Nightingale lament

'It's possible,' I said carefully. 'They could have done something, then made you forget it. The Cavendishes don't strike me as being particularly bur­dened with professional ethics.'

The waitress arrived with the five whiskey sours on a tray. Rossignol cooed happily as they were lined up in front of her, then knocked back the first two, one after the other. She breathed heavily for a moment, then giggled happily, like a small child who's just done something naughty and doesn't give a damn. 'Yes! Oh yes! That hit the spot!' She smiled charmingly at me, then at Dead Boy. 'So, what's it like, being dead?'

'Don't tell her!' I said sharply, then looked apolo­getically at the startled singer. 'Sorry about that, but some questions are best left unanswered. Especially when it concerns him.'

'Like why he's eating that cigar instead of smoking it?'

'Very probably.'

She smiled at me again, a warm and embracing mo­ment quite at odds with her earlier, somewhat distanced personality. 'You've been known to avoid answering questions yourself on occasion, monsieur mystery man.' Her French accent had become slightly more pronounced after the third whiskey sour. I couldn't get over how alive she seemed. She looked at me thought­fully. 'You don't really think the Cavendishes would do anything to harm me, do you? I mean, they're rely­ing on me to make them a great deal of money.'

'Maybe they thought they were helping Sylvia,' I said. 'But there's the suicides, Ross. The Cavendishes have to be connected to that somehow. I don't trust them, and you shouldn't either. You say the word, and Dead Boy and I will take you away from them right now. We'll find you somewhere safe to lie low while

we get some lawyers in to check out your contract, and maybe a few experts to make sure you haven't been messed about with magically. You don't have to worry. I can guarantee your safety. I know any number of peo­ple who'd be only too happy to bodyguard you. Not very nice people, perhaps, but. . .'

'No,' said Rossignol, kindly but firmly. 'It's a very generous offer, John, and I do appreciate you're only trying to help, but...'

'But?'

'But this is my big break. My chance to be a star. No-one has connections like the Cavendishes. They really can get me a contract with a major recording studio. I have to do this. I have to sing. It's all I've ever wanted, all I've ever cared about. I can't back out now. I won't back out over what could be just a case of nerves. You don't have any proof they've done anything wrong, do you?'

'No,' I said. 'But the suicides . . .'

She grimaced. 'Trust me, I haven't forgotten. I'll never forget the look on that poor man's face as he pulled the trigger right in front of me. He looked right into my eyes, and he was smiling ... I can't let that go on. My singing was always supposed to make people feel good! I wanted to lift their hearts and comfort them, send them back out to face the world feeling re­newed ... If the Cavendishes really have done some­thing to corrupt my songs, my voice .. .' She shook her head sharply. 'Oh, I don't know! I don't know what to do!' She picked up the fourth whiskey sour and stared at it moodily.

We all sat and considered the matter for a while. Up on the stage, a Whitney was singing 'I Will Always Love You.' Rossignol sniffed loudly.

'Never cared for that. Far too strident.'

'I prefer the Dolly Parton version,' said Dead Boy, unexpectedly. 'More warmth.'

I looked at him. 'You're just full of surprises, aren't you?'

'You have no idea,' said Dead Boy.

Rossignol put the fourth whiskey sour to one side as the chocolate gateau arrived. It really was very big, with scrapings of dark and white chocolate sprinkled on the top. Rossignol made ooh- and aah-ing noises, and her eyes went very wide. She grabbed the spoon and stuck it in, and soon there were chocolate smears all round her mouth. I considered her thoughtfully. An unpleasant idea had suggested itself. Perhaps the rea­son why this Rossignol seemed so different from the one I'd encountered at Caliban's Cavern, was because this was an entirely different Rossignol. Another dupli­cate, like the tulpa who'd wrecked the Night Times's offices. It would explain a lot, including how she'd been able to get out of the club so easily.

'I think I need to go to the little boy's room,' I said loudly, giving Dead Boy a meaningful look.

'Fine,' he said. 'Thanks for sharing that with us, John.'

'This is the first time I've been to this club,' I said pointedly. 'Why don't you show me where the Gents is?'

'I've never had to use it,' said Dead Boy. 'One of the few advantages of being dead.'

I glared at him and made furious eyebrow gestures while Rossignol was busy making ecstatic chocolate-

eating noises, and he finally got the point. We got to our feet, excused ourselves, and headed for the nearby door marked Stand Up. Once inside, the shiny-tiled ex­panse was empty apart from a Kylie standing at the uri­nal with his skirt hiked up. Dead Boy and I waited until he'd finished, taking a keen interest in the vending ma­chines, and once the Kylie was gone, Dead Boy gave me a hard look.

'This had better be important, John. Just being in here alone with you is undoubtedly doing my reputa­tion no good at all.'

'Shut up and listen. The Cavendishes have already sent one duplicate Rossignol after me - a tulpa with supernatural strength and a really bad attitude. Is there any way you can tell whether that's the real Rossignol or not? You're always saying nothing can be hidden from the dead.'

'Oh sure. I've already checked her out.'

'And?'

'She is the original. And she's dead.'

I looked at him for a long moment. 'She's what?'

'She doesn't have an aura. It was the first thing I no­ticed about her.'

'Well, why didn't you say anything?'

'It's none of my business if she's mortally chal­lenged. You need to be more open-minded, John.'

'You mean, she's dead, like you?'

'Oh no. I'm a special case. And she's far too bright and bubbly to be a zombie. But you can't be alive with­ out an aura. Everyone has one.'

'Really?' I said, momentarily distracted. 'What does mine look like?'

'Lots of purple.'

'How can she be dead and not know it?' I said, al­most as angry as I was exasperated. 'She's out there right now giving every indication of being very much alive. Dead people don't have orgasms over chocolate gateau.'

'Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. Or perhaps it's something to do with the Cavendishes and their hold over her. Do you want me to break the news to her?'

'No, I think it should come from someone who's at least heard of tact. And she did say she wanted the truth, whatever it was.' I scowled at the immaculately shining white tiles. 'How do you tell someone they're dead?'

'With your mouth. After all, it could be worse.'

'How?'

Dead Boy gave me one of his looks. 'Trust me, John.You really don't want to know.'

'Oh shut up.'

By the time we got back to our table, Rossignol had de­molished fully half of the gateau and drunk the other twowhiskey sours. She waved happily at us the mo­ment we reappeared and stopped to suck the chocolate smears off her fingers. Her face was flushed, and she keptlapsing into fits of the giggles. Dead Boy and I sat down facing her.

'I want more drinks!' she said cheerfully. 'Every­body should have lots more drinks! Do you want some cake? I can ask them for another spoon. No? You don't know what you're missing. Some days, chocolate is hotter than sex! Well, some sex, anyway. What are you both looking so dour for? Did you find your phone number on a wall in there?'

I took a deep breath and told Rossignol what Dead Boy had discovered about her, and what it meant. I said it as simply and straightforwardly as I could, and then I sat there, waiting to see how she'd take it. All the bounce