Tales From the Nightside Read online

  Novels of the Nightside

  SOMETHING FROM THE NIGHTSIDE

  AGENTS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS

  NIGHTINGALE’S LAMENT

  HEX AND THE CITY

  PATHS NOT TAKEN

  SHARPER THAN A SERPENT’S TOOTH

  HELL TO PAY

  THE UNNATURAL INQUIRER

  JUST ANOTHER JUDGEMENT DAY

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNCANNY

  A HARD DAY’S KNIGHT

  THE BRIDE WORE BLACK LEATHER

  Ghost Finders Novels

  GHOST OF A CHANCE

  GHOST OF A SMILE

  GHOST OF A DREAM

  SPIRITS FROM BEYOND

  VOICES FROM BEYOND

  Secret Histories Novels

  THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN TORC

  DAEMONS ARE FOREVER

  THE SPY WHO HAUNTED ME

  FROM HELL WITH LOVE

  FOR HEAVEN’S EYES ONLY

  LIVE AND LET DROOD

  CASINO INFERNALE

  PROPERTY OF A LADY FAIRE

  Deathstalker Novels

  DEATHSTALKER

  DEATHSTALKER REBELLION

  DEATHSTALKER WAR

  DEATHSTALKER HONOR

  DEATHSTALKER DESTINY

  DEATHSTALKER LEGACY

  DEATHSTALKER RETURN

  DEATHSTALKER CODA

  Hawk and Fisher Novels

  SWORDS OF HAVEN

  GUARDS OF HAVEN

  Also by Simon R. Green

  BLUE MOON RISING

  BEYOND THE BLUE MOON

  ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

  DRINKING MIDNIGHT WINE

  Omnibus

  A WALK ON THE NIGHTSIDE

  Anthology

  TALES FROM THE NIGHTSIDE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  Copyright © 2015 by Simon R. Green.

  “The Nightside, Needless to Say” copyright © 2004 by Simon R. Green.

  “Razor Eddie’s Big Night Out” copyright © 2006 by Simon R. Green.

  “Lucy, at Christmastime” copyright © 2008 by Simon R. Green.

  “Appetite for Murder” copyright © 2008 by Simon R. Green.

  “The Difference a Day Makes” copyright © 2009 by Simon R. Green.

  “Some of These Cons Go Way Back” copyright © 2009 by Simon R. Green.

  “The Spirit of the Thing” copyright © 2011 by Simon R. Green.

  “Hungry Heart” copyright © 2011 by Simon R. Green.

  “How Do You Feel?” copyright © 2012 by Simon R. Green.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13685-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Green, Simon R., 1955–

  [Short stories. Selections]

  Tales from the nightside / Simon R. Green.

  pages ; cm.

  ISBN 978-0-425-27075-2 (hardcover)

  I. Title.

  PR6107.R44A6 2015

  823'.92—dc23

  2014035729

  FIRST EDITION: January 2015

  Cover illustration © Jonathan Barkat.

  Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

  “The Nightside, Needless to Say” was previously published in the anthology Powers of Detection.

  “Razor Eddie’s Big Night Out” was previously published in the magazine Cemetery Dance 55.

  “Lucy, at Christmastime” was previously published in the anthology Wolfsbane and Mistletoe.

  “Appetite for Murder” was previously published in the anthology Unusual Suspects.

  “The Difference a Day Makes” was previously published in the anthology Mean Streets.

  “Some of These Cons Go Way Back” was previously published in the magazine Cemetery Dance 60.

  “The Spirit of the Thing” was previously published in the anthology Those Who Fight Monsters.

  “Hungry Heart” was previously published in the anthology Down These Strange Streets.

  “How Do You Feel?” was previously published in the anthology Hex Appeal.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Simon R. Green

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  THE NIGHTSIDE, NEEDLESS TO SAY

  RAZOR EDDIE’S BIG NIGHT OUT

  LUCY, AT CHRISTMASTIME

  APPETITE FOR MURDER

  THE DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

  SOME OF THESE CONS GO WAY BACK

  THE SPIRIT OF THE THING

  HUNGRY HEART

  HOW DO YOU FEEL?

  THE BIG GAME

  INTRODUCTION

  Welcome to the Nightside.

  The secret, hidden heart of London, where the long night never ends, the sun never shines, and dawn never comes. Where it’s always three o’clock in the morning, the hour that tries men’s souls. The Nightside, where hot neon burns bright and gaudy as Hell’s candy, where gods and monsters walk hand in hand, and angels from Above and Below go fist-fighting through alleyways. Where you can find anything, anything at all, if it doesn’t find you first. Where all your dreams can come true, especially the really bad ones.

  I’ve never made any secret of the fact that the Nightside is based largely on London’s Soho area. Or, to be exact, old Soho, as it used to be, before it was cleaned up and gentrified, made safe and boring. I was there for the last days of old Soho, when the bad old days were mostly gone, but there was still enough sin to go around if you knew where to look. Pubs and bars and night-clubs, and the very private Members Only establishments, where you could still find all the things that people aren’t supposed to want but still do. I talked to a lot of people who were only too happy to reminisce about how things used to be. Telling tales of lust and glory, when show business and gangsters and all the twilight people got together, to play the kind of games that might not have any rules but certainly had a price. Of the days when love was for sale, or at least for rent, when everything that was bad for you was openly for sale, and there was always some minor celebrity hanging around a street-corner, doing something unwise.

  The legend of old Soho eventually produced the modern legend of the Nightside. A nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to die there. Where tarnished heroes and charming villains, broken men and hard-hearted women, found their way home, at last.

  The Nightside. Neon noir. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

  THE NIGHTSIDE, NEEDLESS TO SAY

  The Nightside is the secret, sick, magical heart of London. A city within a city, where the night never ends and it’s always three o’clock in the morning. Hot neon reflects from rain-slick streets, and dreams go walking in borrowed flesh. You can find pretty
much anything in the Nightside, except happy endings. Gods and monsters run confidence tricks, and all desires can be satisfied, if you’re willing to pay the price. Which might be money and might be service, but nearly always ends up meaning your soul. The Nightside, where the sun never shows its face because if it did, someone would probably try to steal it. When you’ve nowhere else to go, the Nightside will take you in. Trust no-one, including yourself, and you might get out alive again.

  Some of us work there, for our sins. Or absolution, or atonement. It’s that kind of place.

  • • •

  Larry! Larry! What’s wrong?

  The sharp, whispered voice pulled me up out of a bad dream; something about running in the rain, running from something awful. I sat up in bed, looked around, and didn’t know where I was. It wasn’t my bedroom. Harsh neon light flickered red and green through the slats of the closed shutters, intermittently revealing a dark dusty room with cheap and nasty furniture. There was nobody else there, but the words still rang in my ears. I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to remember my dream, but it was already fading. I was fully dressed, and there were no bedsheets. I still had my shoes on. I had no idea what day it was.

  I got up and turned on the bedside light. The room wasn’t improved by being seen clearly, but at least I knew where I was. An old safe house, in one of the seedier areas of the Nightside. A refuge I hadn’t had to use in years. I still kept up the rent; because you never know when you’re going to need a bolt-hole in a hurry. I turned out my pockets. Everything where it should be, and nothing new to explain what I was doing here. I shook my head slowly, then left the room, heading for the adjoining bathroom. Explanations could wait, until I’d taken care of something that couldn’t.

  The bathroom’s bright fluorescent light was harsh and unforgiving as I studied my face in the medicine cabinet mirror. Pale and washed-out, under straw-blond hair, good bone structure, and a mouth and eyes that never gave anything away. My hair was a mess, but I didn’t need a shave. I shrugged, dropped my trousers and shorts, and sat down on the porcelain throne. There was a vague uneasy feeling in my bowels and then a sudden lurch as something within made a bid for freedom. I tapped my foot impatiently, listening to a series of splashes. Something bad must have happened, even if I couldn’t remember it. I needed to get out of here and start asking pointed questions of certain people. Someone would know. Someone always knows.

  The splashes finally stopped, but something didn’t feel right. I got up, turned around, and looked down into the bowl. It was full of maggots. Curling and twisting and squirming. I made a horrified sound and stumbled backward. My legs tangled in my lowered trousers, and I fell full length on the floor. My head hit the wall hard. It didn’t hurt. I scrambled to my feet, pulled up my shorts and trousers, and backed out of the bathroom, still staring at the toilet.

  It was the things that weren’t happening that scared me most. I should have been hyperventilating. My heart should have been hammering in my chest. My face should have been covered in a cold sweat. But when I checked my wrist, then my throat, there wasn’t any pulse. And I wasn’t breathing hard because I wasn’t breathing at all. I couldn’t remember taking a single breath since I woke up. I touched my face with my fingertips, and they both felt cold.

  I was dead.

  Someone had killed me. I knew that, though I didn’t know how. The maggots suggested I’d been dead for some time. So, who killed me, and why hadn’t I noticed it till now?

  • • •

  My name’s Larry Oblivion, and with a name like that I pretty much had to be a private investigator. Mostly I do corporate work: industrial espionage, checking out backgrounds, helping significant people defect from one organization to another. Big business has always been where the real money is. I don’t do divorce cases, or solve mysteries, and I’ve never even owned a trench-coat. I wear Gucci, I make more money than most people ever dream of, and I pack a wand. Don’t snigger. I took the wand in payment for a case involving the Unseelie Court, and I’ve never regretted it. Two feet long, and carved from the spine of a species that never existed in the waking world, the wand could stop time, for everyone except me. More than enough to give me an edge, or a running start. You take all the advantages you can get when you operate in the Nightside. No-one else knew I had the wand.

  Unless . . . someone had found out and killed me to try and get their hands on it.

  I found the coffeemaker and fixed myself my usual pick-me-up. Black coffee, steaming hot, and strong enough to jump-start a mummy from its sleep. But when it was ready, I didn’t want it. Apparently the walking dead don’t drink coffee. Damn. I was going to miss that.

  Larry! Larry!

  I spun round, the words loud in my ear, but still there was no-one else in the room. Just a voice, calling my name. For a moment I almost remembered something horrid, then it was gone before I could hold on to it. I scowled, pacing up and down the room to help me think. I was dead, I’d been murdered. So, start with the usual suspects. Who had reason to want me dead? Serious reasons; I had my share of enemies, but that was just the price of doing business. No-one murders anyone over business.

  No; start with my ex-wife, Donna Tramen. She had reasons to hate me. I fell in love with a client, Margaret Boniface, and left my wife for her. The affair didn’t work out, but Maggie and I remained friends. In fact, we worked so well together I made her a partner in my business. My wife hadn’t talked to me since I moved out, except through her lawyer, but if she was going to kill me, she would have done it long ago. And the amount of money the divorce judge awarded her gave her a lot of good reasons for wanting me alive. As long as the cheques kept coming.

  Next up: angry or disappointed clients, where the case hadn’t worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. There were any number of organizations in and out of the Nightside that I’d stolen secrets or personnel from. But none of them would take such things personally. Today’s target might be tomorrow’s client, so everyone stayed polite. I never got involved in the kinds of cases where passions were likely to be raised. No-one’s ever made movies about the kind of work I do.

  I kept feeling I already knew the answer, but it remained stubbornly out of reach. Perhaps because . . . I didn’t want to remember. I shuddered suddenly, and it wasn’t from the cold. I picked up the phone beside the bed, and called my partner. Maggie picked up on the second ring, as though she’d been waiting for a call.

  “Maggie, this is Larry. Listen, you’re not going to believe what’s happened . . .”

  “Larry, you’ve been missing for three days! Where are you?”

  Three days . . . A trail could get real cold in three days . . .

  “I’m at the old safe house on Blaiston Street. I think you’d better come and get me.”

  “What the hell are you doing there? I didn’t know we still had that place on the books.”

  “Just come and get me. I’m in trouble.”

  Her voice changed immediately. “What kind of trouble, Larry?”

  “Let’s just say . . . I think I’m going to need some of your old expertise, Mama Bones.”

  “Don’t use that name on an open line! It’s been a long time since I was a mover and shaker on the voodoo scene, and hopefully most people have forgotten Margaret Boniface was ever involved. I’m clean now. One day at a time, sweet Jesus.”

  “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I need what you used to know. Get here as fast as you can. And, Maggie, don’t tell anyone where you’re going. We can’t trust anyone but each other.”

  She laughed briefly. “Business as usual, in the Nightside.”

  • • •

  I did a lot more pacing and thinking in the half hour it took Maggie to reach Blaiston Street, but I was no wiser at the end of it. My memories stopped abruptly three days ago, with no warning of what was to come. I kept watch on and off through the slats of the window shutters, and was finally rewarded with the sight of Maggie pulling up to the curb in
her cherry-red Jaguar. Protective spells sparked briefly around the car as she got out and looked up at my window. Tall and slender, an ice-cool blonde with a buzz cut and a heavy scarlet mouth. She dressed like a diva and walked like a princess, and carried a silver-plated magnum derringer in her purse, next to her aboriginal pointing bone. She had a sharp, incisive mind, and given a few more years’ experience and the right contacts, she’d be ten times the operative I was. I never told her that, of course. I didn’t want her getting overconfident.

  She rapped out our special knock on the door, the one that said yes she had checked, and no, no-one had followed her. I let her in, and she checked the room out professionally before turning to kiss my cheek. And then she stopped, and looked at me.

  “Larry . . . you look half-dead.”

  I smiled briefly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  I gave her the bad news, and she took it as well as could be expected. She insisted on checking my lack of a pulse or heartbeat for herself, then stepped back from me and hugged herself tightly. I don’t think she liked the way my cold flesh felt. I tried to make light of what had happened, complaining that my life must have been really dull if neither Heaven nor Hell were interested in claiming me, but neither of us was fooled. In the end, we sat side by side on the bed, and discussed what we should do next in calm, professional voices.

  “You’ve no memory at all of being killed?” Maggie said finally.

  “No. I’m dead, but not yet departed. Murdered, but still walking around. Which puts me very much in your old territory, oh mistress of the mystic arts.”

  “Oh please! So I used to know a little voodoo . . . Practically everyone in my family does. Where we come from, it’s no big thing. And I was never involved in anything like this . . .”

  “Can you help me, or not?”

  She scowled. “All right. Let me run a few diagnostics on you.”

  “Are we going to have to send out for a chicken?”

  “Be quiet, heathen.”

  She ran through a series of chants in Old French, lit up some incense, then took off all her clothes and danced around the room for a while. I’d probably have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been dead. The room grew darker, and there was a sense of unseen eyes watching. Shadows moved slowly across the walls, deep disturbing shapes, though there was nothing in the room to cast them. And then Maggie stopped dancing, and stood facing me, breathing hard, sweat running down her bare body.