way, and that the world could use a good hard kick up its spiritual backside; but he’s wrong about the Nightside. It’s necessary. It serves a purpose.”
“Yes,” I said. “It does.”
“This is why I insisted on joining you on this case, as your partner,” said Julien. “I have to be here because I know the Sun King. He was my friend once, and a good man, as well as a great one. If you can find him, I’m sure I can reach him. And I wanted you on this case so I could prove that you are worthy to be Walker. Show the other Authorities you can stop a threat like the Sun King, and none of them will be able to deny your right to be Walker.”
“Every now and again, I forget how devious you can be,” I said. “I think some of me must be rubbing off on you.”
“What a truly appalling mental image,” said Julien.
I had to smile. “Been a long time since we worked together on a case, the two of us. How many years has it been? Not since . . .”
“We agreed never to talk about that,” Julien said sternly.
“So we did,” I agree. “I still see her around, sometimes . . .”
“Shut up, John.”
“Just saying . . .”
“Can you use your gift to find the missing Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille?”
I grinned. “I can try.”
I gave silent thanks for Alex’s potent pick-me-up and raised my gift. I reached out in all directions at once, feeling for the familiar sights and sounds and smells of the Hawk’s Wind, and got nothing. My mind raced round and round the Nightside in ever-expanding circles; and it felt like groping in the dark for something I knew should be there but that I couldn’t quite put my hand on. I could feel the Bar’s presence, in a faint and distant way, but only right at the edge of my perceptions, in a direction I could sense but not look in. Hidden behind a corner in reality. I let my mind drop back inside my head and looked at Julien.
“I’m sorry. It’s gone too far. I can sense the Bar, but I can’t reach it. I don’t think it’s even in our reality any more.”
“There must be something you can do!”
“There is,” I said. “And don’t you raise your voice to me! I’m not your butler!”
“Of course not,” said Julien. “She does what she’s told.”
I gave him a look, then carried on. “I can use my Sight to call up a vision of Time Past, and See what really happened when the Hawk’s Wind disappeared. Hopefully, that will give us some facts to work with.”
Julien nodded stiffly, so I raised my Sight and looked back into the recent Past; and there was the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille, back again, right before me. The ghost of a ghost, a vision of a haunting so real you could walk around inside it and order drinks. The Bar now looked to me more ghostly than it ever had before: all shimmering pastel colours and fraying edges. But even in the tinted shapes and shadows of the Past, it was still a magnificent sight. I reached out and placed a hand on Julien’s shoulder, making contact, so he could See what I was Seeing. I heard him take a sudden sharp breath as he saw the Past through my eyes.
A perfect monument to the swinging sixties, complete with rococo Day-Glo neon sign and a Hindu-latticed front door, the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille stood before us; but even as we watched, the whole structure began to shake and shudder, the walls fading in and out as the Bar lost all coherence. It began to fade away, then suddenly there was the English Assassin, standing in the doorway. He collapsed and fell forward onto the ground, and the whole scene vanished, and all that was left was the great hole in the ground.
I let go of Julien’s shoulder, and the real world, Time Present, returned for both of us. The hole was still a hole.
“Fascinating,” said Julien. “To see the Past unfold, all its secrets laid bare in a moment, living again before us . . . What I would give, to see the Nightside through your eyes, John.”
“I have enough ghosts in my life without calling up more,” I said. “The Past should stay where it belongs.”
“We’re not done yet,” said Julien. “We need to go further back, deeper into the Past, to see what happened inside the Bar before it disappeared. Can you do that, John?”
“I can try,” I said. “But you should brace yourself; there’s a reason why we choose to forget the past and leave it behind.”
I raised my gift and focused my Sight through it, to find exactly the section of Time Past I needed; and once again, the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille rose before me, faded and even more indistinct, the ghostly image of a ghost. I felt Julien’s hand drop onto my shoulder, the fingers closing tightly as the image filled his eyes again. I walked us towards the Hindu-latticed door, then right through it, and we walked into the memory of the Hawk’s Wind.
It looked as it always had: big Day-Glo Pop-Art posters, with colours so rich and powerful they by-passed your retinas and seared themselves directly onto your brain. Stylised plastic tables and chairs, flaring lights, great swirls of primary colours splashed across the walls and ceiling and floor. But all of it somehow smaller and diminished. Another remainder of Time Past. Like an old photograph of an old friend. A juke-box the size of a Tardis jumped and shuddered happily in a corner, pumping out an endless stream of hits from the sixties. There was no sound in my vision. I could see people talking animatedly at their tables, but not one word of what they were saying came to me. But from far and far-away, it seemed to me that I could hear Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” . . . In the centre of the great open floor, two gorgeous go-go dancers dressed mostly in bunches of white feathers danced energetically in two huge golden cages. Birds of paradise, indeed. I looked around the packed tables, and a number of familiar faces presented themselves, famous and important people from the Past, Present, and futures. The English Assassin was there, with his beautiful twin sister, Margaret, comparing ornate sonic pistols and arguing cheerfully over a roll of microfilm. Sebastian Stargave, the Fractured Protagonist, was taking tea with a golden-eyed cyborg. Zodiac the Mystical arranged his cloak fussily about him as he gave his order to the mini-skirted, gum- chewing waitress. And Pierrot and Columbine only had eyes for each other. A typical enough gathering for the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille.
Julien and I walked among them, the faded figures like so many ghosts and phantoms. Or perhaps we were the ghosts, moving unseen and unsuspected. I led the way, being careful not to walk through anything or anyone. The vision was fragile enough as it was, without my doing anything to damage it. And besides, it always pays to be careful when moving through the Past; you never know what might make waves . . . The English Assassin’s head came up suddenly, and he looked suspiciously around him as though disturbed by a presence he couldn’t quite put a finger on. He looked right at Julien and me, and even though he couldn’t see us, his steady gaze sent chills up my back. He finally shrugged quickly and resumed his conversation with his sister. Which, given who and what he is, was just as well. Julien studied the English Assassin thoughtfully.
“I’ve known him for so many years,” he said quietly. “With this name and that, one face or another. In the service of chaos, and law. And I’m still no nearer understanding him. He was as much an icon and a representative of the sixties as the Sun King; but he always stood for the darker aspects of that time.”
“You don’t need to lower your voice,” I said. “He can’t see or hear us. None of them can.”
Julien’s hand on my shoulder urged me forward, towards the rear of the Bar. We threaded our way between the tables and finally stopped at a little alcove by the window, and there he was . . . his younger self, sitting with his girl companion, Juliet. Julien didn’t look much different than he did now, but there was perhaps a more youthful sense to his smile, his gaze, the way he held himself. He certainly smiled a lot more than the man I was used to. And from the quiet sigh that came behind me, if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought Julien was looking at someone who’d died.
“Ah, Juliet,” he said. “We were so happy together, for a time.”
Juliet was a beautiful and vivacious English rose, with a porcelain complexion and long blonde hair, pale pink lips and flashing blue eyes, and a single small flower painted on one cheek. She wore a dress of black-and-white go-go checks, and tall, white, plastic boots with stiletto heels. And she was so alive: gesturing excitedly as she talked, tossing her long hair so it danced around her head, and silently teasing her more stolid and reserved companion.
“Why did I ever let you go, Juliet?” said Julien, in a voice so quiet I could barely hear it. There was something in that voice that would have broken the hearts of the two young people before us if only they could have heard it.
