Something from the Nightside

our mental breath back. The Nightside will grind down the toughest of spirits, if you don't learn to take the occasional pit stop, when you can. Joanna didn't want to go, with Blaiston Street and the answer to her daughter's fate now so close at hand, hopefully, but I insisted. And she must

have been tired and shaky too, because she'd actually stopped arguing before we reached our destination.

The Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill is a sight to see, something special even among the Nightside's many dark wonders, and I stopped outside a moment, so Joanna could appreciate it. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the mood. Which was a pity. It's not every day you get to see such a perfect monument to the psychedelic glories of the sixties, complete with rococo Day-Glo neon and Pop Art posters with colours so bright they practically seared themselves onto your retinas. The Hindu latticed doors swung politely open before us as I urged Joanna in, and I breathed deeply of the familiar air of the sixties as we entered the cafe; joss sticks and patchouli oils, a dozen kinds of smoke, all kinds of freshly brewing coffee, and a few brands of hair oil best forgotten.

The place was packed and jumping, as always, all the hits of the sixties throbbing loudly on the thick air, and I smiled about me at familiar faces as I led Joanna through the maze of tables to find a reasonably private spot at the rear of the cafe'. Strange-fellows is where I go to do business, or a little private brooding; Hawk's Wind is where I go for the peace of my soul. Joanna looked disparagingly at the stylised plastic table and chairs, but sat down with a minimum of fuss. I liked to think she was beginning to trust my instincts. Her nostrils twitched suspiciously at the multicultural atmosphere, and I pre-

tended to study the oversized hand-written menu while she looked about her. There was always a lot worth looking at in the Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill.

The decor was mostly flashing lights and psychedelia, with great swirls of primary colours on the walls, the ceiling and even the floor. A jukebox the size of a Tardis was pumping out an endless stream of hits and classics from the sixties pop scene, blithely ignoring the choices of those stupid enough to put money in it. The Kinks had just finished 'Sunny Afternoon,' and the Lovin' Spoonful launched into 'Daydream.' My foot tapped along as I unobtrusively studied Joanna while she studied the faces around her. The tables around us were crowded with travellers from distant lands and times, heroes and villains and everything in between. Plus a special sprinkling of the kind of people who could only ever have felt at home in a place like this. Names and faces, movers and shakers, and all the unusual suspects.

The Sonic Assassin was showing off his new vi-bragun to the Notting Hill Sorcerer. The timelost Victorian Adventurer was treating his new sixties stripper girlfriend to the very best champagne. The Amber Prince was sitting alone, as usual, trying to remember how he got there. Any number of spies, ostentatiously not noticing each other. And for a wonder, all five Tracy brothers at the same table. While off in a far corner, what looked like the whole damned Cornelius clan were being their usual raucous selves, running up a tab they had no intention of paying. I had to smile. Nothing much ever changed here. Which was, of course, part of the attraction. The Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill was happily and proudly free of the tyranny of passing Time.

In the centre of the great open floor, two go-go dancers dressed in little more than bunches of white feathers were dancing energetically in ornate golden cages, fragging and bobbing their heads for all they were worth. The one in the silver wig winked at me, and I smiled politely back. A waitress came tripping over to our table in eight-inch pink stiletto heels, plastic mini skirt, starched white man's shirt and a positively precarious beehive hairdo. I stood up and peeled off my trench coat, indicating the blood-soaked material, and the waitress nodded brightly.

'Oh sure, JT; anything for you, baby! Welcome back, daddy-o; looking good! You wanna order yet?'

She was chewing gum, and her voice was an irri-tatingly high-pitched squeal, but there was no denying she was authentic as hell. I sat back down and handed her the menu.

'Two Cokes, please, Veronica. Nothing else. And fast as you can with the coat. I'm in the middle of a case.'

'Never knew you when you weren't, dearie. Any messages from the future?'

'Invest in computers.'

'Groovy!'

And off she went, swaying on her heels like a ship at sea. Friendly hands reached out to her from all sides, but she avoided diem with practised ease and vicious put-downs. A beatnik stood up to recite some poetry, and we all threw things at him. The Animals were singing an uncensored version of 'House of the Rising Sun.' Try and find that one on a CD compilation. Joanna leaned forward across the plastic table to glare at me.

'Tell me you haven't dragged me into some hideous sixties theme cafe. I lived through the sixties, and once was more than enough- And we definitely don't have the time to hang around here while they launder your coat! Cathy is close now. I can feel it.'

'We could spend a month in here, and not one second would have passed in the street outside,' I said calmly. 'It's that kind of place. And the laundry here really is something special. They ship your clothes all the way to China and back, and guarantee it'll come back spotless. They could get all the markings out of the Turin Shroud, and add double starch for no extra charge.'

'I need a drink,' Joanna said heavily. 'And not some damned Coke, either.'

'Trust me; you're going to love the Cokes they serve here. Because this cafe isn't a re-creation of the sixties. This is the genuine article.'

'Oh bloody hell. Not another Timeslip.'

'Not as such ... The original Hawk's Wind Bar &

Grill was a hang-out for all the great sixties adventurers and cosmic spirits, and much loved in its day, but unfortunately the cafe burned down in 1970; possibly in self-immolation, as a protest over the Beatles splitting up. It was due to be replaced by some soulless, boring business school, but luckily the cafe was so fondly remembered by its famous and gifted patrons that it came back, as a ghost. This whole establishment is one big haunting, a deceased building still stubbornly manifesting long after the original was destroyed.

'A ghost caf6.

'The people, on the other hand, are mostly real. Either Time-tripping in from the sixties, or just getting into the spirit of the thing. The Hawk's Wind is a genius loci for all that was good and great about the Swingingest era of them all. And because the cafe' isn't real, you can order all kinds of things here that haven't existed since the sixties. Ghost food and drink, which as it isn't real, can't affect a real body. The ultimate in slimming diets; and your last chance to wallow in some serious nostalgia. How long has it been since you've tasted a real Coke, Joanna?'

Our waitress was back, bearing two old-fashioned chunky glass bottles with crimped-on caps, balanced expertly on a tin tray decorated with photos of the Monkees. She slammed the crimped tops expertly against the edge of the table. The caps flew through the air, but not one frothy bubble rose above the

mouth of the neck. She placed a bottle before each of us, and dipped in curly-wurly plastic straws. She flashed a grin, cracked her gum, and wiggled off while Joanna looked dubiously at the bottle before her.

'I do not need a straw. I am not a child.'

'Go with it. It's all part of the experience. This ... is real Coke. The old, sugar-rich, caffeine-heavy, thick syrup and taste-intensive kind you can't get any more; except in certain parts of Mexico, apparently, which just goes to show. Try it, Joanna. Your taste-buds are about to convulse in ecstasy.'

She took a sip, and so did I. She took several more, and so did I. And then we both sat back in our plastic chairs, oohing and aahing appreciatively, while the dark liquid ran through our bodies, jump-starting all our tired systems. You don't know what you've got till it's gone, was crooning from the jukebox, and I could only nod in agreement.

'Damn,' said Joanna, after a respectful pause. 'Damn. This is the real thing, isn't it? I'd forgotten how good Coke used to be. Is it expensive?'

'Not here,' I said. 'This is the sixties, remember? They accept coins from all periods here, and IOUs. No-one wants to risk being barred.'

Joanna had relaxed a little, but her mouth was still set in a firm line. 'This is all very pleasant, John, but I didn't come into the Nightside to be entertained. My daughter is only a few streets away now, accord-

ing to you. What are we doing here, when we should be rescuing her?'

'We're here because we need to get our breath back. If we're going to venture into Blaiston Street, we're going to have to be fresh, sharp, and have every last one of our wits about us. Or they'll chop us off at the ankles