The Unnatural Inquirer (14 page)
Bettie breezed through the door like a visiting princess, and I wandered in after her. The interior turned out to be equally old-fashioned, with sawdust on the floor, horse brasses over the bar, and a low ceiling with exposed beams. A dozen different beers on tap, with distressingly twee olde-worlde names, like Langford’s Exceedingly Old Speckled Hen. Taste that albumen! A chalked sign offered traditional pub grub—chips with everything. And not a modern appliance anywhere in sight, including, thankfully, a juke-box. There was a deafening roar of chatter from the mob of shabby and shifty characters crowded round the tables and filling the booths, and the atmosphere was hot, sweaty, and smoky. There was so much nicotine in the air you could practically chew it. A great clamour of greeting went up as Bettie was recognised, only to die quickly away to a strained silence as they recognised me. Bettie smiled sweetly around her.
“It’s all right,” she said. “He’s with me.”
The reporters immediately turned their backs on us and resumed their conversations as though nothing had happened. One of their own had vouched for me, and that was all it took. Bettie headed for the crowded bar, and I moved quickly after her. She smiled and waved and shouted the odd cheery greeting at those around her, and everyone smiled and waved and shouted back. Clearly, Bettie was a very popular girl. At the bar, I asked her what she was drinking, and she batted her heavy eye-lashes and asked for a Horny Red Devil. Which turned out to be gin, vodka, and Worcester sauce, with a wormwood-and-brimstone chaser. To each their own. At least it didn’t come with a little umbrella in it. I ordered a Coke. A real Coke, and none of that diet nonsense. Bettie looked at me.
“Never when I’m working,” I said solemnly.
“Really? It’s the other way round with me, darling. I couldn’t face this job sober.” She smiled happily. “I notice the bartender didn’t ask you to pay for these drinks. Don’t you ever pay for anything?”
“I pay my way at Strangefellows,” I said. “The owner is a friend.”
“Ooh; Strangefellows, sweetie! Yes, I’ve heard about that place! There are all kinds of stories about what goes on in Strangefellows!”
“And most of them are true. It is the oldest pub in the world, after all.”
“Will you take me there after we’ve finished with this assignment? I’d love to go dancing at Strangefellows. We could relax and get squiffy together. I might even show you my tail.”
“We’ll probably end up there, at some point,” I said. “Most of my cases take me there, eventually.”
The bartender slammed our drinks down on the highly polished wooden bar top, then backed away quickly. I didn’t care for the man, and I think he could tell. He was one of those stout jolly types, with a red face and a ready smile, always there to make cheerful conversation when all you want is to drink in peace. Probably referred to himself as Mine Host. I gave him a meaningful look, and he retreated to the other end of the bar to polish some glasses that didn’t need polishing.
“Can’t take you anywhere,” said Bettie.
Behind the bar hung a giveaway calendar supplied by the Unnatural Inquirer, with a large photo featuring the charms of a very well-developed young lady whose clothes had apparently fallen off. At the bottom of the page was the paper’s current slogan: ARE YOU GETTING IT REGULARLY? Some rather shrunken-looking meat pies were on display in a glass case, but one look was all it took to convince me I would rather tear my tongue out. A stuffed-and-mounted fox head winked at me, and I snarled back. Animals should know their place. Not a lot further down the bar, an old-fashioned manual typewriter was being operated by the invisible hands of a real ghost writer. I’d met it once before, at the Night Times offices, and was tempted to make a remark about spirits not being served here, but rose above it. I leaned over towards the typewriter, and the clacking keys paused.
“Any recent news on the whereabouts of the Afterlife Recording?”
Words quickly formed on the page, reading Future’s cloudy. Ask again later.
I persuaded Bettie to hurry her drink, politely evaded her attempts to chat, bond, or get personal, and finally we moved away from the bar to mingle with the assembled reporters. With Bettie as my native guide, we passed easily from group to group, with me doing my best to be courteous and charming. I needn’t have bothered. The reporters only had eyes for Bettie, who was in full flirt mode—all squeaky voice, fluttering lashes, and a bit of laying on of hands where necessary. Bettie was currently wearing a smart white blouse with half the buttons undone, over a simple black skirt, fish-net stockings, and high heels. Her horns showed clearly on her forehead, perhaps because she felt safe and at home here.
All the journalists seemed quite willing to talk about the Afterlife Recording; they’d all heard something, or swore they had. No-one wanted to appear out of the loop or left behind in company like this. Unfortunately, most of what they had to tell us turned out to be vague, misleading, or contradictory. Pen Donavon had been seen here, there, and everywhere, and already all sorts of people were offering copies of the DVD for sale. Only to be expected in the Nightside, where people have been known to rip off a new idea while it was still forming in the originator’s mind. Rumours were already circulating that some people had managed to view what was on the DVD and had immediately Raptured right out of their clothes. Though whether Up or Down remained unconfirmed.
Bettie stopped at a table, and greeted one particular reporter with particular cold venom, along with a stare that would have poisoned a rattlesnake at forty paces. He seemed bright and cheerful enough, in an irredeemably seedy sort of way. He wore a good suit badly, and had a diamond tie-pin big enough to be classed as an offensive weapon.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” I said innocently to Bettie.
She sniffed loudly. “John, darling, this particular gusset stain is Rick Aday, reporter for the Night Times.”
“Investigative reporter,” he corrected her easily, flashing perfect but somewhat yellow teeth in a big smile. He put out a hand for me to shake. I looked at it, and he took it back again. “You must have seen my by-line, Mr. Taylor, I’ve written lots of stories about you: Rick Aday; Trouble Is My Middle Name.”
“No it isn’t,” Bettie said briskly. “It’s Cedric.”
Aday shot her a venomous glare. “Better than yours, Delilah.”
“Lick my scabs!”
“They used to date,” another of the reporters confided quietly to me. I nodded. I’d already guessed that.
“I’ve been hot on the trail of the Afterlife Recording for some time now,” Aday said loftily. “Pursuing several quite credible leads, actually. Just waiting for a phone call from one of my extremely clued-in informants, then I’ll be off to make Mr. Donavon a generous offer for his DVD.”
“You can’t!” Bettie snapped immediately. “My paper has a legitimate contract with Pen Donavon, granting us exclusive rights to his material!”
Aday just grinned at her. “Finders keepers, losers read about it in the Night Times.”
“I suppose all’s fair in love and publishing,” I said, and Bettie actually hissed at me.
I moved away, to allow Bettie and her old flame to exchange harsh words in private. I’d noticed that the nearby wall boasted a whole series of framed cartoons and caricatures of noted Nightside personalities. Good likenesses, if often harsh, exaggerated, and downright cruel. They were all signed with a name I recognised. Bozie’s work was well-known in the Nightside, appearing in all the best papers and magazines. He excelled at bringing out a subject’s worst attributes and qualities, making them seem monstrous and laughable at the same time. Those depicted usually gritted their teeth and smiled as best they could, because you weren’t anybody in the Nightside unless you’d been caricatured by Bozie.
There were rumours that Bozie had been known to accept quite large sums of money to kill a particular creation of his before the public got to see it. No-one mentioned blackmail, of course. Thus are reputations made in the Nightside.
I’ve never approved of needless cruelty. You should save it for when it’s really necessary.
I moved slowly along the wall, checking out the various pen-and-ink creations in their softwood frames. All the usual suspects were there. Walker, of course, looking very sinister with more than a hint of in-breeding. Julien Advent, impossibly noble, complete with halo and stigmata. The Sonic Assassin, in his sixties greatcoat, gnawing on a human thigh-bone while making a rude gesture at the viewer. And…Shotgun Suzie. My Suzie. I stopped before the caricature and studied it impassively. Bozie had made her look like a monster. All fetishy black leathers and unfeasibly big breasts, with a face like an axe murderer. He’d exaggerated every detail of her looks to make her seem ugly and crazy. This wasn’t just a caricature; it was an assault on her character. It was an insult.
“Like it?” said a lazy voice at my side. I looked round, and there was the artist himself—the famous or more properly infamous Bozie. A tall, gangling sort, in scruffy blue jeans and a T-shirt bearing an idealised image of his own face. He had long, floppy hair, dark, intense eyes, and an openly mocking smile. He gestured languidly at Suzie’s caricature. “It is for sale, you know. If you want it?”
I had a feeling I knew how this was going to play out, but I went along with it. “All right,” I said. “How much?”
“Oh, for you…Let’s say a round hundred thousand pounds.” He giggled suddenly. “A bargain at the price. Or you can leave it here, for all the world to see. Who knows how many papers and magazines might want to run it?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said.
“Oh, do tell.”
I hit the glass covering the caricature with my fist, and it shattered immediately, jagged pieces falling out of the frame. Bozie stepped quickly backwards, his hands held protectively out before him. I tore the caricature out of the frame, and ripped it up, letting the pieces fall to the floor at my feet. Bozie goggled at me, torn between shock and outrage.
“You…You can’t do that!” he managed finally.
“I just did.”
“I’ll sue!”
I smiled. “Good luck with that.”
“I can always draw another one,” Bozie said spitefully. “An even better one!”
“If you do,” I said, “I will find you.”
Bozie couldn’t meet my gaze. He looked around him, hoping for help or support, but no-one wanted to know. He sat down at his table again, still not looking at me, and sulked. I went back to Bettie’s table, and sat beside her. She patted me on the arm.
“That was very sweet, dear. Though a bit harsh on poor Bozie.”
“Hell,” I said. “I saved his life. Suzie would have shot him on sight. She doesn’t have my innate courtesy and restraint.”
There was a certain amount of coughing around the table, and then everyone went back to their discussion on what the Afterlife Recording might actually contain. The suggestions were many and varied, but eventually boiled down to the following:
There was a new rebel angel in Heaven, rebelling against the long silence of millennia to finally broadcast the truth about Humanity. Why we were created, what our true purpose is, and why we are born to suffer.
It was a transmission from Hell, saying that God is dead and they can prove it. Satan runs our world, tormenting us for his pleasure. Which would explain a lot.
An exact date for the final war between Heaven and Hell. Broadcast now because…it’s all about to kick off.
There is a Heaven, but it’s only for the innocent animals. People just die.
There is a Heaven, but no Hell.
There is a Hell, but no Heaven.
It’s all bullshit.
There was a lot of nodding and raising of glasses at that last one. Once the subject of the DVD’s contents had been thoroughly exhausted, I took it upon myself to raise the possibility of the Removal Man’s involvement. Everyone perked up immediately and tumbled over each other to provide anecdotes and stories they’d come across but had been unable to get printed. Because no-one could prove anything.
“Remember Jonnie Reggae?” said Rick Aday. “Used to headline at the old Shell Beach Club? Rumour has it he vanished right in the middle of his set because the Removal Man was in the audience and decided his material was offensive. Management was livid. They’d booked Jonnie for the whole season.”
“He’s supposed to have made a house disappear, on Blaiston Street,” said Lovett, from the Nightside Observer.
“Actually, no,” I said. “That was me.”
There was some more awkward coughing before Bettie determinedly got the conversation back on course.
“Remember Bully Boy Bates?” she said brightly. “Used to run a protection racket in the sweat-shop districts? Julien Advent was just getting ready to run an exposé on him in the Times, then suddenly didn’t need to because Bates and all his cronies had gone missing. Or how about that alien predator, that disguised itself as an ambulance so it could eat the people put into it? That was the Removal Man. Supposedly. He has done some good.”
“Yes,” said Aday, drawing the word out till it sounded more like no, “but on the other hand, look what he did to the first incarnation of the Caligula Club. You know, that place that caters to all the more extreme forms of sexuality. Lots of people having a good time, according to their lights, all of it adult and consensual…but too much for the Removal Man’s puritan tastes. He made the whole Club disappear, along with everyone in it. Just like that! Which is why the current version of the Club has such heavy-duty protections, and it’s so hard to get in. Or so they tell me…”
And then the whole place fell suddenly silent as the door crashed open and General Condor entered, along with a dozen heavily armed and armoured body-guards. They made sure the place was secure and only then put their guns away. The General strode forward and looked the place over. He didn’t appear especially impressed—by the bar or its customers. He was still wearing his Space Fleet uniform, complete with golden bars on his shoulders and rows of medal ribbons on his chest. He had the look of the old soldier, the calm steady look that said he’d seen a lot of men die, and your death wouldn’t bother him in the least.
