“Ooh; Strangefellows, sweetie! Yes, I’ve heard about that place! There are all kinds of stories about what goes on in Strangefellows!”
“And most of them are true. It is the oldest pub in the world, after all.”
“Will you take me there after we’ve finished with this assignment? I’d love to go dancing at Strangefellows. We could relax and get squiffy together. I might even show you my tail.”
“We’ll probably end up there, at some point,” I said. “Most of my cases take me there, eventually.”
The bartender slammed our drinks down on the highly polished wooden bar top, then backed away quickly. I didn’t care for the man, and I think he could tell. He was one of those stout jolly types, with a red face and a ready smile, always there to make cheerful conversation when all you want is to drink in peace. Probably referred to himself as Mine Host. I gave him a meaningful look, and he retreated to the other end of the bar to polish some glasses that didn’t need polishing.
“Can’t take you anywhere,” said Bettie.
Behind the bar hung a giveaway calendar supplied by the Unnatural Inquirer, with a large photo featuring the charms of a very well-developed young lady whose clothes had apparently fallen off. At the bottom of the page was the paper’s current slogan: ARE YOU GETTING IT REGULARLY? Some rather shrunken-looking meat pies were on display in a glass case, but one look was all it took to convince me I would rather tear my tongue out. A stuffed-and-mounted fox head winked at me, and I snarled back. Animals should know their place. Not a lot further down the bar, an old-fashioned manual typewriter was being operated by the invisible hands of a real ghost writer. I’d met it once before, at the Night Times offices, and was tempted to make a remark about spirits not being served here, but rose above it. I leaned over towards the typewriter, and the clacking keys paused.
“Any recent news on the whereabouts of the Afterlife Recording?”
Words quickly formed on the page, reading Future’s cloudy. Ask again later.
I persuaded Bettie to hurry her drink, politely evaded her attempts to chat, bond, or get personal, and finally we moved away from the bar to mingle with the assembled reporters. With Bettie as my native guide, we passed easily from group to group, with me doing my best to be courteous and charming. I needn’t have bothered. The reporters only had eyes for Bettie, who was in full flirt mode—all squeaky voice, fluttering lashes, and a bit of laying on of hands where necessary. Bettie was currently wearing a smart white blouse with half the buttons undone, over a simple black skirt, fish-net stockings, and high heels. Her horns showed clearly on her forehead, perhaps because she felt safe and at home here.
All the journalists seemed quite willing to talk about the Afterlife Recording; they’d all heard something, or swore they had. No-one wanted to appear out of the loop or left behind in company like this. Unfortunately, most of what they had to tell us turned out to be vague, misleading, or contradictory. Pen Donavon had been seen here, there, and everywhere, and already all sorts of people were offering copies of the DVD for sale. Only to be expected in the Nightside, where people have been known to rip off a new idea while it was still forming in the originator’s mind. Rumours were already circulating that some people had managed to view what was on the DVD and had immediately Raptured right out of their clothes. Though whether Up or Down remained unconfirmed.
Bettie stopped at a table, and greeted one particular reporter with particular cold venom, along with a stare that would have poisoned a rattlesnake at forty paces. He seemed bright and cheerful enough, in an irredeemably seedy sort of way. He wore a good suit badly, and had a diamond tie-pin big enough to be classed as an offensive weapon.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” I said innocently to Bettie.
She sniffed loudly. “John, darling, this particular gusset stain is Rick Aday, reporter for the Night Times.”
“Investigative reporter,” he corrected her easily, flashing perfect but somewhat yellow teeth in a big smile. He put out a hand for me to shake. I looked at it, and he took it back again. “You must have seen my by-line, Mr. Taylor, I’ve written lots of stories about you: Rick Aday; Trouble Is My Middle Name.”
“No it isn’t,” Bettie said briskly. “It’s Cedric.”
Aday shot her a venomous glare. “Better than yours, Delilah.”
“Lick my scabs!”
“They used to date,” another of the reporters confided quietly to me. I nodded. I’d already guessed that.
“I’ve been hot on the trail of the Afterlife Recording for some time now,” Aday said loftily. “Pursuing several quite credible leads, actually. Just waiting for a phone call from one of my extremely clued-in informants, then I’ll be off to make Mr. Donavon a generous offer for his DVD.”
“You can’t!” Bettie snapped immediately. “My paper has a legitimate contract with Pen Donavon, granting us exclusive rights to his material!”
Aday just grinned at her. “Finders keepers, losers read about it in the Night Times.”
“I suppose all’s fair in love and publishing,” I said, and Bettie actually hissed at me.
I moved away, to allow Bettie and her old flame to exchange harsh words in private. I’d noticed that the nearby wall boasted a whole series of framed cartoons and caricatures of noted Nightside personalities. Good likenesses, if often harsh, exaggerated, and downright cruel. They were all signed with a name I recognised. Bozie’s work was well-known in the Nightside, appearing in all the best papers and magazines. He excelled at bringing out a subject’s worst attributes and qualities, making them seem monstrous and laughable at the same time. Those depicted usually gritted their teeth and smiled as best they could, because you weren’t anybody in the Nightside unless you’d been caricatured by Bozie.
There were rumours that Bozie had been known to accept quite large sums of money to kill a particular creation of his before the public got to see it. No-one mentioned blackmail, of course. Thus are reputations made in the Nightside.
I’ve never approved of needless cruelty. You should save it for when it’s really necessary.
I moved slowly along the wall, checking out the various pen-and-ink creations in their softwood frames. All the usual suspects were there. Walker, of course, looking very sinister with more than a hint of in-breeding. Julien Advent, impossibly noble, complete with halo and stigmata. The Sonic Assassin, in his sixties greatcoat, gnawing on a human thigh-bone while making a rude gesture at the viewer. And…Shotgun Suzie. My Suzie. I stopped before the caricature and studied it impassively. Bozie had made her look like a monster. All fetishy black leathers and unfeasibly big breasts, with a face like an axe murderer. He’d exaggerated every detail of her looks to make her seem ugly and crazy. This wasn’t just a caricature; it was an assault on her character. It was an insult.
“Like it?” said a lazy voice at my side. I looked round, and there was the artist himself—the famous or more properly infamous Bozie. A tall, gangling sort, in scruffy blue jeans and a T-shirt bearing an idealised image of his own face. He had long, floppy hair, dark, intense eyes, and an openly mocking smile. He gestured languidly at Suzie’s caricature. “It is for sale, you know. If you want it?”
I had a feeling I knew how this was going to play out, but I went along with it. “All right,” I said. “How much?”
“Oh, for you…Let’s say a round hundred thousand pounds.” He giggled suddenly. “A bargain at the price. Or you can leave it here, for all the world to see. Who knows how many papers and magazines might want to run it?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said.
“Oh, do tell.”
I hit the glass covering the caricature with my fist, and it shattered immediately, jagged pieces falling out of the frame. Bozie stepped quickly backwards, his hands held protectively out before him. I tore the caricature out of the frame, and ripped it up, letting the pieces fall to the floor at my feet. Bozie goggled at me, torn between shock and outrage.
“You…You can’t do that!” he managed finally.
“I just did.”
“I’ll sue!”
I smiled. “Good luck with that.”
“I can always draw another one,” Bozie said spitefully. “An even better one!”
“If you do,” I said, “I will find you.”
Bozie couldn’t meet my gaze. He looked around him, hoping for help or support, but no-one wanted to know. He sat down at his table again, still not looking at me, and sulked. I went back to Bettie’s table, and sat
