The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny n-10 Read online

  The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny

  ( Nightside - 10 )

  Simon R. Green

  Simon R. Green

  The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny

  The good, the bad, and the uncanny. We're all in there somewhere. This is the Nightside.

  Hidden away deep in the hollow heart of London is another city, another world, another reality. Where it's always night, always dark, always three o'clock in the morning; the hour that tries men's souls. Rain-slick streets, gaudy neon signs the exact colours of childhood candy we always knew was bad for us. Bars and clubs and private establishments, where you can find everything you're not supposed to want. Love for sale on every street-corner, love, or something like it. And the constant roar of traffic that never, ever stops.

  Angels and demons lurk in shadowed alleyways, arranging deals and making decisions never to be shared with Humankind. Nightmares go walking in borrowed flesh, and not everything that looks back at you with human eyes is really human. Who watches the watchmen? Who preys on the predators? Who gives a damn, in the night that never ends?

  I'm John Taylor, private investigator. Tall, dark of eye, and handsome enough at a distance. I take the cases no-one else will touch, because I have a special gift for finding things. Most of my clients say they want me to find the truth; but they don't always mean it. I wear a long white trench coat, like a knight in cold armour; and I have fought monsters, in my time.

  You can find monsters in the Nightside, and gods, too, if they don't find you first. Forbidden knowledge, appalling pleasures, sex and death and everything in between; all yours for the asking. As long as you remember: buyer beware. If you can't spot the patsy in the deal, it's almost certainly you.

  This is the Nightside. Don't say you weren't warned.

  ONE

  Into the Dragon's Mouth I was out and about that night, taking my trench coat for a walk, when a sudden fog came rolling down the street towards me like a grim grey tidal wave. I stopped, and studied its progress cautiously. We don't get many fogs, in the Nightside. We get lots of rain, and thunder-storms, and the occasional hail of frogs, but we don't really do weather, as such. Weather and seasons are part of the natural order of the world, and we don't really do natural either. So a sudden fog always means trouble for someone.

  People on the street were already running ahead of the fog, or disappearing into sheltering doorways, as the thick pearl grey wall rolled relentlessly on, enveloping clubs and shops and soaking up the neon light, till only the merest Technicolor glints showed through, like so many half-blinded eyes. A growing silence moved with the fog as it ate up all the life and laughter in the street. I could see dim shapes moving, caught in the thick mists, struggling slowly like insects caught in hardening amber. The fog smeared itself across shop-windows, filling the night and hanging heavily on the air, surging forward in sudden, billowing clouds. Up close, the pearly grey mists were full of shimmering sparks and uncertain shapes that came and went in a moment. I seriously considered running.

  This had all the makings of a flux fog.

  Such things are dangerous. A flux fog means the corners of the world aren't properly nailed down any more, and reality is up for grabs. Inside a flux fog, all certainties are thrown into question, and all the possibilities that ever were are suddenly made equal. Take the wrong turning, in a grey world where every turn looks just like every other, and you could end up walking out of the fog into a whole new place. With no guarantee you'll ever find a way home again. Everything looks blurred and out of focus in a flux fog because you're seeing a dozen different dimensions, a hundred possibilities, for every object or person or direction. People and places can change subtly even as you approach them; familiar faces can become strangers, and in the blink of an eye you're trapped in a world that never knew you. The only real defence against a flux fog is not to be there when one manifests.

  I should have known better than to be out and about on such a night. The weather forecast had been Changeable, with a side order of On your own head be it. But I felt the need to go out, to walk up and down the Nightside, to see what there was to be seen and think a few very private thoughts. Some thoughts can only be properly considered when you've removed yourself from your comfort zone. A melancholy had come upon me over a period of weeks, and I wasn't sure why. Things were actually going well, for a change. I was wealthy enough that I could pick and choose my cases, pursuing only those that interested me; and I was respected enough that no-one had tried to kill me in weeks. And Suzie and I were… closer than ever.

  I had everything I'd ever dreamed of So why was I so restless? Why was I waiting… for the hammer to fall?

  Suzie was out pursuing a case of her own, hunting down some poor bastard for the bounty on his head, and the house had seemed very still and quiet without her in it. I'd felt strangely agitated, disturbed, uneasy… as though someone, somewhere, had me in his gun-sight. So I left the house and went out for a walk, to think and brood, and hopefully tempt any possible enemy out into the open, where I could get at him.

  And what I got, for my trouble, was a flux fog.

  The mists really were getting quite close now. People stepped out of the grey wall before me, vague and indistinct, their details only firming up as they left the fog behind them. A giant teddy bear in a World War I British Army uniform looked confusedly about him, clutching his rifle with his furry paws. A scientific person in a pristine white lab coat stalked right past me, gabbling to himself in low Coptic. And a gaggle of Russian tourists in Chernobyl Health Spa T-shirts started to take photographs of me, before they realised who I was and decided to take a sudden interest in something else instead.

  Nothing out of the ordinary, for the Nightside, where some days you can't trust anyone or anything to stay the same for ten minutes in a row. All the people here have some nasty little secrets, something cold and unpleasant clutched greedily to their bosoms, some special need or fascination that could only be revealed and satisfied in the neon-lit streets of the Nightside. A private face behind every public mask, a hidden meaning peeking through whatever words they choose to share with you. Even I had turned out to be… not who I thought I was.

  Lilith's son…

  The flux fog surged forward, filling the street, and I opened my arms to it, embracing the bitter, tingling mists as they rolled over me. A reckless, stupid thing to do; but the restlessness was so great in me, I felt a desperate need to do something, anything, out of character, just to prove to myself that I was still in charge of my life. That I was still making the decisions. The mists felt hot and clammy, like the steam in a sick-room, where the fever burns like madness and inspiration all at once. Shadowy shapes skittered all around me, like sharks circling a body in the water; and somewhere far away a great bell made of ice tolled the hours before dawn.

  And then, just like that, the fog was gone. The street was back, in all its wild and gaudy details, the clubs and bars and private establishments as loud and raucous as ever. The bright primary colours of the neon signs blazed as sleazily as ever, and the huge oversized Moon shone coldly in the clear night sky. People spilled back out onto the pavements, once again intent only on tracking down their own particular heavens and hells, their very own private rewards and damnations. Nothing had changed, least of all me. I lowered my arms, feeling faintly foolish and obscurely disappointed. The flux fog hadn't touched me. Perhaps because of my not-altogether-human nature; perhaps because it was afraid of me. Or perhaps because it wouldn't deign to touch anyone who wanted it…

  Why was I so restless, that night of all nights? Why did I want so badly for my life to change? Was it because I'd finally got everything I ever w
anted, and all I could think was… Is this it?

  Perhaps fortunately, my mobile phone rang, playing Mike Oldfield's "Tubular Bells." I finally got rid of the Twilight Zone theme; you can run some jokes into the ground. I took out my phone, hit the exorcism function to keep out the really determined ad mail, and did my best to speak cheerfully and normally.

  "Hi, there! You have reached John Taylor, private investigator, hero for hire, and female impersonator for private functions. This may or may not be a recording. Speak now."

  "Oh God, you're in one of your moods again, aren't you?" said my secretary, Cathy. "I don't know why you ever try to sound cheerful; you know you're no good at it. I, on the other hand, am always bright and cheerful and charming because I am young and fresh and still relatively unsullied."

  She had a point. Cathy was so unrelentingly cheerful I used to think she dosed herself morning, noon, and night with every drug known to man, but no, it was just her. There ought to be a law.

  "What do you want, Cathy?" I said patiently. "You're interrupting my quality time."

  "Oh, you're not going to believe this one, boss."

  "What have you done this time?"

  "Nothing! Or at least nothing you need to worry about. But you won't believe who just phoned the office, looking to hire you… An elf! Really! You could have knocked me down with a French tickler. Not only has an elf lord come to the Nightside, which is weird and scary and disturbing enough in itself, but he wants you to solve a case for him! How cool is that?"

  "Which particular elf lord are we talking about here?" I said, since one of us had to be practical and professional in this conversation, and it clearly wasn't going to be Cathy.

  "Says he's the Lord Screech; but you can bet good money that's not his real name. Elves lie like they breathe. They only come into our world to mess us over."

  "Of course," I said. "It's all they've got left. What exactly does this putative Lord Screech want me to find for him?"

  "Wouldn't say," sniffed Cathy. "Too far up himself to discuss details with a mere underling. Says he'll be at the Dragon's Mouth for the next two hours if you'd care to drop by for a little chat. No mention of money. But… he's an elf! When did you last hear of one of them lowering himself to ask a mere human for help?"

  "Never," I said. "Which would suggest that not only is this case going to be impossible, unethical, and quite mind bogglingly dangerous, but I'll probably end up stabbed in the back by my own client."

  "Well, of course," said Cathy. "I thought that was all understood when I said, Your client is an elf. But come on, boss, we are talking major bragging rights here! You could dine out on this for months! John Taylor, the private investigator so special that even the high-and-mighty elves come to him to solve their problems! We could have new cards made!"

  "Still," I said, "why the Dragon's Mouth? That's a seriously unpleasant place, even for the Nightside. What would an elf be doing there? Or does he know… that I know the Dragon's Mouth? That once upon a time, I knew it very well."

  "You used to frequent the Dragon's Mouth, boss?" said Cathy, somehow managing to sound scandalized and delighted at the same time. "But it's…"

  "The Nightside's premiere drug den," I said. "You never knew me in my dog days, Cathy; when I was down-and-out and on the run from everyone, including myself. I swore I'd never go back… but if that's where the elf is, then that's where I'm going. If only because I can't have our crafty and underhanded elf lord thinking he has an advantage over me. No-one tells me there's somewhere I can't go, not even me."

  "You're weird, boss."

  I shut down the phone and put it away. I'd gone out into the night looking for changes, and it seemed I'd found some. I'd been thinking about my future, but it seemed my past wasn't finished with me yet. I thrust both hands deep into the pockets of my trench coat, took a deep breath, and headed for the Dragon's Mouth, and the deepest, darkest part of the night.

  Never trust elves. They always have their own agenda.

  There are places you just don't go in the Nightside. Either because they're so dangerous you know you're going to have to fight your way in, and probably out, or because they're so extreme, so shameful, and so damned sickening that no-one with any sense would have anything to do with them. There are bad places, dangerous places, and unhealthy places; and then there's the Dragon's Mouth.

  Tucked away casually in a shadowy side street not far from the old main drag, the club's exterior really is a huge dragon's head, some thirty feet tall and twenty wide, its huge gaping jaws forming the entrance. Rumour had it the dragon had been petrified centuries ago by the gorgon Medusa herself. In which case, I hated to think what they were using for the back door. The wide stone head was a smooth dull grey, untouched by time or weather. The eyes were deep, dark hollows. Great jagged teeth pointed up and down, like stalagmites and stalactites. There were no exterior guards; just walk in, whenever you please. All are welcome, for as long as their money or credit holds out. Anything goes, any need satisfied, enter at your own risk, and abandon hope all ye… Well, I'm sure you know the rest.

  I strolled unhurriedly between the two long rows of teeth and descended the winding stone stairs into the belly of the beast, the huge stone chamber spread out beneath the street. It was years since I'd last been here, a lifetime. It was yesterday. Sometimes you do things to yourself so bad that the memories have barbs and never let you go. I'd known what the place was, all those years ago, and what it could do to me, but I'd descended into hell anyway. I had come here because what it offered… was what I wanted. The slow, sweet suicide of addiction.

  I was so much younger then, and beset on all sides by threats and questions and destinies I couldn't face any more. So I ran away, from friends and enemies alike, buried myself in the delightful depths of the Dragon's Mouth, and gave myself to a very harsh and demanding mistress. I'd still be there, if Razor Eddie hadn't come and got me out. No-one says no to the Punk God of the Straight Razor. I stayed with him a while, with all the other homeless who washed up in Rats' Alley. I'd thought I couldn't fall any further. Until Suzie Shooter came looking for me, for the price on my head; and I ran headlong from the Nightside and everything in it, with Suzie's bullet burning in my back.

  I thought I was done with the Nightside forever, but destiny called me home, where I belonged, with all the other monsters.

  I descended the smooth stone steps into the great cavern below, and it all looked just as I remembered. As though I'd merely stepped out for a moment, and all the last years of my life had been only another smoke dream. I stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked about me, fighting to keep my face calm and unconcerned. The stone chamber was packed with people, standing and sitting and lying down, but the whole buzz of conversation was little more than a susurrus of whispers. You didn't come to the Dragon's Mouth to talk.

  The air was thick with a hundred kinds of narcotic smoke, and already my lips and nostrils were going numb. You could experience a dozen different highs just strolling round the room, and long-buried parts of me stirred slowly, awakening, remembering. I took a deep breath. The smoky air smelled of sour milk and brimstone. I smiled slowly, and I knew it wasn't a pleasant smile.

  Some of the people there recognised me. They smiled and nodded, or scowled and made the sign against the evil eye; and some crept further back into the concealing shadows. But nobody said anything, and nobody did anything. Held tightly in the jealous arms of their own particular mistresses, they trusted the club's staff to see that they remained undisturbed. There was never any trouble in the Dragon's Mouth because on the few occasions anyone was stupid enough to start anything, old Mother Connell would take measures. Very extreme and unpleasant measures.

  She sat where she always sat, behind an ornately carved Restoration desk, right at the bottom of the entrance steps. You couldn't see the top of the desk for all the piled-up currency, gold, jewels, and credit cards. Mother Connell sat at her ease in a frighteningly huge padded chair; four hun
dred pounds of overwhelming femininity wrapped in a purple toga topped off with a long, pink feather boa, draped loosely around her huge, wattled neck. Sometimes the boa stirred, as though it were alive, or dreaming. Mother Connell dominated anywhere she was, just by being there, through the sheer force of her appalling personality. And her complete willingness to make use of her mallet-sized fists at the first hint of any unpleasantness.

  Harsh and sweaty under an obviously fake curly blonde wig, her wide red face was marked by heavily mascaraed eyes and a scarlet gash of a mouth, along with heavy jowls that disappeared into the pink feather boa. I always thought she looked like she'd just eaten half a dozen drag queens for breakfast. She had a smile for everyone because a smile cost nothing; but it wasn't a pretty sight. Her huge hands moved restlessly over the piled-up wealth before her, endlessly counting and sorting and rearranging it. In a rare moment of companionship, she'd once told me that when the cash really came rolling in, there was so much that she didn't have time to count it; so she weighed it.

  She looked up and caught my eye. Mother Connell never forgot a face and never took any good-bye as final. Her scarlet lips pulled back to reveal yellow teeth, and she beckoned me over with one meaty hand. Her voice was deep and harsh, like a dog growling.

  "Hello again, Mr. T. Been a while. Still looking for your Shanghai Lil?"

  "That was long ago, in another land, and besides, the wench is dead," I said. "I understand you're letting in elves these days?"

  Her smile disappeared in a moment. "Hard times, Mr. T. Decadence and debauchery isn't what it was. I blame television."

  "Tell me at least you didn't let him pay you with faerie gold."

  She cackled briefly. "Not likely, Mr. T. He had a Master-Card."

  "How very appropriate," I murmured. "Where can I find this elf, Mother Connell?"