A Hard Day's Knight (6 page)

And, of course, there was Esmeralda Corr, tall and willowy in flapping silks, who provided exotic perfumes from exotic sources, like moss from the canals of Mars, fungi squeezings from sunken R’Lyeh, and musk glands from extinct animals. They all smelled the same to me, but then, I’m a man.

Orbison finally took the lead and fixed me with his usual watery-eyed stare. “You’re who the Authorities sent? You’re the new Walker? I can feel my palpitations coming on. Well, don’t just stand there! You’ve got to do something, Taylor! People want to shop! All the time we’re standing round here, we’re losing money!”

“You’ll be losing that finger if you keep prodding it in my direction,” I said.

Oribison was overcome with a sudden modesty and insisted on falling back. Esmeralda Corr immediately took his place, hands on hips and pointing her prominent bosoms at me like loaded weapons. “What are you going to do, Taylor? I think we have a right to be consulted before you undertake any operation that might put our livelihoods at risk!”

“I’m more concerned with lives than livelihoods,” I said. “What is that perfume you’re wearing? Is it actually legal to smell like that in public? Step back a few paces. A few more ... Right. I’m here to shut the soulbomb down. That’s all you need to know. Now, have any of you upset anyone recently? More than usual, I mean. Someone who might bear a grudge?”

They all looked at each other, and there was much averting of eyes and general shrugging. No-one had to say anything. Business was business in the Nightside, and devil take the hindmost. Sometimes literally. But after a certain amount of nudging, elbowing, and general intimidation, Broome was finally moved to admit that they had no-one special in mind. There had been no advance warning, no threats or ransom demands, and no-one had come forward to claim responsibility. The bomber was a complete stranger to all of them. He’d walked into the mall and threatened to blow up his soul.

They all turned their best business-like glares on me. They’d done all that could be reasonably expected of them, their glares implied, and now it was up to me. So if anything went wrong, it was all my fault. But there was a certain expectant look to them as well because I was the new Walker, and they were curious to see if I was up to it. I was curious, too.

Walker had only been dead for a few hours; but everyone knew. News travels fast in the Nightside, especially bad news.

I walked through the crowd, and it opened up to let me pass. It had all gone very quiet. Except for the bookmakers, who were already offering odds.

I strolled under the huge M and E that marked the main entrance to the mall, and a whole new world opened up before me. Shops and businesses, chains and franchises, speciality stores and perv parlours stretched away before me, for just a bit further than the eye could comfortably see. Corridors and passageways branched and separated, and stilled elevators led up to more floors and even more wonders and marvels, all major credit cards accepted. There was a map floating on the air in the lobby, a huge 3D hologram affair of such complexity that staring at it long enough could start you speaking in tongues. I chose a direction and started walking.

I looked carefully about me, but the whole place was deserted. Thankfully, someone had shut down the piped Muzak, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard anywhere apart from the gentle humming of the fierce fluorescent lighting and the distant rumble of the air-conditioning. It could still be a trap. Either for me, specifically, or for whoever took over as the new Walker. Certainly, I’d made enough enemies in my time, and in the Past and Future, too.

Why had the soulbomber demanded to speak to me, and only me? Julien had shown me a photo of the guy before I left; but I didn’t recognise him. There was nothing special or striking about him. If anything, he’d looked almost defiantly average. Did he want to lure me in, to be sure of getting me? Did he need to look me in the face, to tell me something important to him, before he could destroy himself? Or had he heard of my ability to work miracles on a budget and drop-kick victory from the jaws of defeat, and was hoping to be talked out of it? Or possibly even rescued if this hadn’t been his idea in the first place ... It’s amazing the things a man will do—for money or fame or if his loved ones are threatened.

My footsteps echoed loudly on the quiet, I could actually hear my own breathing, and my heart was hammering in my chest. Malls aren’t supposed to be quiet or empty. It felt unnatural. And then I stopped abruptly as I heard footsteps up ahead, coming my way. I slipped my left hand into my coat-pocket and let my fingers drift over certain useful items ... and then took my hand out again. It was the Nightside CSI—first in, last out, as always. He came round the corner, stopped when he saw me, then smiled and nodded amiably enough. The Nightside CSI is only one man, pleasant enough, calm and easy-going, and very professional. It probably helps that he has multiple personality disorder, with a sub-personality for every speciality and discipline in his profession. (One to handle fingerprints, another to examine blood spatter, or look for magical residues ...) He’s really quite good at his job though he does tend to argue with himself.

Between himself, he knows everything he needs to know.

Each sub-personality has a different voice. Some of them are women. I’ve never asked.

“Alistair Hoob,” I said. “As I live and breathe heavily. No-one told me you were still in here. How are we doing today?”

“As well as can be expected, Mr. Taylor. Not much in the way of evidence to offer you, I’m afraid. (You didn’t check for fingerprints!) (What was the point?) (Hush, we’re talking.) All the soulbomber brought in was himself, and he wouldn’t allow me to get anywhere near him. (Has anyone seen my wetwipes?)”

Alistair Hoob is a big blocky type with a shock of bushy red hair, one green eye and one blue, and a reasonably sane smile that comes and goes according to who’s talking. He always wears the same baggy white sweater with holes in it, grubby cream slacks, and cheap knock-off trainers. He carries a battered old briefcase that unfolds and unfolds, to contain all his (very) specialised equipment. I once saw him open it wide enough to pull out a chemical lab, an X-ray machine, and a rather surprised-looking rabbit.

“Have you spoken to our soulbomb, Alistair?” I said.

“Oh, of course. (Seems sane enough, if a bit gloomy.) Bit frustrating, really, as he didn’t want to talk to me. (Smells funny.) He was quite insistent that he would only talk to John Taylor; but he wouldn’t say why. And he wouldn’t let me get close enough to run any useful tests. (Elephant!) (Shut up!)”

“But you are certain he’s a soulbomber?”

“Unfortunately, yes. You wouldn’t believe the state of his aura. Even sitting still, he’s giving off so many negative vibrations he’s contaminating his surroundings. It’ll take weeks to scour the psychic stain out of the area. Assuming you can talk him down, of course. (Oh, well done, Mr. Tact.) I’ve run all the usual tests on the Emporium, and I can tell you that no-one else is in here with us. (No life signs anywhere.) (Except for the exotic pet shops on the thirteenth floor, and they’re all securely locked down.) (Spiders shouldn’t get that big. There ought to be a law. It’s unnatural, and it might give them ideas.) So once I’m gone, you’re on your own, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. (Bye-bye.)”

“Are all the dimensional doors and gateways properly shut down and closed off?” I said, when I could get a word in edgeways.

“For the moment, yes. But if the soulbomber should go
boom!
all bets are off. We can’t predict the outcome because there’s never been a soulbomb explosion next to a dimensional door before. (I checked before I came in here. Went to the Library, and everything.) There was a soulbomb explosion some twenty-odd years ago, in Tokyo’s fabled Sinister Zone. Blew it right out of reality. Just a bloody big crater now, with energies radiating in all directions that can mutate your DNA if you even think about going to take a look at it. The Japanese have been throwing all kinds of lizards into it, hoping they’ll mutate into giant forms ... They do love their cinema, the Japanese. (I like the Muppets.) (Has anyone noticed it’s getting cold in here? I should have brought a scarf.)”

“Has a soulbomb ever exploded in the Nightside?” I said, frowning.

“Not ... as such, Mr. Taylor. In fact, I’m really quite curious to observe what might happen here. (From a distance.) (A safe distance.) (Why are we still standing round talking?) I could learn all kinds of fascinating things. (From a distance.) (Yes, we’ve established that.)”

“Can you tell me anything about the soulbomber himself?” I said desperately. “What kind of a man is he?”

“Troubled, clearly. (Looney Tunes.) (Bit harsh ...) The subject is male, middle-aged, no wedding ring. Could be a midlife crisis. (Should have bought a Porsche, like everyone else.) Didn’t have much to say for himself, just
Go away
and
Where’s John Taylor?
He seemed determined enough, in a quiet way. (Stubborn.) No signs of fear or uncertainty. No hysterics. I couldn’t get close enough to run medical scans, but he seemed physically sound.”

“Do me one last favour,” I said. “Run one last scan of the Emporium; check for mechanical or magical booby-traps.”

“Way ahead of you, Mr. Taylor. Done and done. I am a professional, after all. It’s all quiet; nothing here that shouldn’t be. And I am now leaving the Emporium, while the leaving is good. (I’m gonna leave old Durham town ...) I may even leave the Nightside, to be on the safe side. Not that I doubt your abilities, Mr. Taylor, but there are limits to how professional I’m prepared to be. If the dimensional doors go down ... (There are those who say ...) (No, there aren’t; you’re thinking of something else.)”

“The Emporium does have a lot of protections in place,” I said.

“Oh yes, Mr. Taylor. Absolutely and quite definitely, there are many protections in place. First-class protections, magical and scientific. Unfortunately, someone has shut them all down. Every last one of them. In advance. (Makes you think, doesn’t it?) Good-bye, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. Soulbomber’s down that way; keep going, you can’t miss him.”

“Any last advice?”

“Try not to upset him.”

He hurried off, and I was left alone in the Emporium. Just me, and the soulbomber.

I’d never known the Emporium to be so still, so silent. Like the calm before the storm. I headed for the centre of the mall, following Alistair Hoob’s directions. My footsteps seemed to echo increasingly loudly on the quiet, carrying news of my progress. The lights shone as brightly as ever, fierce and characterless fluorescent light, and there were no shadows anywhere. But it felt as though there were. For all the intense illumination, it felt like I was walking into darkness.

I could feel the weight of Excalibur, invisibly scabbarded on my back. It was a comforting feeling, like it was watching my back and holding my hand, a companion in my time of need. But it also felt like it was trying to warn me of something. No words; only this feeling that there was something very bad here, apart from the soulbomber. But sometimes you have to suck it up and walk into the trap if that’s what it takes to get to the heart of the matter. I slowed my pace, wandering along quite casually, looking into the shop-windows. Never let them know they’ve got you worried. I surreptitiously checked every doorway and every side passage as I came to them, just in case; but there was never anyone there.

Some of the goods on display were quite interesting. The Elizabethan Goode Foode Shoppe, offering hedgehog in clay, coney on a stick, hedgerow salad soup (every dish a surprise!), puffin flambé. And jugged venison, in very large jugs. Given what some of our ancestors ate in the past, it amazes me that any of us are here.

The Twenty-Second Century Magik Shop had a special sale on Pickled Pixies, Flying Slippers, Old Ones Repellent, and a new exorcism plug-in for your computer. I lingered a while before the window of a specialist bookshop called Pornucopia, which sold specially bound editions of the private pornography written by famous authors, for their own pleasure, never intended for publication. But once you’re dead, it’s all fair game, so ...
Miss Marple at the Isle of Lesbos
,
Lady Chatterly’s Gang Bang
, and Barbara Cartland’s
Strap-on Frenzy
.

Sometimes I think if it wasn’t for bad taste, the Mammon Emporium wouldn’t have any taste at all. I made a mental note to look back later. If there was a later.

I realised my path was taking me right past the Emporium’s one and only real oracle, so I decided to pay it a quiet visit. On a mission like this, information is ammunition. The oracle doesn’t look like much: just a traditional stone-walled wishing well, with a circle of stained glass round it, a patchy red slate roof, and a bucket on a chain. It couldn’t be more tacky if it tried. A sign in appallingly twee language invited you to throw a coin into the well, make a wish, and toss your worries away. Whoever wrote that clearly knew nothing about oracles. Officially, it was all a harmless bit of fun for the kiddies. What better disguise for one of the few truly reliable oracles in the Nightside? I had approached it for help once before and knew better than to expect anything actually helpful. Like everyone else in the Nightside, the oracle had its own agenda.