as well. Suzie valued her privacy. Another naked light bulb provided the main illumination. Its pull chain was held together by a knot in the middle. Takeaway food cartons littered the bare floor, along with discarded gun magazines, empty gin bottles, and crumpled cigarette packets. Video and DVD cases were stacked in tottering piles all along one wall. Another wall held a huge, life-size poster of Diana Rigg as Mrs. Emma Peel, from the old Avengers TV show. Underneath the poster, Suzie had scrawled My Idol in what looked like dried blood.
Suzie Shooter was lying sprawled across a scuffed and faded green leather couch, a bottle of gin in one hand, a cigarette in one corner of her downturned mouth. She was watching a film on a great big fuckoff wide-screen television set. I strolled into the room, and into Suzie’s line of view, giving her plenty of time to get used to my presence. There was a shotgun propped up against the couch, ready to hand, and a small pile of grenades on the floor by her feet. Suzie liked to be prepared for anyone who might just feel like dropping in unannounced. She didn’t look round as I came to a halt beside the couch and looked at the film she was watching. It was a Jackie Chan fight fest; that scene towards the end of Armour Of God where four big busty black women in leather gang up on Jackie and kick the crap out of him. Good scene. The sound track seemed to consist entirely of screams and exaggerated blows. I glanced around me, but nothing had changed since my last visit. There was still no other furniture, just a bog standard computer set up on the floor. Suzie didn’t even have a phone any more. She wasn’t sociable. If anyone needed to contact her, there was e-mail, and that was it. Which she might not get round to reading for several days, if she didn’t feel like it.