I gave him a stern look. “I have a strong feeling the Garden might take that as an affront, or an attempt to break in. Either way, if I upset the wall, you can bet the alcove will disappear itself in a moment.”
“What if we can’t find a way in?” said Julien. “Some of these shabby gentlemen are getting a bit too close for my liking.”
“Follow me,” I said. “Keep your head up; they can smell fear. And don’t get too close to the wall. It might bite.”
We walked casually beside the wall for a while, both of us doing our best to appear confident and dangerous. Julien carried it off rather better than I did, with his great opera cape swirling around him. I’m more used to being sneaky and dangerous. Some of the rougher elements inhabiting the neighbourhood moved along with us, sticking to the shadows and maintaining a safe distance. They moved more like animals than anything human, their eyes gleaming brightly in the varying light. It didn’t take me long to find the alcove, built right into the wall, which I now realised had to be five to six feet thick. What did the original builders fear so much that they had to build a wall like this to keep it out? Or what did they need to keep inside their Garden?
The stone of the alcove was grey and dusty, nothing more than a rough enclosure to hold a single silver bell, hanging from a thick silver chain. The bell was delicately made and shone brightly in the gloom, as though it had been placed there only moments before. The surface of the bell had been deeply inscribed with old Celtic lettering that read, roughly,
“Oh, that is entirely too twee,” said Julien, when I translated it for him. “If a cake turns up that says
I checked the floor of the alcove carefully, for trap-doors and other booby-traps. You can’t be too careful, in the Nightside. I rang the bell sharply, and a clear, crystal sound rang out on the quiet night air, like a single note of grace in a hopeless setting. The local scavengers froze where they were, half out of their protective shadows, their grimy faces full of a strange wonder. The bell rang on and on, an intense but still beautiful sound, and still the scavengers didn’t move. They didn’t experience much in the way of beauty in what was left of their lives. The sound of the bell continued, long after it should have died away, as though it had to travel some unimaginable distance to reach the proper ears. But it finally fell silent, fading and fading away, and the cold, empty silence of the street returned. Julien and I waited for something to happen. The scavengers began to remember who and what they were and emerged from the shadows in larger and larger groups. Ragged men in ragged clothes, with wild, feral eyes and mouths full of broken, pointed teeth. Their clothing was such a mess I couldn’t even tell what it might have been originally. Bare hands and faces were grey with ground-in grime, and they padded on their bare feet as much as walked. These were beyond homeless; denied any of the comforts of civilisation, they had sunk down to brute basic needs and hungers, to the way of the beast.
“They say that in London, you’re never more than ten feet from a rat,” Julien observed carelessly. “In the Nightside, it would be more true to say that you’re never more than ten feet away from murder and sudden mayhem. I really don’t like the look of these unruly individuals. If a door doesn’t open in this wall very soon, it may become necessary for us to show these unfortunates exactly which of us is in charge here.”
“I think they already know that,” I said. “Given how many of them there are. Oh, look, they’ve moved to both sides of the street now, to surround us. How very ingenious of them. I suppose I could use my gift to find a hidden fault in this wall, and make a door . . . but there’s no telling how the wall’s protections would react to that. We might end up caught between a hard place and a very angry rock. Can’t you do something to scare them off? Go on, scold them in your posh voice. Nothing like an aristocratic tone to put the lower orders in their place.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, John,” said Julien. “Oscar told me that, at one of Whistler’s parties. I suppose I could tell them all about the overheads of running a daily newspaper. God knows that scares the crap out of me, every quarter. But I really don’t see why I should have to do the scary thing. You’re John Taylor! And Walker! You scare them off.”
I looked around. The scavengers were getting very close now, on every side, and growing steadily bolder as their numbers increased. Some had knives, some had broken bottles, some had chair legs and other improvised blunt instruments. They wanted our warm clothes and anything of value we had, and after they were finished taking that, they’d kill and eat us. Hopefully in that order. Nothing goes to waste in a place like this. When you fall off the edge in the Nightside, you fall all the way. I thought for a moment, considering my options, and I reached out with my gift and found the nearest over-priced restaurant. (Which you are also never very far from, wherever you go in the Nightside.) I gathered up all the food in the restaurant, made a connection with where I was, and it was the easiest thing in the world to bring all the food to me. (Simply a reverse variation on the magic I use to make things disappear.) (I’d been working on it.) Food rained down out of the night sky, hot and steaming and succulent. It hit the ground with a series of soft slaps, and lay there temptingly, while more and more of it fell from nowhere. For a moment the scavengers just stood where they were, watching with wide and unbelieving eyes. It had been a long time since they’d been anywhere near proper food. And then they rushed forward, forgetting all about Julien and me, and fell on the growing piles of food. They didn’t even have to fight over it; there was more than enough for everyone.
Julien looked at me. “All right . . . First, how the hell did you do that? And second, since when did you become altruistic?”
“First,” I said, “I am known for my useful little tricks. And second, I have been down and out in my time and know what it is to be hungry. And lost, and desperate. There was a time I looked a lot like them, and you would have walked right past me in the street, carefully not making eye contact. Always put a penny in the blind man’s hat, Julien, because the wheel always turns, and it turns for you as for anyone else.”
“You never cease to amaze me, John,” said Julien. “But this is no time to be getting soft.”
“Not going to happen,” I said. I turned away from him to study the alcove carefully. “Tell me about the Garden of Green Henge. You know more about the history of this place than I do. You know everything about the Nightside’s history.”
“No-one knows everything about the Nightside,” said Julien. “But Green Henge has always been an interest of mine . . . Yes. Well . . . Of course the Nightside would have its own Stonehenge, its very own Circle of Sacred Standing Stones. The Nightside has pretty much one of everything from all of recorded human history. And a whole lot of things it shouldn’t have, that got edited out of history, or written over. Palimpsests cover a multitude of sins. Except this particular item is a fake. A folly. It was constructed back in Victorian times, as part of the fashion. Society was very big on fake but picturesque ruins, back then, expertly designed to look dark and Gothic and battered by the weather, as though they were ready to fall apart or fall down at any moment.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“It was a fad,” Julien said patiently. “It didn’t have to make sense. It was the fashion, to have half a barn or a decrepit old water-wheel in your back garden, or to have an exact copy of some famous house or monument, so you could visit it without having to track half-way across the countryside. And the Nightside has never been a stranger to strange fads and fancies. Remember the craze for Pet Rocks?”
“Ah yes,” I said. “Just the things—for people with rocks in their heads.”
“How about the pet alien fad, from the eighties? You were nobody then, if you didn’t have your very own pet BEM, to parade through the park on a leash and make do tricks . . . to the admiring or at the very least envious gazes of all. I remember a whole bunch of complaints about that, from the various Alien embassies in the Nightside.”
“There aren’t any Alien embassies in the Nightside,” I said.
“Not any more, there aren’t. Apparently just because something is small, green, and cute doesn’t mean it isn’t some race’s Most Honoured Ambassador, who got a collar snapped round his neck when he was out taking a stroll. It also turned out that a lot of the little beggars were actually alien sociology students, observing Humanity. They decided the collars and leashes meant we were all serious S&M freaks, and called for their Home Bases to mount an Intervention, on moral-health grounds. The previous Walker put an end to that by taking them to the Pit night-club and showing them what real S&M looks like. Never heard another word from them, after that. They’re probably still holed up in their other-dimensional universities, writing very deep psychological papers about us. And don’t even get me started on the Great Tamaguchi Rebellion . . .”
“The things you know,” I said, admiringly.
“Mind full of trivia,” he said, grandly.
We broke off and looked around sharply as loud cracking and groaning noises filled the alcove, and one whole section of it opened inwards, forming a doorway into darkness. We both leaned in close for a better look, but there
