people. Or at least, so many people who didn’t want to kill me. There were friends, and enemies, and a great many people who’d been one or the other or both at various times in my life. That’s the Nightside for you. Everyone seemed to be getting on quite amiably together. Cheap booze and no closing time will do that for you.
People smiled and nodded and even waved as I made my way through the crowd, but no-one actually interrupted their drinking or carousing to talk to me, which was fine by me. I’ve never been the demonstrative kind, and casual acquaintances hug or air-kiss me at their peril. Besides, I was still feeling distinctly fragile, from overusing my gift. My right nostril stopped bleeding after I shoved half an ice cube up it, but my head still ached fiercely, and my bones creaked and protested with every movement. Sometimes I wonder whose side my gift is on.
I reached the long wooden bar and leaned heavily on it, and the bartender gave me a stern look. Even at my farewell party and pre-nuptial send-off, Alex Morrisey was still dressed all in black, complete with dark glasses and a stylish beret. (Pulled well forward to conceal a receding hair-line. Even though it fooled absolutely nobody.) Alex wasn’t going to let a small thing like general celebration and goodwill all round get in the way of his being a full- time gloomy bugger and first-class pain in the arse. Alex could brood for the Olympics and still take a bronze in feeling hard done by. He looked me over and sniffed loudly.
“Buddha on a bike, look at the state of you. People usually wait till the end of their stag do to look that bad. Only you could walk into your last night of freedom looking like something the cat threw up.”
“Never mind the words of welcome, Alex,” I growled. “I am much in need of an industrial-strength pick-me- up.”
“Never knew you when you weren’t.” Alex produced a dusty bottle from underneath the counter and slammed it on the bartop a few times, in a vain attempt to get the contents to settle. He then poured a couple of fingers of thick pink liquor into a glass and pushed it towards me. “Try this. I keep it handy for really apocalyptic hangovers. It’s called Angel’s Breath.”
I looked at the drink suspiciously. “Is it really . . .”
“No of course it isn’t. Truth in advertising never did catch on in the Nightside. This stuff is only called Angel’s Breath because if you knew what really went into it, you wouldn’t touch it even if someone put a gun to your head. In fact, that’s usually the best way to take it. Now hurry up and knock it back, before it starts scouring out the inside of the glass, and you can have a nice sweetie afterwards to take the taste away.”
I knocked it back in one, doing my best to sneak it past my tongue. There was a brief taste of something very like orange, followed by the most vile and awful taste I have ever encountered. And I’ve been around. My taste buds exploded with fear and loathing, the whole of my mouth shrivelled up in panic, and tears of pure affront leapt from my eye-balls before the lids squeezed shut in self-defence. I grabbed on to the bar with both hands, making loud noises of distress. When I have really bad nightmares, I can still almost remember that taste. When I was finally able to force my eyes open again, Alex was waiting politely before me with a glass of Lourdes Coke. I snatched it from him and drank it thirstily. It helped. When I finally put the glass down, I was surprised to find that I actually felt human again, with no more aches or pains. I wasn’t entirely sure that was worth what I’d just been through . . . “There,” said Alex, smugly. “Wasn’t that a fuss to make over a nasty taste?”
I thought about it. “No,” I said, very firmly. “Half my taste buds are still crying their eyes out, and the other half are threatening to sue for post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Alex cackled happily. “Big girl’s blouse. Come on; you’ve got some serious drinking to do if we’re to get you into a suitable state for your stag do. This is going to be a night to remember! People will speak of it for years to come, in hushed and respectful whispers, saying
I gave him a hard look. “I told you—no strippers.”
Alex grinned and leaned forward across the bar. “I can’t believe you chose me to be best man at your wedding. I’m going to have to make a speech, aren’t I? Oh, the possibilities for embarrassment and revenge . . .”
“Suzie will be sitting right next to you,” I pointed out. “And yes, she will most definitely have a gun somewhere about her person.”
“Duly noted,” said Alex. “I won’t mention Deirdre Birchwood then.”
“Best not to,” I agreed.
I looked down to the end of the bar, where Alex’s pet vulture Agatha was no longer crouched brooding on her post. She’d finally laid her egg. It was a great deal bigger than any vulture’s egg had a right to be, and it was a deep black in colour. The vulture was sitting on the egg, with a certain amount of support from two side cushions, and was cooing contentedly. Alex sniggered.
“When she finally laid that thing, you could hear the outraged sounds she was making out in London Proper. She was really quite indignant about the whole affair.”
“I’ve never seen a black egg before,” I said. “And certainly not an egg as dark as that . . .”
Alex nodded slowly. “If you look close enough, it’s full of stars.”
“Any idea yet what the father was, that was actually brave enough to have sex with that vulture?” I said.
“I have been giving the matter a great deal of thought,” said Alex. “There is a betting pool if you’re interested. After some consideration, I would have to say my money is on my own appalling ancestor, Merlin Satanspawn. A lot of the legends have him down as a shape-shifter.”
“But . . . he’s been dead for centuries!”
“Didn’t stop him from sleeping with my ex-wife.”
“All these years in the Nightside, and I still can’t believe where some of my conversations end up,” I said.
Alex regarded me thoughtfully, pulling down his stylish shades so he could peer at me over the top of them. “Seriously though, John. Why me? Why choose me to be best man?”
“You’re my oldest friend,” I said. “And, on occasion, my oldest enemy. And everything in between. Who else has suffered all the things we’ve been through? Who else has seen the things we’ve seen? We have heard the chimes at midnight, and laughed in the face of gods and monsters. Nobody knows the trouble we’ve known . . . And isn’t that what being best man is all about? Plus, I was best man at your wedding.”
“And look how well that turned out,” said Alex. “I’d sue you if I had a sue. But you’re right; it does fall to me as your oldest friend and foe and occasional legal advisor to guide you through the horrors to come as you embark on the stormy seas of matrimony.”
“You are so good to me, Alex.”
“Did you get a pre-nup? Tell me you got a pre-nup!”
I had to smile. “We did have some good times together in this place, didn’t we, Alex?”
He glared at me. “If you start getting maudlin this early in the party, I will slap you a good one, and it will hurt.”
“You’re quite right,” I said. “Don’t know what came over me.”
I put my back against the wooden bar and looked out over the crowded room. Up on the small elevated stage, the band was really getting into it. Leo Morn and his band were providing live music (or at least something very like it). I’d agreed to let them play for sentimental reasons, and was already regretting it. Leo prowled back and forth across the stage, striking a series of rock poses as he belted out the lyrics. A skinny wild-eyed presence in purple jeans, with a very hairy torso, he was currently singing Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Down in front of the stage, Betty and Lucy Coltrane, Alex’s body-building lady bouncers, were tangoing wildly, giving it lots of erotic action and passing the rose stem back and forth between their teeth. An Ann-Margret channeller from
Leo Morn crashed to the end of his song, his musicians stopped playing at pretty much the same time, and there was actually some perfunctory applause. Or perhaps they were showing how pleased they were that it had stopped. Leo showed his teeth in a few defiant snarls, jumped down from the stage, and slouched over to join me at the bar. He’d been sweating up a cloud on stage, and carried with him the smell of a large dog that has recently been exercised. Alex had a vodka and mistletoe waiting for him, and Leo drank it thirstily.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll bite. What are you calling the band this week?”
