I grinned. “Let us concentrate on the matter at hand. What can you tell me about the guy who originally offered to sell you the Afterlife Recording?”
“All anyone knows is the name, Pen Donavon,” said Bettie, frowning prettily as she concentrated. “No-one in the offices has ever met him; our only contact has been by phone. He called out of the blue and almost got turned away. We get a lot of crank calls. But he was very insistent, and once we realised he was serious, he got bumped up to Scoop, who in turn passed him on to the Editor, who made the deal for exclusive rights.”
“For a whole lot of money,” I said. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd, given that no-one ever met Donavon, or even glimpsed what was on the DVD?”
“We had to pin the rights down before he went somewhere else! Trust me, the paper will make more money out of this story than Donavon will ever see.”
“Do you at least have his address?”
“Of course!” Bettie said indignantly. “We’ve already checked; he isn’t there. Skipped yesterday, owing two weeks’ rent.”
“We need to go there anyway,” I said patiently. “There may be clues.”
“Ooh, clues!” Bettie said delightedly. “Goody! I’ve never seen a clue.”
She opened up a large leather purse, which I would have sworn she wasn’t carrying before, and rummaged around in it for her address book. The purse seemed to be very full and packed with all kinds of interesting things. Bettie caught me looking, and grinned.
“Mace spray, with added holy water. Skeleton keys, including some made from real bones. And a couple of smoke grenades, to cover a quick exit. A demon girl reporter has to be prepared for all kinds of things, sweetie.”
We went to Pen Donavon’s place. It wasn’t far. Bettie stuck close beside me. She wasn’t too keen on appearing in public, given some of the stories she’d written. Apparently while celebrities tended to take such things in their stride, their fans could be downright dangerous.
“Relax,” I said. “No-one’s going to look at you while I’m here.”
“You do seem to attract a lot of attention,” Bettie agreed, peering out from under her large floppy hat, which was now a completely different colour. “It’s really fascinating, the way people react to your presence. I mean, there’s fear, obviously, and even an element of panic; but some people look at you in awe, as though you were a king, or a god. You really have done most of the things people say, haven’t you?”
“I shall neither confirm nor deny,” I said. “Let’s just say I get around, and leave it at that.”
“And you and Shotgun Suzie…?”
“Are off-limits. Don’t go there.”
She smiled at me dazzlingly. “Can’t blame a girl for trying, darling.”
It turned out Pen Donavon had a small apartment over a pokey little junk shop, one more in a row of shabby, grubby establishments offering the usual dreams and damnations at knocked-down prices. The kind of area where the potential customers scurry along with their heads bowed, so they won’t have to make eye contact with anyone. Pen Donavon’s establishment boasted the grandiose name Objets du Temps Perdu, a literary allusion that was no doubt wasted on most of his clientele. I wasn’t entirely sure I got it myself.
Bettie and I peered through the streaky, fly-specked window. It appeared that Donavon specialised in the kind of weird shit that turns up in the Nightside, through the various Timeslips that are always opening and closing. Lost objects and strange artifacts, from other times and dimensions. All the obviously useful, valuable, or powerful things are snapped up the moment they appear; in fact, there are those who make a good living scavenging the Timeslips. (Though they have to be quick on their feet; there’s never any telling how long a Timeslip will last, and you don’t want to be caught inside it when it disappears.) But a lot of what appears often defies easy description, or analysis, and such things tend to trickle down through the mercantile community, the price dropping at every stage, until it ends up in shops like these. Things too intricate, too futuristic, or just too damned weird to be categorised, even by all the many learned authorities that the Nightside attracts like a dog gets fleas. Great discoveries, and fortunes, have been made in places like this. But not many.
I rubbed the sleeve of my trench coat against the window. It didn’t help.
“Well,” I said. “Nothing here to give the Collector any sleepless nights. Only the usual junk and debris from the various time-lines. I wouldn’t give you tuppence for any of it.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bettie. “You know the Collector? Personally? Wow…I keep forgetting, you know all the legends of the Nightside. What’s he like?”
“Vain, obsessive, and very dangerous,” I said.
“Oh, that is so cool. I never get to meet any legends. I just write about them.”
“Best way,” I said. “They’d only disappoint you in person.”
“Like you?” said Bettie.
“Exactly.”
The window display did its best to show off odd bits of future technology, most of which might or might not have been entirely complete, along with oddly shaped things that might have been Objects of Power, alien artifacts or relics of lost histories. Carpets that might fly, eggs that might hatch, puzzle-boxes that might open if only you could find the right operating Words. No price tags on anything, of course. Bargaining was everything, in a place like this.
The sign on the door said CLOSED. I tried the door, and it opened easily. No bell rang as we entered. There was no sign of any shop assistant, or customers, and the state of the place suggested there hadn’t been any for some time. The gloomy interior was so still and silent you could practically hear the dust falling. I called out, in case anyone might still be skulking somewhere, but no-one answered. My voice sounded flat in the quiet, as though the nature of the place discouraged loud noises. Bettie dubiously studied some of the things set out on glass shelves, wrinkling her perfect nose at some of the more organic specimens, while I went behind the counter to check out the till. It was the old-fashioned type, with heavy brass push keys, and pop-up prices. It opened easily, revealing drawers empty save for a handful of change. Beside the till was a letter spike with piled-up bills. I checked through them quickly; they weren’t so much bills as final demands, complete with threats and menaces. Clearly the shop had not been doing well.
A man with this kind of economic pressure hanging over him might well see a way out through fabricating an Afterlife Recording, and then lose his nerve when the time came to actually present it to the Unnatural Inquirer.
I found a set of stairs at the back, leading up to the overhead apartment. I insisted on going first, just in case, and Bettie crowded my back all the way up. The bare wooden steps creaked loudly, giving plenty of advance warning, but when we got to the apartment the door was already slightly ajar. I made Bettie stand back and pushed the door open with one hand. The room beyond was silent and empty of life. I stepped inside and stood by the door, looking around thoughtfully. Bettie pushed straight past me and darted round the place, checking all the rooms. No-one was home. Pen Donavon’s apartment was a dump, with the various sad pieces of his life scattered everywhere. There were no obvious signs that the place had already been searched. It would have been hard to tell.
The furniture was cheap and nasty, the carpet was threadbare, and the single electric light bulb didn’t even have a shade. And yet the main room was dominated by a huge wide-screen television, to which had been bolted a whole bunch of assorted unfamiliar technology. The additions stood out awkwardly, with trailing wires and spiky antennae. Some of it looked like future tech, some of it alien. Lights glowed here and there, to no apparent purpose or function. Presumably it had all been brought up from the shop downstairs. I approached the television and knelt before it, careful to maintain a safe distance. Metal and mirrors, crystal and glass, and a few oily shapes that looked disturbingly organic. Up close, the stuff smelled…bad. Corrupt.
Bettie produced a camera from her embroidered purse and took a whole bunch of photos. She wanted to photograph me, too, and I let her. I was busy thinking. She finally ended up bending down beside me, sniffing disparagingly.
“Isn’t this an absolutely awful place? There’s underwear soaking in the bath, and no-one’s cleaned up in here for months. Some men shouldn’t be allowed to live on their own. You don’t even want to know what I found in the toilet. This television is very impressive, though. Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“No,” I said. “But then future and alien technology isn’t my speciality. This could be genius, or it could be junk.”
