The Unnatural Inquirer (9 page)

“Heretic!” said Dagon, and punched Stack! out with a very unpriestly left hook.

I took Bettie firmly by the arm, and we hurried away. Believers were coming running from all directions, eager to join the fray, and you really don’t want to get caught in the middle of a religious war on the Street of the Gods. Especially not when the smiting starts. Someone always ends up throwing lightning bolts, and then it’s bound to escalate. We headed back to the Underground station, discussing what we knew about previous attempts to communicate with the Other Side, so we wouldn’t have to listen to the rising sounds of conflict and unpleasantness behind us.

It was already raining frogs.

“Surprisingly, Marconi is supposed to be the first man to use technology to try and make contact with the Hereafter,” I said. “Some sources claim he only invented radio because he was trying to find a way to talk to his dead brother. There are even those who say he succeeded; though reports of what he heard are…disturbing.”

“Then there are people who approach dying people in hospitals,” said Bettie. “And persuade them to memorise messages from a bereaved family, to pass on to people already dead. There’s usually money involved—to pay hospital bills or look after the dying person’s family. The Unnatural Inquirer paid good money for a dozen messages to Elvis, but we never got a reply. What was that?”

“Don’t look back,” I said. “Then there are the Death-walkers. A disturbing bunch of action philosophers with a very hands-on approach to the Near Death Experience. They kill themselves, a necromancer holds them on the very brink for a while, and then he brings them back to life. The briefly departed are then questioned on what they saw, and who they spoke to, while they were dead. I’ve read some of the transcripts.”

“And?”

“Either the dead lie a lot, or they have a really nasty sense of humour.”

“I once did a piece on people who hear messages on radios trained to dead stations, or tape recorders left running in empty rooms,” said Bettie. “I listened to a whole bunch of recordings, but I can’t say I was convinced. It’s all hiss and static, and something that might be voices, if you wanted it badly enough. It’s like Rorschach ink-blots, where people see shapes that aren’t really there. You hear what you want to hear. Was that a Church blowing up?”

“It’s the pillars of salt that worry me,” I said. “Just keep walking and talking.”

“Then there’s psychic imprinting,” said Bettie, staring determinedly straight ahead. “You know, when a person stares at a blank piece of film and makes images appear. I did this marvellous piece on a man who could make naughty pictures appear on bathroom tiles, from two rooms away! The paper did a full colour supplement on most of them. You could only get the full set by mail order, under plain cover.”

“Psychic imprinting is more common than most people like to think,” I said. “That’s where most ghost images come from. And genius loci, where bad things happening poisons the surroundings, to produce Bad Places. Like Fun Faire.”

“Wait just a minute, darling,” said Bettie. “I heard about what just happened there! Was that you?”

I simply smiled.

“Oh, poo! You’re no fun at all sometimes.”

“That augmented television set bothers me,” I said. “Could Pen Donavon have accidentally invented something that allowed him to Listen In, however briefly, on something Humanity was never supposed to know about? Stranger things have happened, and most of them right here in the Nightside. This place has always attracted rogue scientists and very free thinkers, come here in pursuit of the kinds of knowledge and practices that are banned everywhere else, and quite properly, too. Walker has a whole group of his people dedicated to tracking these idiots, then shutting them down, with extreme prejudice if necessary. Unless what they’re doing looks to be unusually interesting, or profitable, in which case their work gets confiscated for the greater good. Which means the scientists get to work exclusively for the Authorities, somewhere very secure, for the rest of their lives.”

“Except there aren’t any Authorities, any more,” said Bettie. “So who do these scientists work for now?”

“Good question,” I said. “If you ever find out…”

“You’ll read about it in the Unnatural Inquirer.” Bettie smiled cheerfully. “I love the way you talk about these things so casually. I only get to hear about stuff like this at second or third remove, and there’s rarely any proof. You’re right there in the thick of things. Must be such fun…”

“Not always the word I’d use,” I said. “And you are not to quote me. I don’t care what you print, but Walker might. And he’d be more likely to come after you than me.”

“Let him,” Bettie said airily. “The Unnatural Inquirer looks after its own. John, you’re frowning. Why are you frowning? Should we start running?”

“If Pen Donavon had found a way to Listen In and got noticed,” I said slowly, “he might have attracted the attention of Heaven or Hell. Which is rarely a good thing. They might send agents to silence him, and destroy the Recording.”

“Oh, dear,” said Bettie. “Are we talking angels? The Nightside’s still putting itself back together after the last angel war.”

“I wish people would stop looking at me like the angel war was all my fault,” I said.

“Well, it was; wasn’t it?”

“Not as such, no!”

“You can be such a disappointment, sometimes,” said Bettie Divine.

FOUR

When Collectors Go Bad

B
ack in the Nightside proper, I headed for Uptown, that relatively refined area where the better class of establishments and members-only clubs gather together and circle the wagons, to keep out the riff-raff. People like me, and anyone I might know. I had a particular destination in mind, but I didn’t tell Bettie. Some subjects need to be sneaked up on, approached slowly and cautiously, so as not to freak out the easily upset. Bettie clearly thought she’d been around and seen it all, but there are some people and places that would make a snot demon puke, on general principles.

“Where exactly are we going?” said Bettie, looking eagerly about her.

“Well,” I said, “when you’re on the trail of something rare and unique, the place to start is with the Collector. He’s spent the best part of his life in pursuit of the extraordinary and the uncommon, often by disreputable, underhanded, and downright dishonest means. He’s a thief and a grave-robber, a despoiler of archaeological sites, and no museum or private cabinet of curiosities is safe from him. He’s even got his own collection of weird time machines, so he can loot and ransack the Past of all its choicest items. If there’s a gap in history where something important ought to be, you can bet the Collector’s been there. He’s bound to have heard about the Afterlife Recording by now, and, faced with the prospect of such a singular and significant item, you can bet he won’t rest till he’s tracked it down.”

Bettie looked actually awe-struck. “The Collector…Oh, wow. The paper’s been trying to get an interview with him for years. Mind you, half the people you talk to swear he’s nothing more than an urban myth, something historians use to frighten their children. But you know him personally! That is so cool! Has he really got the Holy Grail? The Spear of Destiny? The Maltese Falcon?”

“Given the sheer size of his collection, anything’s possible,” I said. “Except maybe that last one.”

“There are those who say the two of you have a history,” Bettie said guilelessly.

“If you’re fishing in your pocket for your mini tape recorder, forget it,” I said pleasantly. “I lifted it off you before we even left the Unnatural Inquirer offices. I don’t do on the record.”

“Oh, poo,” said Bettie. And then she smiled dazzlingly. “Doesn’t matter. I have a quite remarkable memory. And what I can’t remember, I’ll make up. So, tell me all about the Collector. How did you meet?”

“He was an old friend of my father’s,” I said.

Bettie frowned. “But…some of the stories say he’s your mortal enemy?”

“That, too,” I said. “That’s the Nightside for you.”

“Where’s he based these days?” Bettie said casually.

I grinned. “That really would be a scoop for you, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, I have no idea, at present. He used to store his collection in a secret base up on the Moon, sunk deep under the Sea of Tranquility, but he moved it after I…dropped in, for a little visit.”

“Couldn’t you have used your gift to find it again?”

“The Collector is seriously protected. By Forces and Powers even I would think twice about messing with.”

“Still…you’ve actually seen his collection! How cool is that? What did you see? What has he got? Did you take any photos?”

I smiled. “I never betray a confidence.”

“But he’s your mortal enemy!”

“Not always,” I said. “It’s…complicated.”

Bettie shrugged easily and slipped her arm through mine. My first impulse was to pull away, but I didn’t. Her arm felt good where it was. I looked at her thoughtfully, but she’d given up on grilling me for the moment and was looking interestedly about her.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this deep into Uptown. You don’t come here unless you are almost obscenely wealthy. I’ll bet there are shops here where a pair of shoes would cost more than my annual salary. Remind me to steal a pair before we leave. Where are we going, exactly?”

“I need to talk to Walker,” I said.

Bettie slammed to a halt, stopping me with her. “The head man himself? Darling, you don’t mess around, do you?”

“If anyone knows where the Collector hangs his hat these days, it’ll be Walker,” I said. “Can we start moving again?”

She nodded stiffly, and we set off at a somewhat slower pace than before.

“But, gosh, I mean…Walker,” said Bettie, giving me her wide-eyed look again. “Our very own polite and civilised and extremely dangerous lord and master? The man who can make people disappear if he doesn’t like the look of them? That Walker? There is a definite limit as to how far I’m prepared to go for this story, and annoying Walker is right there at the top of my list of Things Not To Do.”

“You’ll be fine, as long as you’re with me.” I tried hard to sound calm and confident. “He’ll talk to me. Partly because Walker is another old friend of my father’s. Partly because he’s an old friend of the Collector. But mostly because I shall dazzle him with my charming personality.”

“Maybe I’ll stay outside while you talk to him,” said Bettie.

I grinned at her and noticed abruptly that she wasn’t wearing her polka-dot dress any more. She was now wearing a creamy off-the-shoulder number, very chic, and a pink pill-box hat with a veil. The horns on her forehead peeked demurely out from under the brim of the hat, lifting the veil just a little. I decided not to say anything.

“Is this really such a good idea, sweetie?” Bettie said finally. “I mean, Walker…That man is seriously scary. He’s disappeared at least nine of the Unnatural Inquirer’s reporters because they were getting too close to something he didn’t want known. Or at least discussed. We know it was him, because he sent us personally signed In Deep Condolence cards.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds like Walker.”

“I don’t want to be disappeared, John! It would be very bad for my career. Promise me you’ll protect me. I am too young, too talented, and too utterly gorgeous in a fashionably understated way to be disappeared! It would be a crime against journalism.”

“Relax,” I said. “You’ll be fine. I can handle Walker.”

I don’t like to lie to people, unless I have to, but sometimes you have to say what people want to hear to get them to do what you want them to do. And I had to talk to Walker. He was the only one who might know where the Collector was hiding out these days, who might be willing to tell me. It was always a calculated risk, talking to Walker. In the end, when we finally run out of excuses, one of us is going to kill the other. I’ve always known that. And so has he.

We like each other. We’ve saved each other’s lives. It’s complicated. It’s the Nightside.

“Do you need your gift to find Walker?” Bettie asked, staring distractedly about her as though half-expecting him to suddenly appear out of some door or side alley, just from the mention of his name.

“No,” I said. “I know where he’ll be. Where he always is at this time. Taking tea at his Gentleman’s Club.”

“Walker belongs to a club?” said Bettie. “Result, darling! A definite exclusive! Which club?”

“There is only one club for those of Walker’s exalted position,” I said. “The oldest and most exclusive club in the Nightside. The Londinium Club.”

Bettie looked sharply at me. “But…that was destroyed. During the Lilith War. We published photos. That was where the Authorities were killed. And eaten.”

“Quite right,” I said. “But it’s back. Word is, the Club rebuilt itself. Any building that’s survived everything the Nightside can throw at it for over two thousand years isn’t going to let a little thing like being destroyed in a war slow it down.”

“Oh,” said Bettie. “Do you mind that I’m holding your arm?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

The last time I’d seen the Londinium Club, during the height of the Lilith War, it had been one hell of a mess. The magnificent Roman façade had been cracked and holed, smoke-blackened and fire-damaged. The great marble steps leading up to the single massive door had been fouled with blood and shit. And the Club’s legendary Doorman, who had kept out the uninvited and unwelcome for centuries beyond counting, had been torn apart, his severed head impaled on the railings. Inside, it had been even worse.

But now everything seemed back to normal, right down to the fully restored Roman façade. Which I’d always found rather crude, to be honest. There was a new Doorman, however. It seemed the Club could only restore itself, and not those who’d died defending it. Just as well, really. A lot of the Club’s members were no loss to anyone, for all their wealth and power. Anyone rich and powerful enough to belong to the Londinium Club had almost certainly done appalling and unspeakable things to get there. And that very definitely included Walker.