Jacqueline is in love with Hyde, and he with her, but they can only ever meet briefly, in the moment of the change.
She snarled at Walker and me, and her body exploded suddenly into muscle and bulk. Hyde stood swaying and growling before us, his huge hands clutching at the air, eager to rend and tear, break bones, and feast on their marrow. He towered over us, his brute face flushed with the hatred he felt for all Mankind. Jacqueline Hyde: two souls in one body, together and separated at the same time.
'Easy,' said Walker. 'Slow and easy, that's the way. You don't want to hurt us, Hyde. It's Walker. You remember Walker.'
If anyone else had tried the calm and reasonable routine, Hyde would have turned him into roadkill. But Walker was using the Voice, in a calm and soothing way, rather than his usual abrupt commands. Hyde's great head swayed slowly back and forth, deep-set eyes blinking confusedly under heavy eye-brow ridges, then he turned away suddenly and was gone, back into the shadows.
'I didn't know you could use your Voice like that,' I said.
'Lot you don't know about me, John,' Walker said cheerfully. 'I could write a book. If I only had the time.'
He moved easily among the soggy cardboard boxes and the piles of blankets, stepping carefully past and over the filth that covered the cobbled square. He greeted many of the homeless by name, as one by one they emerged from their shelters and hiding-places to crouch uneasily before him, like a pack of suspicious wild dogs. Most didn't want to get too close, but others fawned openly, begging for food or spare change, or a kind word-some sign that they had not been entirely forgotten by the real world. Walker murmured soft words and let them sniff his hands, and they quickly lost interest and retreated back to their own private little worlds. Walker smiled easily about him, in the last place you can fall to before the grave claims you for its own.
'This used to be Peter Pendrake,' said Walker, gesturing at a bundled-up figure pressed up against the rear of its mould-covered box. 'You used to work for me, didn't you, Peter? Until I caught you with your hand in the till.'
'Long time ago, Henry,' said a dry, ghostly voice from the shadows at the back of the box. 'I'm a different person now. You could take me back. I could still do the job.'
'That wasn't all I caught you doing, was it, Peter? You really were a very bad boy. But I'll tell you what; keep your eyes open and keep reporting in, and I'll think about it.'
A painfully thin man, stained and filthy, in the ragged remains of a futuristic pressure suit, huddled against the cold under a very basic lean-to. He clutched possessively at his bottle and hugged it to his chest, glaring at Walker with sullen defiance.
'This was the famous Jet Ace Brannigan,' said Walker. 'Air hero from some alternate time-line. Flew a supersonic jet of his own design, fighting crime in the skies. Then he flew through a Timeslip and ended up here. You used to work for me, too, didn't you, Ace? Hunting dragons in the night sky? Until the drink got to you, and you crashed your jet on a main street, killing one hundred and twenty-seven people. You walked away with hardly a scratch; but I couldn't let you fly again, after that.'
'I never used to drink,' said Ace. 'Until I met you.'
The last person Walker wanted me to see was a shivering wreck of a man, trying to keep out the cold and the damp with a single thin blanket. He looked a hundred years old, his face the colour of bleached bone, his features hidden behind heavy wrinkles. He turned his head away, not wanting to be seen. Walker considered him for a long moment.
'This pathetic wreck used to be Somerset Smith, Gentleman Adventurer,' he said finally. 'Worked for Hadleigh, then for me, taking care of all those important, necessary, but very unpleasant situations that sometimes have to be dealt with quietly, by expendable people like yourself, John. Quite a name in his time, was Somerset; had a hell of a reputation. But then he tried to bring me down, and I broke him. A lot of my enemies end up in places like this. So much more satisfying than simply killing them.'
'Are you warning me?' I said. 'Or threatening me?'
'What do you think, John?' said Walker.
Everywhere we went, people noticed Walker. They smiled and bowed, glared and turned their faces away… but no-one ever ignored him. Walker was the Man. Everyone knew who he was, and what he did. But the one thing they all had in common, when you looked past the smiles and pleasant words, was that no-one was ever genuinely pleased to see Walker. A lot of them faked it remarkably well, so well that perhaps only a trained and experienced eye like mine might have spotted the falseness; but I knew. And I was pretty sure Walker did, too. I had to wonder if Walker had any real friends any more, or if he'd only see that as a weakness others would exploit. He kept his wife and his sons outside the Nightside, in an entirely separate life.
I knew, though, that he used to have friends. Good friends. There were three of them, tight as brothers and thick as thieves, three young men determined to get on in the world and change it for the better. Henry, who became Walker. Mark, who became the Collector. And Charles, my father.
I said as much to Walker, but he just shrugged.
'I don't have time for my family, let alone friends. The job is everything: my life, my wife, my mistress… It's very demanding. The thing about duty and responsibility is that they're like the Old Man of the Sea. Once you pick them up, you can't put them down again. Ever. You carry the weight of them until you drop in your tracks, and the best you can hope for is that there'll be someone to take up the burden for you. I thought I knew what I was taking on, when I started; but I didn't. You can't know, you can't understand, how big the job is until you're carrying the whole weight of it on your shoulders. You think this is the life I wanted, John? The life I would have chosen for myself? I don't run the Nightside; it runs me.'
'You're not exactly selling me on taking over,' I said. 'What about Hadleigh? He was in charge before you. How did he cope?'
'Arguably, he didn't,' said Walker. 'He gave it all up and ran away to the Deep School, and now he's the Detective Inspectre. Whatever the hell that is. No-one gets to retire from this job, John. We go crazy, or get killed, or drop in our tracks. But… it's the only job worth doing. There's nothing else like it.'
We were walking through Uptown now, where the very best and the very worst came to wine and dine, to see and be seen. Walker moved easily amongst the celebrities and the Major Players, greeting them all by name and putting them in their places if they got too familiar. All he had to do was murmur his wishes, and people jumped to obey. I never got that, for all my hard-won reputation.
'You see, John?' Walker said finally. 'My job isn't to punish the guilty or strike down the wicked. Or even to rescue and preserve the good. It's all about maintaining the status quo. Dealing with all the stresses as they arise, playing one faction against another, encouraging this individual or slapping down that one. I keep the lid on, maintain a steady balance, so that the wheels of business can turn smoothly, and everyone who comes here can get everything they think they want. The Nightside exists to cater to and contain all the darker elements in the world; and it's my responsibility to prevent any of it from spilling over into the unsuspecting everyday world.
'If it were up to me, I'd nuke the whole sick freak show and be done with it. But since the Powers That Be won't let me, I walk the night and do my best to keep the freaks in their cages.'
I stopped, and Walker stopped with me. I gave him my best hard look.
'Enough. Enough, Walker. I don't need to hear any more. And I've seen everything I need to see.'
He smiled briefly. 'You haven't seen anything yet. The Nightside is bigger than you know, bigger than you ever suspected, and so are my duties and responsibilities. I can't hand this over to just anyone.'
'How many times do I have to say it, Walker? I don't want your job! I don't want it, don't need it, and I wouldn't be any good at it if I did. Let the new Authorities choose your successor.'
'You'd trust them to do that?'
'More than I trust you,' I said.
He smiled again. 'Very good, John. You're learning.'
'I'm not going any further. I have a case, remember? And you know something about Tommy Oblivion. Tell me what it is.'
'All right,' said Walker. 'It was Mark. The Collector has finally lost it. He's moved on from collecting things to collecting people. Famous, important, or interesting people; they're all trophies to him now. Find his current lair, wherever it is, and there you'll find Tommy Oblivion; and all the other missing people. But be careful, John. I can't speak for Mark's state of mind any more. Best of luck. Talk to you again later.'
