Till Sudden Death Do Us Part

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Call me Ishmael …

  Chapter One: The Past is Always Looking Over My Shoulder

  Chapter Two: No More Happy Ever Afters

  Chapter Three: Loose Ends from the Past

  Chapter Four: All Kinds of People Come to Church

  Chapter Five: Nothing Stays Secret Forever

  Chapter Six: Losing Control

  Chapter Seven: Enemy Action

  Chapter Eight: Invisible Demon

  Chapter Nine: Green Monkeys

  Chapter Ten: The Curse is Cruel

  Chapter Eleven: The Real Bergin Family Curse

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Simon R. Green

  The Ishmael Jones Mysteries

  THE DARK SIDE OF THE ROAD *

  DEAD MAN WALKING *

  VERY IMPORTANT CORPSES *

  DEATH SHALL COME *

  INTO THE THINNEST OF AIR *

  MURDER IN THE DARK *

  TILL SUDDEN DEATH DO US PART *

  The Secret History Series

  PROPERTY OF A LADY FAIRE

  FROM A DROOD TO A KILL

  DR DOA

  MOONBREAKER

  NIGHT FALL

  The Nightside Series

  JUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNCANNY

  A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT

  THE BRIDE WORE BLACK LEATHER

  * available from Severn House

  TILL SUDDEN DEATH DO US PART

  Simon R. Green

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Simon R. Green.

  The right of Simon R. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8886-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-602-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0219-2 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.

  We’re all haunted by our own past. By the people we used to be, the things we did or left undone. All the people whose lives we touched, for better or worse. The memories that stir in the early hours of the morning when we can’t sleep. We are all the product of all the different people we’ve been. Even the ones we don’t remember.

  In 1963, a shooting star streaked across the night sky before falling to an English field. Or, to put it another way, an alien starship from God knows where crash-landed in the middle of the night, unseen and unsuspected. The impact killed all the crew but one, who was rewritten by the ship’s transformation machines, so he could live as a human among humans until rescue arrived. But help never came. And the transformation machines were so damaged by the crash they wiped all memories of who and what I used to be, before I was human. Before I came to myself, stumbling confused and alone across a ploughed field in the early hours of the morning.

  Born into the present, with an unknown past.

  I’ve spent my life as a succession of different people, working for any number of secret organizations, because only they have the resources to hide a man who hasn’t aged a day since 1963 from an increasingly curious and surveillance-heavy world. These days, I work for the Organization; solving cases of the weird and uncanny with the help of my delightfully human partner, Penny Belcourt. Protecting the world from all the monsters that threaten it.

  But … am I a man dreaming he used to be an alien, or an alien dreaming he’s a man? The difference is important. Because after all these years, I think the alien is waking up.

  ONE

  The Past is Always Looking Over My Shoulder

  When I looked into the mirror that morning, I didn’t recognize the face looking back at me. It was my face, but it didn’t mean anything to me. I stood there in Penny’s bathroom, my hand reaching for the shaving gel just like any other morning; but suddenly my heart was hammering in my chest and I couldn’t seem to get my breath. And then the human face faded away, and something else looked back at me from out of the mirror. A face that wasn’t a face, that wasn’t human in any way, but still something in me recognized it.

  It was the face I had before I was born, before I was a man. A nightmare shape, a thing of horror, that usually I only glimpsed in dreams, right before I woke up screaming. My old self, before the transformation machines had their way with me. The alien face stared steadily back at me like a long-buried memory that wasn’t content to stay forgotten any longer. Like some imprisoned beast, testing the bars of its cage to see how strong they were.

  And in that moment I didn’t feel like a man any more; as though all of me was just a passing thought in something much bigger and much older.

  The alien shape vanished, and my human face stared back out of the mirror again. I knew it immediately, the other face gone like a half-remembered nightmare. I looked scared. It took me a while, before my hands were steady enough to pick up the shaving gel and the disposable razor. But I’ve always prided myself on my self-control. That I would always be able to do what I needed to do, to survive. Ever since I first woke up in a world I didn’t know, haunted by a past I couldn’t remember.

  I had a right to be scared. Because if whoever or whatever I used to be was finally waking from its long sleep, I had no idea what that old self would make of me. All I could be sure of was that it was alien; that it wouldn’t think or feel or act in any way human. Perhaps to that self, Ishmael Jones was nothing more than a mask it had chosen to wear for a time, to be tossed aside as no longer needed.

  Perhaps I wasn’t even a mask. Just a cage, whose bars weren’t as strong as I’d thought.

  ‘You cut yourself shaving,’ said Penny, peering out from behind the Financial Times as I sat down opposite her at the breakfast table. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before. And the scab is golden, just like your blood.’

  I brushed vaguely at my face, with an entirely steady hand. ‘It’ll be gone before I have to go out. How are your investments looking today?’

  ‘You had the bad dream again last night,’ she said, folding the paper and putting it to one side.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Yes. And you didn’t even notice. Do you remember anything?’

  ‘No,’ I
said.

  She nodded, and addressed herself to the plate of food in front of her. Penny was a great believer in starting the day on a full stomach. Which for her meant a full English fried breakfast of sausages, bacon, eggs and hot buttered toast; or as she liked to call it, a cholesterol special. I think you have to be in pretty good shape already just to survive something like that. Penny attacked her pile of crispy bacon with great enthusiasm, while I poured myself a large black coffee. I am not a morning person. My stomach doesn’t even want to know about food at such an ungodly hour. I’m not even that keen on conversation. By long agreement, neither of us commented on the other’s chosen lifestyle. Of such small compromises are relationships forged.

  It was the weekend, and once again I was staying at Penny’s little flat, in a very select area of London. I don’t like to fall into predictable patterns, it makes me too easy to track down. But it meant so much to her, that I spent as much time with her as I could.

  Penny was a glamorous presence, even first thing in the morning, with no make-up and her dark hair piled carelessly on top of her head. She was wearing her favourite battered old dressing gown, of a colour so faded it was barely a suggestion. Her dark eyes flashed merrily whenever she glanced at me, and her every smile warmed my heart.

  I didn’t tell Penny about my experience with the mirror. Though whether I was protecting her or me, I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. Human language just doesn’t have the words or concepts to describe what I saw. Penny could tell there was something wrong, but she knew better than to press me. Perhaps the secret to a successful relationship is deciding which secrets to share.

  I nursed my coffee while Penny demolished enough food to stun a restaurant critic, until finally she pushed her empty plate aside with a loud satisfied sound, and fixed me with a determined look.

  ‘You need a good walk,’ she said briskly. ‘Something to stir the blood and shake loose the cobwebs. Anywhere special you feel like going?’

  ‘Soho,’ I said. The word pushed its way past my lips before I’d even considered it. But the moment I said the name, I knew that nowhere else would do. ‘I haven’t been back there in ages, but I feel the need to visit the old place again. If only to see how much it’s changed.’

  ‘How long ago are we talking about?’ said Penny.

  ‘I came to Soho in the sixties,’ I said. ‘Back then, it was the best place for someone like me to hide in plain sight.’

  Penny clapped her hands delightedly. ‘You knew London in the Swinging Sixties? Carnaby Street and the King’s Road? Groovy fashions and flower power, happenings and be-ins and all that?’

  I looked at her, and she shrugged.

  ‘I love sixties movies.’

  ‘I was that hippie,’ I said. ‘I suppose most of what I remember is probably gone now.’

  ‘We should definitely go and look,’ said Penny.

  And that was how we ended up walking through London’s Soho on a bright and cheerful Saturday morning. Strolling through the crowded streets arm in arm, just like any other young couple taking in the sights. I remembered the names of the streets, but it seemed like everything else had changed. The sunlight made everything look new and fresh, even though we were in a part of the city that dated back to Roman times. But then, London has always been good at reinventing itself to meet the needs of the present.

  Back in the sixties, Soho was an urban jungle. Blazing with bright neon and full of all kinds of attractions, designed to lure the prey to the predators. The narrow streets were lined with nightclubs and restaurants, fashionable shops and shops selling fashions, strippers and satirists and bars packed full of characters. Let the good times roll and never look back; so you wouldn’t see what was creeping up on you. You could find dreams and delight alongside dangers for the unwary … and what a time it was, to be young and careless.

  By the seventies most of that was gone, the sense of adventure replaced by wall-to-wall sleaze. Sex cinemas, sex shops, and clip joints where under-dressed hostesses pressured the punters into buying them cheap champagne at extortionate prices, while promising favours they were never going to deliver. Above the sex shops lurked discreet little rooms, where discerning gentlemen could spend time with ladies like the lovely Vera, who could be very understanding. What the punters never knew was that there were three lovely Veras doing eight-hour shifts so the bed was always warm.

  ‘You’ve got that look on your face,’ said Penny. ‘The one that says you’re remembering a time when things were different.’

  ‘The sixties were different,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t all Summer of Love and the Age of Aquarius, International Times and Oz magazine. That was the dream. There were good times to be had, but often people went home to cold-water flats and shared toilets, race riots and political corruption, and tiny black-and-white television sets with only two channels. No central heating and the only radiator was coin-operated, so in the winter it got so cold you piled coats on top of blankets to keep warm at night, and you woke to frost on the inside of your window in pretty fern patterns.’

  ‘It’s like listening to someone from a Charles Dickens novel,’ said Penny. ‘I tend to forget, until you remind me, how old you really are. Just as well I’ve always had a thing for older men.’

  I looked at her. ‘I won’t ask.’

  ‘Best not to,’ Penny said briskly. ‘What were you doing in Soho, in the sixties?’

  ‘I was working for Department Y. The first secret group I ever belonged to.’

  ‘Y?’ said Penny.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said solemnly. ‘It was a secret.’

  She punched me in the arm, which was what I deserved.

  ‘What name were you using, back then?’ said Penny, slipping her arm through mine again to show I was forgiven.

  I shook my head firmly. ‘I’ve used many names down the years, but right now I’m Ishmael Jones and only Ishmael Jones. Because I don’t care to remember some of the people I had to be.’

  ‘All right,’ said Penny. ‘Can you at least tell me who you were working with, back then? Anyone I’d know?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘None of them are part of the scene any more. There was Lady Patricia, the supernatural socialite. The cool blonde with the icy heart, and a sense for danger that was never wrong. Doctor Alien; who turned out to be neither. Fabulous Freddie, and the Acid Sorcerer. It was a time for weird names and colourful personalities. And then of course, there was the Groovy Ghoul.’

  ‘Was he one of the good guys?’ said Penny.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ I said. ‘In Department Y we worked cases like the Downing Street Dopplegangers, Springheel Jack, the Metal Mods and Revolution Nine. It was an extravagant time, and even our secrets were gaudy things. We thought we were living in an age of wonders, that would see the mind’s true liberation through acid trips, mantras, and radical politics. The reality was rather different.’

  I looked down the street before us, and the bustling crowds disappeared as my memory showed me a vision of the way things used to be.

  This was the street where Springheel Jack was brought to bay at last. A dark gargoyle figure in his gas mask and horns, glowing eyes and fiery breath, and a long flapping cape. He brandished his cane defiantly, and flecks of blood flew on the air from the fresh gore that soaked the heavy silver head. Jack had been busy, striking down working girls with the wrath of his unforgiving god. Lady Patricia smiled at him, cool and sophisticated as always, dressed in her pink hunting outfit and calfskin jodhpurs. No one paid any attention. People wore stranger things in public, back then. She aimed her long-barrelled pistol with a perfectly steady hand as Springheel Jack charged down the street towards her, screaming muffled threats and obscenities from behind his mask, dodging and ducking the bullets Lady Patricia fired at him. She stood her ground and kept firing. Until Jack was close enough for me to step out of the side alley and club him to the ground with a single blow.

  I ripped off his mask and
horns, to reveal a perfectly ordinary face. No one I knew, but that was probably the point. It’s always the ones who feel neglected and overlooked who feel the need to make an exhibition of themselves in public. Jack tried to get to his feet again, and Lady Patricia shot him through the kneecap with her last bullet. And that was that.

  The scene changed, as memory showed me another time. I was chasing Toby Slaughter down the same street, with Lady Patricia right behind me. Toby plunged into a crowded street market and there were sudden screams as people scattered, trying to get out of his way. Toby cut viciously about him with his gleaming straight razors, and blood flew on the air as men and women were thrown back into the tightly-packed food stalls. I finally ran Toby down and jumped him from behind. I slammed him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him, but he still had enough strength to put up a fight. We wrestled fiercely, until I was forced to let him go and jump back, to avoid a sweeping razorblade that would have opened up my throat.

  We were both quickly back on our feet again. The market was deserted, everyone else taken to their heels. Toby was breathing hard. I wasn’t. He cut at me again and again, but I kept my distance, dodging and ducking the shining straight razors with my more than human speed and reflexes. Waiting for Lady Patricia to arrive and take the shot. But that didn’t happen. I finally risked a glance back down the street, and saw Lady Patricia was still some distance back; gamely struggling along, but out of breath and out of range. I was going to have to do this myself. So I chose my moment carefully, snatched up half a melon from a nearby stall, and used it to intercept one of the razors. And while Toby hesitated, I kicked him square in the nuts. The strength of the blow lifted him up into the air, and when he crashed to the ground he’d dropped both his razors, and lost interest in anything but curling up into a ball and crying his eyes out.

  I stood over him, kicking the razors out of his reach, just in case. Looking down at the man who’d killed so many children, just because he could. I wanted to kill him; but orders had come down from on high that he was to be taken alive. Toby Slaughter had aristocratic connections, under his real name. He’d probably end up in some quiet luxury nut house, to avoid embarrassing the House of Lords. Lady Patricia finally joined me, so out of breath she could barely stand up straight. And I realized for the first time that she had to be in her forties now, and no longer the bright young thing who’d been my first partner in Department Y.