'He's been known to fit up people,' I said. The words were coming faster now, as my anger rose. 'When he finds it necessary, to throw someone to the wolves. He is much feared, occasionally admired, and practically everyone in the Nightside has tried to kill him, at one time or another. At the end of the day, he goes home to his wife and his family, in the everyday world, and forgets all about the Nightside. We're just a job to him. Personally, I think he sees this whole damned place as nothing more than a hideously dangerous freak show, full of things that bite. He'd nuke the Nightside and wipe us all out, if he thought he could get away with it. Except he can't, because his mysterious masters won't let him. Because they, and those like them, need somewhere to come and play the games they can't play anywhere else, to wallow in the awful pleasures they can't even admit to in the everyday world.
'This is Walker, Joanna. Don't trust him.' 'How very unkind,' Walker murmured. He pulled up another chair and sat down at our table, exactly half-way between Joanna and me. He crossed his legs elegantly and laced his fingers together on the table before him. All around us conversations were starting up again, as it became clear Walker hadn't come for any of them. He leaned forward across the table, and despite myself I leaned forward a little too,
to hear what he had to say. If Walker had taken an interest in me and my case, the situation had to be even more serious than I thought.
'People have been disappearing on Blaiston Street for some time now,' Walker said briskly. 'It took us a while to realise this, because they were the kind of people no-one misses. The homeless, the beggars, the drunks and drug-users. All the usual street trash. And even after the situation became clear, I saw no reason to become involved. Because, after all, no-one cared. Or at least, no-one who mattered. If anything, the area actually seemed to improve, for a while. By definition, anyone who ends up on Blaiston Street by choice has already opted out of the human race. But just recently ... a number of rather important people have walked into Blaiston Street, and never come out again. So the word has come down from Above for me to investigate.'
'Hold everything.' I gave Walker my best hard look. 'Just what would these
'Quite,' said Walker. If my hard look was bothering him, he hid it very well. 'None of them had any business being there. Blaiston Street has none of the usual attractions or temptations that might lead a normally sensible person to go slumming. It seems much more likely they were called, or possibly even summoned, there, by forces or individuals unknown. Except... if something that powerful had come into
the Nightside, we should have detected its presence long before now. Unless it's hiding from us. Which, strictly speaking, is supposed to be impossible. So, a mystery. And you know how much I hate mysteries, Taylor. I was considering what to do for the best when I learned you'd reappeared in the Nightside; and then everything just fell into place. I understand you're tracking a runaway.'
'This lady's daughter,' I said. Walker inclined his head to Joanna again.
'And your gift leads you to believe she's in Blais-ton Street?'
'Yes.'
'And you have reason to believe she was called there?'
'Not necessarily against her will.'
Walker made a vague dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. 'Then you have twelve hours, Taylor, to discover the secrets of Blaiston Street and do whatever is necessary to re-establish the status quo. Should you fail, I will have no choice but to fall back on my original plan, and destroy the whole damned street, and everything in it, now and forever.'
'You can't do that!' said Joanna. 'Not while my Cathy's still in there!'
'Oh yes he can,' I said. 'He's done it before. Walker's always been a great admirer of the scorched earth option. And it wouldn't bother him in the least if he had to sacrifice a few innocents along the way.
Walker doesn't believe anyone's innocent. Plus, by involving me he doesn't have to put one of his own people at risk.'
'Exactly,' said Walker. He rose gracefully to his feet, checking the time on an old-fashioned gold fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. 'Twelve hours, Taylor, and not a minute more.' He put the watch away and looked at me thoughtfully. 'A final warning. Remember... that nothing is ever what it seems, in the Nightside. I'd hate to think you've been away so long that you've forgotten such a basic fact of life here.'
He hesitated, and for a moment I thought he might be about to say something more, but then our waitress came trotting back with my freshly laundered trench coat, and the moment passed. Walker smiled tolerantly as the waitress displayed the spotless coat for my approval.
'Very nice, Taylor. Very retro. I must be off now, about my business. So much to do, and so many to be doing it to. Welcome back, Taylor. Don't screw up.'
He was already turning away to leave when I stopped him with my voice. 'Walker, you were my father's friend.'
He looked back at me. 'Yes, John, I was.'
'Did you ever find out what my mother was?'
'No,' he said. 'I never did. But if I ever do find her, I'll make her tell me. Before I kill her.'
He smiled briefly, touched his fingertips to the
brim of his bowler hat, and left the cafe. No-one actually watched him go, but the general murmur of voices rose significantly once the door was safely shut behind him.
'Just what is it with you and him?' Joanna said finally. 'Why did you let him talk to you like that?'
'Walker? Hell, I'd let him shit on my shoes if he wanted to.'
'I haven't seen you back down to anyone since we got here,' said Joanna. 'What makes him so special?'
'Walker's different,' I said. 'Everyone gives Walker plenty of space. Not for who he is, but for what he represents.'
'The Authorities?'
'Got it in one. Some questions are all the scarier for having no answer.'
'But who watches the watchmen?' said Joanna. 'Who keeps the Authorities honest?'
'We are drifting into decidedly murky philosophical waters,' I said. 'And we really don't have the time. Finish your nice Coke, and we'll go pay Blais-ton Street a visit.'
'About time!' said Joanna. And she gulped down the last of her icy Coke so fast it must have given her a headache.
NINE - A House
Blaiston Street butts onto the back end of nowhere. Shabby houses on a shabby street, where all the street-lights have been smashed, because the inhabitants feel more at home in the dark. Perhaps so they won't have to see how far they've fallen. I could practically feel the rats running for cover as I led Joanna down the street, but otherwise it was almost unnaturally still and quiet. Litter was piled everywhere in great festering heaps, and every inch of the dirty stone walls was covered in obscene graffiti. The whole place stank of decay—material, emotional and spiritual. All down the street, windows were missing, patched up with cardboard or paper or nothing at all.
Filth everywhere, from animals marking their territory, or from people who just didn't care any more. The houses were two rows of ancient tenements, neglected and despised, that would probably have fallen down if they hadn't been propping each other up.
Maybe Walker was right. A good bomb here could do millions of pounds of civic improvements.
And yet... something was wrong here. More than usually wrong. The street was strangely empty deserted, abandoned. There were no homeless hud died in doorways, or under sagging fire-escapes. No beggars or muggers, no desperate souls looking to buy or sell; not even a single pale face peering from a window. Blaiston Street usually seethed with life like maggots in an open wound. I could hear the sounds of traffic and people from adjoining streets, but the sound was muted, strangely far away, as though from another world.
'Where the hell is everybody?' said Joanna quietly.
