Nightingale lament

'Damn, they really put a world of hurt on you. What did you do to make them mad?'

'I was just being me,' I said, trying hard to keep my voice sounding light and effortless. 'I have this effect on a lot of people. What are you doing here?'

'Oh, we're all just hanging out. We run errands, sign fan photos for the stars, do a bit of everything really, just to help out. In return, we get to hang, hear all the latest gossip first. And sometimes we even get to meet the stars, when they show up here. Our favourite's Rossignol, of course.'

'Of course,' I said.

'Oh, she is just the best! Sings like a dark angel, love and death all wrapped up in one easy-on-the-eyes package. She sings like she's been there, and it's all going to end tomorrow ... we all just adore Rossignol!'

'Yeah,' said a skull-faced boy, in his best sepulchral growl. 'We all love Rossignol. We'd die for her.'

'What makes her so special?' I asked. 'Worth dying for?'

They all looked at me like I was mad.

'She is just so cool, man!' a barely legal girl said finally, tossing her long black hair angrily, and I knew that was all the answer I was going to get.

'So,' said one of the others. 'Are you, you know, anyone?'

'I'm John Taylor,' I said.

They all looked at me blankly and went back to their magazines and their conversations. If you weren't in the music biz, you weren't anyone. And none of them gave a damn about my condition or predicament. They wouldn't risk doing anything that might get them banned from the office and their chance to meet the stars. Fans. You have to love them.

The door to the inner office swung open, and the Somnambulists reappeared. They headed straight for me, and I tried not to wince. They picked me up with brutal efficiency and half carried, half dragged me into the inner office. They dumped me on the floor again, and it took me a moment to get my breath back. I heard the door close firmly shut behind me. I forced myself up onto my knees, and then two hands slapped down hard on my shoulders to keep me there. Two stern fig­ures were standing before me, wearing matching frowns, but I deliberately looked away. The inner office was surprisingly old-fashioned, almost Victorian in its trappings - all heavy furniture and solid comforts. Hundreds of identical books lined the walls, looking as old and well used as the furniture. No flowers here. The room smelled close and heavy, like clothes that had been worn too long.

Finally, I looked at my hosts. The Cavendishes re­sembled long spindly scarecrows clad in undertakers' cast-offs. Even standing still, there was something awkward and ungainly about them, as though they

might topple over if they lost concentration. Their clothes were City Gent, both the man and the woman - characterless, anonymous, timeless. Their faces were unhealthily pale, the skin unnaturally perfect, without flaw or blemish, with that tight, taut look that usually comes from too many face-lifts. I didn't think so, in their case. The Cavendishes' faces were unlined be­cause they'd probably never experienced an honest emotion in their lives.

They both stepped forward suddenly, to stand right in front of me, and their movements were eerily synchronised. Mr. Cavendish had short dark hair, a pursed pale mouth, and a flat, almost emotionless glare, as though I was less an enemy than a problem that needed solving. Mrs. Cavendish had long dark hair, good bone structure, a mouth so thin there were hardly any lips to it, and exactly the same eyes.

They made me think of spiders, contemplating what their web had brought them.

'You have no business here,' the man said suddenly, the words cold and clipped. 'No business. Isn't that right, Mrs. Cavendish?'

'Indeed it is, Mr. Cavendish,' said the woman, in a very nearly identical voice. 'Up to no good, I'll be bound.'

'Why do you interfere in our business, Mr. Taylor?' said the man.

'You must explain yourself,' said the woman.

Their manner of speech was eerily identical, almost without inflection. Their gaze bored into mine, stern and unblinking. I tried a friendly smile, and a thin rill of blood spilled down my chin from a split lip.

'Tell me,' I said. 'Is it really true you're brother and sister as well as husband and wife?'

I braced myself for the beating, but it still hurt like hell. When the Somnambulists finally stopped, at some unseen signal, it was only their grip on my shoulders that kept me upright.

'We always use Somnambulists,' said the man. 'The very best kind of servants. Isn't that so, Mrs. Cavendish?'

'Indeed yes, Mr. Cavendish. No back talk, and no treacherous independence.'

'Good help is so hard to find these days, Mrs. Cavendish. A sign of the times, I fear.'

'As you have remarked before, Mr. Cavendish, and quite rightly.' The woman and the man looked at me all the time they were speaking, never once even glancing at each other.

'We know of you, John Taylor,' said the man. 'We are not impressed, nor are we disposed to endure your famous insolence. We are the Cavendishes. We are Cavendish Properties. We are people of substance and of standing, and we will suffer no intrusions into our affairs.'

'Quite right, Mr. Cavendish,' said the woman. 'You are nothing to us, Mr. Taylor. Normally, you would be utterly beneath our notice. You are only one little man, of dubious parentage. We are a corporation.'

'The singer Rossignol is one of our Properties,' said the man. 'Mrs. Cavendish and I own her contract. Her career and life are ours to manage, and we always pro­tect what's ours.'

'Rossignol belongs to us,' said the woman. 'We own everything and everyone on our books, and we never let go of anything that's ours.'

'Except to make a substantial profit, Mrs. Cavendish.'

'Right you are, Mr. Cavendish, and I thank you for reminding me. We don't like anyone taking an un­healthy interest in how we manage our affairs, Mr. Tay­lor. It is no-one's business but ours. Many would-be heroes have tried to meddle in our concerns, down the years. We are still here, and mostly they are not. A wise man would deduce a useful lesson from these facts.'

'How are you planning to stop me?' I said, not quite as distinctly as I would have liked. My lower lip was swelling painfully. 'These sleeping beauties can't fol­low me around all the time.'

'On the whole, we deplore violence,' said the man. 'It's so ... common. So we have others perform it for us, as necessary. If you annoy us again, if you so much as approach Rossignol again, you will be crippled. And if you choose not to heed that warning, you will be killed. In a sufficiently unpleasant manner to discour­age any others who might presume to interfere in our business.'

'Still,' said the woman, 'we are reasonable people, are we not, Mr. Cavendish?'

'Business people, Mrs. Cavendish, first and fore­most.'

'So, let us talk business, Mr. Taylor. How much do you require to work for us, and only us?'

'To become one of our people, Mr. Taylor.'

'A valued part of Cavendish Properties, and thus en­titled to enjoy our goodwill, remuneration, and protec­ tion.'

'Not a chance in hell,' I said. 'I'm for hire, not for sale. And I already have a client.'

The Somnambulists stirred on either side of me, and I flinched despite myself, expecting another beating. A sensible man would have played along, but I was too angry for that. They'd taken away my pride—all I had left was my defiance. The Cavendishes sighed in uni­son.

'You disappoint us, Mr. Taylor,' said the woman. 'I think we will let the proper Authorities deal with you, this time. We have already contacted Mr. Walker, to complain about your unwanted presence, and he was most interested to learn of your present location. It seems he is most anxious to catch up with you. He is on his way here now, in person, to express his displeasure with you and take you off our hands. Whatever can you have done, Mr. Taylor, to upset him so?'

'Sorry,' I said. 'I never kiss and tell.'

The Somnambulists started to move again, and I reached into an inside pocket of my trench coat and grabbed one of the packets I kept there for emergen­cies, recognising it immediately by shape and texture. I pulled the packet out as the Somnambulists leaned over me, tore it open, and threw the pepper into their faces. The heavy dark powder hit them squarely in the nose and eyes, and they both breathed it in before they could stop themselves. And then they were both sneezing, loud, vicious sneezes that made their whole bodies con­vulse. Tears rolled out from under their closed eyes, and they fell back from me, sneezing so hard and so often they