Nightingale lament n-3 Page 10

  "Hello, hello, Mr. Taylor! So nice to have you back among us. Love the jacket. You here to see the gaffer, are you?"

  "Got it in one, Otto. Is he in?"

  "Well, that's the question, isn't it? He's in his office, but whether he's in to you . . . Hang on here while I nip in and check."

  He shot off towards the soundproofed glass cubicle at the end of the bullpen, singing snatches of show tunes as he went. I could just make out Julien Advent sitting behind his editor's desk, making hurried last-minute corrections to a story, while his sub-editor hov­ered frantically before him. Julien finally finished, and the sub snatched the pages from the desk and ran for the presses. Julien looked up as Otto swirled into his office, then looked round at me.

  I looked around the bullpen. Hardly anyone looked back. Despite all my previous hard work for the Night Times, they didn't consider me one of them. I didn't share their holy quest for pursuing news. And as far as newsies were concerned, it was always going to be them versus everyone else. You couldn't afford to get close to someone you might have to do a story on someday.

  Not all of the staff were human. The editor operated a strictly equal opportunity employment programme. A semi-transparent ghost was talking to the spirit world on the memory of an old-fashioned telephone. Two ravens called Truth and Memory fluttered back and forth across the room. They were moonlighting from their usual job, working as fact-checkers. A goblin drag queen was working out the next day's horoscopes. His fluffy blonde wig clashed with his horns. It probably helped in his job that he was a manic depressive with a nasty sense of humour. His column might be occasion­ally distressing, but it was never boring. He nodded ca­sually to me, and I wandered over to join him. He adjusted the fall of his bright green cocktail dress and smiled widely.

  "See you, John! Who's been a naughty boy, then? That creep Walker was here looking for you earlier, and he was not a happy bunny."

  "When is he ever?" I said calmly. "I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding. Any idea why the editor wants to see me?"

  "He hasn't said, but then he never does. What have you been up to?"

  "Oh, this and that. Anything in the future I should know about?"

  "You tell me, pet. I just work here." We shared a laugh, and he went back to scowling over his next column, putting together something really upsetting for tomorrow's Virgos. I strolled down the central aisle towards the editor's cubicle, as slowly as I thought I could get away with. There was no telling what Julien knew, or thought he knew, but I had no in­tention of telling him anything I didn't have to. Knowledge was power here, just as in the rest of the Nightside. A lot of the staff were affecting not to notice my presence, but I'm used to that. The haunted type­writer clacked busily away to my left, operated by a journalist who was murdered several years ago, but hadn't let a little thing like being dead interfere with his work. One of the Night Times's few real ghost writers. I'd almost reached the editor's cubicle, when the paper's gossip columnist pushed his chair back to block my way. Argus of the Thousand Eyes was a shape-shifter. He could be anyone or anything, and as a result was able to infiltrate even the most closely guarded parties. He saw everything, overheard all, and told most of it. He had an endless curiosity and absolutely no sense of shame. The number of death threats he got every week outnumbered those of all the rest of the staff put together. Which was probably why Argus had never been known to reveal his true shape or identity to anyone. Rumours of his complicated sex life were scandalous. For the moment he was impersonating that famous reporter Clark Kent, as played by Christopher Reeve in the Superman movies.

  "So tell me," he said. "Is it true, about Suzie Shooter?"

  "Probably," I said. "Who's she supposed to have killed now?"

  "Oh, it's something much more juicy than that. Ac­cording to a very reliable source, dear Suzie has been hiding some really delicious secrets about her family . . ."

  "Don't go there," I said flatly. "Or if Suzie doesn't kill you, I will."

  He sneered at me and changed abruptly into an exact copy of me. "Maybe I should go and ask her yourself."

  I gripped him firmly by the throat and lifted him out of his chair, so I could stick my face right into his. Or, rather, mine. "Don't," I said. "It isn't healthy to be me at the best of times, and I don't need you muddying my waters."

  "Put him down, John," said Julien Advent. I looked round, and he was standing in the open door of his cubicle. "You know you can't kill him with anything less than a flamethrower. Now get in here. I want a word with you."

  I dropped Argus back into his chair. He stuck out my tongue at me and changed into an exact copy of Walker. I made a mental note to purchase a flamethrower and went over to join Julien in his office. He shut the door firmly behind me, then waved me to the visitor's chair. We both sat down and considered each other thought­fully.

  "Love the jacket, John," he said finally. "It's so not you."

  "This from a man who hasn't changed his look since the nineteenth century."

  Julien Advent smiled, and I smiled back. We might never be friends, or really approve of each other, but

  somehow we always got along okay. It probably helped that we had a lot of enemies in common.

  Julien Advent was the Victorian Adventurer, the greatest hero of his age. Valiant and daring, he’d fought all the evils of Queen Victoria's time and never once looked like losing. He was tall and lithely muscular, impossibly graceful in an utterly masculine way, with jet-black hair and eyes, and an unfashionably pale face. Handsome as any movie star, the effect was somewhat spoiled by his unwaveringly serious gaze and grim smile. Julien always looked like he didn't believe in frivolous things like fun or movie stars. He still wore the stark black-and-white formal dress of his time, the only splash of colour a purple cravat at his throat, held in place by a silver pin presented to him by Queen Vic­toria herself. And it had to be said, Julien looked a damn sight more elegant than the Jonah. Julien had style.

  There were any number of books and movies and even a television series about the great Victorian Ad­venturer, most of them conspiracy theories as to why he'd disappeared so suddenly, at the height of his fame, in 1888. And then he astonished everyone by reappear­ing out of a Timeslip into the Nightside in 1966. It turned out he'd been betrayed by the only woman he ever loved, who lured him into a trap set by his great­est enemies, the evil husband-and-wife team known as the Murder Masques. The three of them tricked him into a pre-prepared Timeslip, and the next thing he knew he'd been catapulted into the future.

  Being the great man that he was, Julien Advent soon found his feet again. He went to work as a journalist for the Night Times and made a great investigative reporter - partly because he wasn't afraid or impressed by anyone and partly because he had an even scarier reputation than the villains he pursued so relentlessly. Julien still fought evil and punished the guilty - he just did it in a new way. He was helped in adjusting to his new time by his newfound wealth. He'd left money in a secret bank account, when he disappeared from 1888, and the wonders of compound interest meant he'd never have to worry about money ever again. Eventu­ally Julien became the editor, then the owner, of the Night Times, and that great crusading newspaper had become the official conscience of the Nightside and a pain in the arse to all those who liked things just fine the way they were.

  Still, everybody read the Night Times, if only to be sure they weren't in it.

  Julien Advent was in every way a self-made man. He hadn't started out as a hero and adventurer. He was just a minor research chemist, pottering away in a small laboratory on a modest stipend. But somehow he cre­ated a transformational potion like no other, a mysteri­ous new compound that could unlock the secret extremes of the human mind. A potion that could make a man absolute good or utter evil. He could have be­come a monster, a creature that lived only to indulge it­self with all manner of violence and vice, but being the good and moral man that he was, Julien Advent took the potion and became a hero. Tall and strong, fast-moving
and quick-thinking, courageous and magnifi­cent and unwaveringly gallant, he became the foremost adventurer of his time.

  A man so perfect, he'd be unbearable if he wasn't so charming. He had tried to recreate his formula over the years, but to no success. Some unknown ingredient es­caped him, some unknown impurity in one of the orig­inal salts . . . and Julien Advent remained the only one of his kind.

  He never did discover what happened to the Murder Masques. That terrible husband-and-wife team, who ran all the organised crime in the Victorian Nightside, their faces hidden behind red leather masks, were long gone ... no more now than a footnote in history. Only really remembered at all as the main adversaries of the legendary Victorian Adventurer. Some said progress changed London and the Nightside so quickly that they couldn't keep up, or they were brought down by others of their vicious kind. And some said they just got old and tired and slow, and younger wolves dragged them down. Julien had tried to determine their fate, using all the considerable resources of the Night Times, but the Murder Masques were lost in the mists of history and legend.

  The woman who betrayed Julien to his mortal ene­mies hadn't even made it into the legends, her very name forgotten. Julien had been known to say that that was the best possible punishment he could have wished for her. Otherwise, he never spoke of her at all.

  And now he sat behind his editor's desk, studying me intently with his dark eyes and sardonic smile. Julien was still a man who saw the world strictly in black and white, and despite all his experience of life in the current-day Nightside, he still would have no truck with shades of grey. As a result, he was often not at all sure what to make of me.

  "I'm putting together a piece on the recent unexpected power cuts," he said abruptly. "You wouldn't know anything about them, of course."

  "Of course."

  "And Walker's appearance here looking for you with fire and brimstone in his eyes was nothing but a coincidence."

  "Couldn't have put it better myself, Julien. I'm all tied up with a new case at the moment, investigating the Cavendishes."

  Julien frowned briefly. "Ah yes, the reclusive Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish. A bad pair, though always somehow just on the right side of the law. For all their un­doubted influence in the Nightside, all I have on them are rumours and unsubstantiated gossip. Probably time I did another piece on them, just to see what nastiness they're involved with these days. They haven't sued me in ages. But don't change the subject, John. Why is Walker after you?"

  "Don't ask me," I said, radiating sincerity. "Walker's always after me for something, you know that. Are you going to tell him I was here?"

  Julien laughed. "Hardly, dear boy. I disapprove of him even more than I do of you. The man has far too much power and far too little judgement in the exercis­ing of it. I honestly believe he has no moral compass at all. One of these days I'll get the goods on him, then I'll put out a special edition all about him. I did ask him if he knew what was behind the blackouts, but he wouldn't say anything. He knows more than he's telling . . . but then, he always does."

  "How bad were the blackouts?" I asked cautiously.

  "Bad. Almost half the Nightside had interruptions in their power supply, some of them disastrously so. Millions of pounds' worth of damage and lost business, and thousands of injuries. No actual deaths have been confirmed yet, but new reports are coming in all the time. Whoever was responsible for this hit the Night­side where it hurt. We weren't affected, of course. Vic­toria House has its own generator. All part of being independent. You were seen at Prometheus Inc., John, just before it all went bang."

  I shrugged easily. "There'd been some talk of sabo­tage, and I was called in as a security consultant. But they left it far too late. I was lucky to get out alive."

  "And the saboteur?"

  I shrugged again. "We'll probably never know now."

  Julien sighed tiredly. "You never could lie to me worth a damn, John."

  "I know," I said. "But that is my official line as to what happened, and I'm sticking to it."

  He fixed me with his steady thoughtful gaze. "I could put all kinds of pressure on you, John."

  I grinned. "You could try."

  We both laughed quietly together, then the door banged open suddenly as Otto came whirling in, his bobbing windy self crackling with energy. An eight-by-ten shot out of somewhere within him and slapped down on the table in front of Julien. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the pictures sub wants to know whether this photo of Walker will do for the next edition."

  Julien barely glanced at the photo. "No. He doesn't look nearly shifty enough. Tell the sub to dig through the photo archives and come up with something that will make Walker look actually dishonest. Shouldn't be too difficult."

  "No problem, chief."

  Otto snatched the photo back into himself and shot out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

  I decided Julien could use distracting from thoughts about Prometheus Inc., so I told him I'd been present at Caliban's Cavern when one of Rossignol's fans had shot himself right in front of her. Julien's face bright­ened immediately.

  "You were there? Did you see the riot as well?"

  "Right there on the spot, Julien. I saw it all." And then, of course, nothing would do but I sit down with one of his reporters immediately and tell them everything while the details were still fresh in my mind. I went along with it, partly because I needed to keep Julien distracted, and partly because I was going to have to ask him a favour before I left, and I wanted him feeling obligated towards me. Julien's always been very big on obligation and paying off debts. I tend not to be. Julien used his intercom to summon a reporter to his office, a young up-and-comer called Annabella Pe­ters. I tried to hide my unease. I knew Annabella, and she knew far too much about me. She'd already pub­lished several pieces on my return to the Nightside, after five years away, and she had speculated exten­sively about the reasons for my return, and all the pos­sible consequences for the Nightside. Some of her guesses had been disturbingly accurate. She came barg­ing into Julien's office with a mini tape recorder at the ready, a bright young thing dressed in variously coloured woollens, with a long face, a horsey smile and a sharp, remorseless gaze. She took my offered hand and pumped it briskly.

  "John Taylor! Good to see, good to see! Always happy to have a little sit down and chat with you."

  "Really?" I said. "In your last piece, you said I was a menace to the stability of the whole Nightside."

  "Well, you are," she said reasonably. "What were you doing at Prometheus Inc., John?"

  "We've moved on from that," I said firmly. "This is about the riot at Caliban's Cavern."

  "Oh, the Rossignol suicide! Yes! Marvelous stuff, marvelous stuff! Did she really get his brains all over her feet?"

  "Bad news travels fast," I observed. Annabella sat down opposite me and turned her recorder on. I told her the story, while downplaying my own involvement as much as possible. I suggested, as strongly as I could without being too obvious about it, that I was only there as part of my investigation of the Cavendishes, and not because of Rossignol at all. I never discuss my cases with journalists. Besides, putting the Cavendishes in the frame as the villains of the piece would make it easier for me when I had to ask Julien for that favour. The two of us had worked together in the past, on a few cases where our interests merged, but it never came easily. I finished my story of the riot by telling how I'd been swept outside along with the rest of the ejected audience and only saw the resulting mayhem from a safe distance. Julien nodded, as though he'd expected nothing else from me. Annabella turned off her mini recorder and smiled brightly.

  "Thanks awfully, John. This will make a super piece, once I've chopped it down to a reasonable length. Pity you weren't more personally involved with the violence, though."

  "Sorry," I said. "I'll try harder next time."

  "One last question . . ." She surreptitiously turned her recorder back on again, and I pretended I hadn't noticed. "There are rumours ci
rculating, suggesting the Nightside was originally created for a specific purpose, and that this is somehow connected with your missing mother's true nature and identity. Could you add any­thing to these rumours?"

  "Sorry," I said. "I never listen to gossip. If you do find out the truth, let me know."

  Annabella sighed, turned off her recorder, and Julien held the door open for her as she left. She trotted off to write her piece, and Julien shut the door and came back to join me.

  "You're not usually this cooperative with the press, John. Would I be right in assuming you're about to beg a favour from me?"

  "Nothing that should trouble your conscience too much, Julien. It wouldn't break your heart if I was to bring the Cavendishes down, would it?"

  "No. They're scum. Parasites. Their very presence corrupts the Nightside. Just like the Murder Masques in my day, only without the sense of style. But they're very big and very rich, and extremely well connected. What makes you think you can hurt them?"

  "I may be onto something," I said carefully. "It con­cerns their new singer, Rossignol. What can you tell me about her?"

  Julien considered for a moment, then used his inter­com to summon the gossip columnist Argus. The shapeshifter breezed in, looking like Kylie Minogue. Dressed as a nun. She sat down beside me, adjusting her habit to show off a perfect bare leg. Julien glared at Argus, and she sat up straight and paid attention.

  "Sorry, boss."