Nightingale lament

are busy inside the club, putting the stage set back together again. They're listening to you through me. What's the message?'

'Nothing good,' I said. 'The Cavendishes tried to make one of their singers into a superstar before. They had a young girl called Sylvia Sin magically aug­mented, to make her even more popular, and it turned her into a monster. Quite literally. I've seen what they did to her, what she became, and I don't want anything likethat to happen to Ross. I need her to sneak out of the club and join me somewhere safe, so we can work out what to do for the best. I don't trust the Caven­dishes to have her best interests at heart. It shouldn't be too difficult for Ross to get out. Bodyguards are usually more interested in watching for people trying to sneak in.'

Ian scowled fiercely. 'Sylvia Sin. There's a name I haven't thought of in a while. Always wondered what

happened to her. All right, one of me will talk to Ross. She might listen, now the Cavendishes have left the club. She always seems brighter and more independent when they're not around.'

'They do seem to have an unhealthy hold over her,' I said. 'Could they already have done something to her?'

'I don't know,' said Ian. 'No-one's allowed to get too close when the Cavendishes are in private conference with Ross. And there's no denying she's not been acting like herself since she came to live in that room over the club. You think if the Cavendishes have done something, that's what's causing the suicides?'

'Could be,' I said.

'All right,' said Ian. 'If I can get a message to her, and if I can get her out of the club, where do you want to meet? It has to be somewhere secure, somewhere she can feel safe, and somewhere she won't be noticed. She has got a pretty famous face now, you know.'

'I know the perfect place to hide a famous face,' said Dead Boy. 'Hide her in a whole crowd of famous faces. Tell Rossignol to meet us at Divas!'

Divas! is one of the more famous, or possibly infa­mous, nightclubs in Uptown, where you can go to see and hear all the most famous female singers in the his­tory of entertainment. Of course, none of them are real. They're not even female. The famous faces are in fact transvestites, men dressed up as the women they adore. But dressed in style and made up to the nines, the illu­sion is more than perfect, for these trannies have taken their obsession one step further than most - they have learned to channel the talents and sometimes the per­ sonalities of the divas concerned. Dead or alive, the greatest stars of show business all come to Divas!, in proxy at least.

Dead Boy had clearly been there before. The door­man held the door to the club open and bowed very low, and no-one asked us if we were members, or even to pay the cover charge. The hatcheck girl was a 1960s Cilia Black in a black bustier, and from the wink she dropped Dead Boy it was clear he was a regular. Cilia did her best to ignore me, but I'm used to that. Dead Boy is one of the Nightside's celebrities. I'm more of an anti-celebrity. We made our way into the club itself, which was all silks and flowers and bright colours. The furniture was all art deco, and everywhere you looked was every kind of kitsh fashion you ever shuddered at in disbelief. Chandeliers and disco balls hung side by side from the ceiling.

The main floor was crowded, and the noise level was appalling. The night is always jumping at Divas! Dead Boy and I edged between the tightly packed ta­bles, following a waitress. All the waitresses were channeling Liza Minnelli tonight, dressed in her Cabaret outfit. We ended up at a table tucked away in a corner and ordered over-priced drinks from the Liza. I asked for a glass of Coke, and then had to go through my usual routine of No, I don't want a Diet Coke! I want a real Coke! A man's Coke! And I don't want a bloody straw either! Dead Boy ordered a bottle of gin and the best cigar they had. I made a note of the prices for my expenses sheet. You have to keep track of things like that, or you can go broke on some cases.

'What if Rossignol doesn't turn up?' said Dead Boy, raising his voice to be heard over the general clamour. 'What if she can't get away?'

'Then we'll think of something else,' I said. 'Relax. Enjoy the show. It's costing us enough.'

'What do you mean us, white man?'

Up on the stage at the far end of the room, an Elaine and a Barbara were dueting on a pretty accurate rendi­tion of 'I Know Him So Well.' The channelling must be going well tonight. Other famous faces paraded across the floor of the club, there to see and be seen, stopping at tables to chat and gossip and show them­selves off. Marilyn and Dolly, Barbra and Dusty. Elaine and Barbara were replaced on stage by a Nico, who favoured us with her mournful voice and presence as she husked 'It Took More Than One Man to Change My Name to Shanghai Lily' into the microphone, ac­companying herself on the accordion. I just hoped she wouldn't do the Doors's 'The End.' There's only so much existential angst I can take before my ears start bleeding.

A few tables away, two Judys were having a vicious wig-pulling fight. Spectators cheered them on and laid bets.

And then Ian Auger came in, with Rossignol on his arm, and no-one in Divas! paid her any attention, because everyone assumed she was another trannie, per­haps a little more convincing than some. Ian escorted her over to our table, pulled out her chair for her, intro­duced her to Dead Boy, and politely but firmly refused to sit down himself.

'I can't hang about here. I've got to get back. There's still a lot of work to do in the club, and I don't want to be missed.'

'Any trouble getting Ross here?' I asked.

'Surprisingly, no. I just told the bodyguards that John Taylor was somewhere on the loose in the build­ing, and they all went running off to look for you. We strolled right out. Look, I really do have to go. Ross, remember you're due to go on again in just under an hour.'

Rossignol let him kiss her on the cheek, and he hur­ried away, his hunchback giving him a weird rolling gait. The waitress Liza came back to take Rossignol's order. I looked Rossignol over as she studied the wine list. She looked different. Same pale face, dark hair, lit­tle black dress. But she seemed somehow sharper, brighter, more focused. She looked up, caught me watching, and smiled broadly.

'Ah, John, it is so good to be out and about for a change. You know what I want? I want five whiskey sours. I want them all at once, all lined up in front of me so I can look at them while I'm drinking them. I'm never allowed to drink in Caliban's Cavern, by order of the Cavendishes, though strangely, mostly I don't want to. I stick to the healthy diet they provide, and I never complain, both of which are also very unlike me. Cake! I want cake! Bring me the biggest, gooiest chocolate gateau you have, and a big spoon! I want everything that's bad for me, and I want it right now!'

The waitress whooped with glee. 'You go, girl!'

I indicated for the waitress to bring Rossignol what she wanted, and the Liza tottered away on her high heels. Rossignol beamed happily.

'The Cavendishes are always very strict about what I'm allowed to have, and do. They act more like my mother than my managers.'

'I notice they didn't stop you smoking,' I said.

She snorted loudly. 'I'd like to see them try.' She stopped smiling suddenly and gave me a hard look. 'Ian tells me that you've been out and about on my behalf, speaking to people. And that you found out something concerning my predecessor with the Cavendishes. I re­member her face being on all the magazine covers, then . . . nothing. What did happen to her, John? What did the Cavendishes do to her?'

I told her enough of the story to scare her, without dwelling on some of the nastier details. Dead Boy shot me the occasional glance as he realised what I was doing, but he kept his peace. He'd already drunk half his bottle of gin and had started eating his cigar. When I finally finished, Ross let out a long sigh.

'I had no idea. The poor thing. And the Cavendishes did that to her?'

'More likely had it done,' I said. 'Have they ever offered to ... do anything for you?'

'No. Never.' Rossignol's voice was firm and sharp. 'I'd have told them where they could stick their magic. I don't need any of that shit to be a success. I'm a singer, and all I've ever needed are my songs and my voice.' And then she stopped and frowned suddenly. 'And yet, having said that. . . things have changed since I came to live in my little room over the club. My songs are always sad songs now. And there are some odd gaps in my memory. I feel cold, and tired, all of the time. And the way I act when the Cavendishes are around . . . doesn't feel like me at all. Could they have worked a magic on me, without my knowing?'