Agents of Light and Darkness Page 10

  Property doesn’t normally stay untenanted long in the Nightside; someone’s always got a use for it. But this place was different. Some thirty years ago, some poor fool tried to open a Gate to Hell during a performance of the Caledonian Tragedy, and that kind of thing plays havoc with property values. The three witches killed and ate the guy responsible, but didn’t have the skills to close what he’d partway opened. The Authorities had to bring in an outside troubleshooter, one Augusta Moon, and while she sewed the thing up tighter than a frog’s arse, the incident still left a nasty taste in everyone’s spiritual mouth.

  Even unsuccessful Hellgates can affect the tone of a whole neighbourhood.

  Unsurprisingly enough, the theatre’s double doors were locked, so Suzie kicked them in, and we strolled nonchalantly into the lobby. It was dirty and dusty, with thick shrouds of cobwebs everywhere. The shadows were very dark, and the still air smelled stale and sour. Dust motes swirled slowly in the shafts of light that had followed us in through the open door, as though they were disturbed by the light’s intrusion. The once plush carpet was dry and crunchy under our feet. The whole place reeked of faded nostalgia, of better times long gone. It was like walking back into the shadows of the past. Old posters advertising old productions still clung stubbornly to the walls, faded and fly-specked. The Patchwork Players Present: Marlowe’s King Lier, Webster’s Revenger’s Triumph, Ibsen’s Salad Days. There was no sign anyone had been here for thirty years.

  “Odd name for a theatre,” Suzie said finally, her voice echoing loudly in the quiet. “What’s a Styx, when it’s at home?”

  “The Styx is a river that runs through Hell,” I said. “Made up from the tears shed by suicides. Sometimes it bothers me that I know things like that. Maybe the theatre specialised in tragedies. We may be in the wrong place, Suzie. Look around you. No-one’s disturbed this dust in years.”

  “In which case,” said Suzie, “where’s that music coming from?”

  I listened carefully, and sure enough, faint strains of music were coming from somewhere up ahead. Suzie drew her shotgun, and we crossed the lobby and made our way up to the stage doors. The music was definitely louder. We pushed the doors open and stepped through into the theatre proper. It was very dark, and we stood there for a while till our eyes adjusted. Up on the stage, in two brilliant following spotlights was Nasty Jack Starlight with his life-sized living rag doll partner, singing and dancing.

  The music was an old sixties classic, the Seekers’ “The Carnival Is Over.” Nasty Jack Starlight sang along cheerfully, stepping it out across the dusty stage with more style than precision. He was dressed as Pierrot, in a Harlequin suit of black and white squares, and his face was made up to resemble a grinning skull, with dark, hollowed eyes and white teeth painted on his smiling lips, all of it topped with a jaunty sailor’s cap. He was tall and gangling, and he danced with more deliberation than grace as his voice soared along with the melancholy song.

  He danced a fiercely merry two-step with his partner, a living rag doll costumed as Columbine. She was almost as tall as he was, her arms and legs amazingly flexible as she danced, without joints to get in the way. She had a sadly erotic look, in her patched dress of many colours, and her face of tightly stretched white satin had garishly painted-on features. Her movements were disturbingly sexual, her dance provocative in every lascivious movement.

  Pierrot and Columbine capered across the whole stage, making the most of the space, dancing and leaping and pirouetting in the two spotlights that followed them faithfully wherever they went. I looked back and above me, but there was no sign anywhere of a source for the spotlights. They just were. The music also seemed to come from nowhere. It changed abruptly to “Sweet Little Jazz Baby, That’s Me,” a staple from the Roaring Twenties, and Pierrot and Columbine came together and Charlestoned for all they were worth. Their feet on the stage made no sound at all. The music had a distorted, eerily echoing quality, as though it had had to travel a long way to get there and lost something of itself along the way. And for all the effort Nasty Jack Starlight and his partner put into their performance, it all had a dull, flat feeling. There was no appeal to it, no charisma or emotion. But the packed audience was in ecstatics, sheer raptures of emotion.

  The audience.

  Nasty Jack Starlight and his living rag doll were singing and dancing for the dead. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I could see the stalls were full of zombies, vampires, mummies, werewolves, and ghosts of varying density. Every form of undead or half-life the Nightside had to offer, all come together in one place under a strict pact of non-aggression that wouldn’t have lasted five minutes anywhere else. But no-one would destroy the truce here; no-one would dare. This was the one place they could come to recapture just a little of their lost or discarded humanity. To remember what it felt like to be alive.

  The vampires looked right at home in their formal tuxedos and ball gowns, daintily sipping blood from discreet thermoses, passed back and forth. In comparison, the mummies looked distinctly drab and dirty in their yellowing bandages, and dust puffed out when they clapped their hands together. The werewolves huddled together in a clump, howling along to the tune, their alpha male distinguished by an impressive leather jacket made from human hide, the tattooed words on its back proclaiming him Leader of the Pack. The ghouls mostly kept to themselves, snacking on fingers from a takeaway tub. The zombies tended to sit very still, and applauded very carefully, in case anything dropped off. They sat as far away from the ghouls as possible. The ghosts varied from full manifestations to pale misty shapes, some so thinly spread their hands passed through each other when they tried to clap along. Others had to concentrate all their sense of personality just to keep from falling through their chairs. But dead, undead, partly human, or mostly inhuman, they all seemed to be having a good time. They laughed and cheered, sighed and wept, and applauded in unison, as though reacting to what was happening on the stage, though their responses seemed to have little to do with the performance.

  Nasty Jack Starlight performed exclusively for the dead, or those feeling distanced from their original humanity. He remembered old emotions for them, evoked them through his singing and dancing, and made his audience feel them. He made them feel alive again, if only fleetingly. His patrons paid very well for the illusion of life he gave them, for a while…and while they wallowed in second-hand emotions, Starlight fed off their unnatural vitality, sucking it out of them as he danced, gorging on their inhuman energies like a happy little parasite. He had lived many lifetimes in this fashion, and intended to live many more. Long ago, he’d made a really bad deal with Something he was still afraid to name aloud, and now he couldn’t afford to die. Ever.

  I had to explain all this to Suzie. She’d never had any interest in the theatre. At the end, she sniffed, unimpressed.

  “So what’s the deal with the rag doll?” she said.

  “The word is she was human once, and Jack Starlight’s lover. He needed a dancing partner, but he didn’t feel at all inclined to share what he’d be taking from his audience. So he had her made over into what she is now. A living rag doll, endlessly compliant, a partner who’ll follow his every move and whim, and never complain. Of course, that was a long time ago…She’s probably quite insane by now. If she’s lucky. Now you know why they call him Nasty Jack Starlight.”

  “Who was she, originally?” said Suzie, glaring at the stage.

  “No-one knows who she was any more. Except Jack, of course, and he’ll never tell. Nasty little man that he is. Come on, let’s go on up and ruin his day.”

  “Let’s. I might even ruin his posture while I’m at it.”

  We strode off down the central aisle, side by side. The dead in the seats nearest us didn’t even glance round as we passed, utterly transfixed by the performance onstage, and the old emotions flooding through what was left of their hearts. There was magic in the air, and it had nothing to do with sorcery. On and on they danced, Pierrot and Columbine, Ha
rlequin and his rag doll, never stopping or resting as the music changed inexorably from one sentimental ditty to another…as though they had no need to pause, to refresh their strength or regain their breath. And perhaps they didn’t. He was feeding, and she…she was just a rag doll, after all, her wide eyes and smiling lips only painted on. Neither of them suffered from human limitations any more. They mimed love and tenderness for their audience, and meant none of it.

  It was all just an act.

  Suzie and I vaulted up onto the stage, and everything stopped. The music cut off, and Starlight and his rag doll immediately ended their dance. They each stood very still in their separate spotlights, as Suzie and I approached them. Nasty Jack Starlight struck an elegant pose, calm and relaxed, smiling his skullface smile while his eyes gleamed brightly from darkened hollows. The rag doll had frozen in mid move, her head turned away, her arms and legs interrupted at impossible angles, inhumanly flexible. The audience was still only for a moment as the performance was interrupted, then they burst out into a roar of boos and yells and insults, quickly descending into open threats and menaces. Suzie glared out at them, to little effect. I turned and gave them my best thoughtful stare, and everyone shut up.

  “I’m impressed,” Suzie said quietly.

  “To tell the truth, so am I,” I said. “But don’t tell them that. Jack Starlight! It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Jack? You still on your world tour of the Nightside?”

  “Still playing to packed houses,” Starlight said easily. “And they say the theatre’s dead…” His voice was soft and precise, completely without accent or background. He could have been from anywhere, anywhen. His unwavering smile was very wide, and his eyes never blinked. “You know, most hecklers have the decency to do it from their seats. What do you want, Taylor? You are interrupting genius at work.”

  “We found your card in the possession of one of the Bedlam Boys,” I said. “They worked for the Collector.”

  “I notice you’re using the past tense. Am I to presume the little shits are all dead? My my, Taylor, you have become hard-core since your return.”

  “Tell me about the card, Jack,” I said, deliberately not correcting his presumption. “What’s your connection with the Collector?”

  He shrugged easily enough. “There’s not much to tell. The Collector sent the Boys round to lean on me, because he’d heard I once very nearly got my hands on the Unholy Grail, some years ago in France. I was excavating at Rennes-le-Château, in search of the Maltese Falcon…”

  I winced. “I thought you had more sense, Jack. Never go after the Maltese Falcon. That’s the first rule of private investigators.”

  Suzie frowned. “I thought the first rule was…”

  “Not now, Suzie. Continue, Jack.”

  “Well, imagine my surprise when my companions unwrapped the contents of the hidden grave, and we found ourselves face to face with the Unholy Grail. It all got rather unpleasant after that. It’s always sad when friends fall out over money…. Anyway, after the dust had settled and the blood had dried, I ended up having to leave the chateau empty-handed, and at speed. But I still remain one of the few men who has actually seen the Unholy Grail with his own eyes, and lived to tell of it.”

  “What did it look like?” said Suzie.

  Nasty Jack Starlight considered for a moment. “Cold. Ugly. Seductive. I wasn’t stupid enough to touch it, even then. I know evil when I see it.”

  “You should,” I said. “You’ve had enough practice. So, what did you tell the Bedlam Boys, when they came calling?”

  He laughed softly. It was a dark, unpleasant sound. “I didn’t tell them a damned thing. I kicked their over-padded arses and sent them home crying to their master. Teach the Collector to set his dogs on me. Their fears were no match for my emotions. I am a master of my craft, and don’t you forget it. And that is it. There’s nothing more I can tell you about the Unholy Grail or the Collector. Just ships that passed in the Nightside, that’s all. Now, do either of you happen to be in show business? Then perhaps you’ll both be good enough to get the hell off my stage. I am making art here. Why is there never a guy with a long hook around when you need him?”

  “There are angels all over the Nightside,” I said. “They’re looking for anyone with any knowledge of, or connection to, the Unholy Grail. And they’re not playing nicely. They don’t have to. They’re angels. Now, impressive though your audience is, the whole lot of them put together wouldn’t be enough to even slow down an angel. Even if they did feel disposed to try and protect you, which I personally doubt. The dead can be so fickle. On the other hand, you help us track down the Unholy Grail, and/or the Collector, and Suzie and I will protect you.”

  Nasty Jack Starlight shook his head slowly. “Just when you think it can’t get any worse…Angels in the Nightside. Right! That is it. I am out of here.” He turned to face the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s show is cancelled on account of Biblical intervention. Good night, God bless, hope it was good for you too. Form an orderly queue for the exits. Sorry, no refunds.”

  He stalked over to his rag doll partner, snapped his fingers sharply, and she collapsed limply over his waiting shoulder, as though there was nothing inside her but straw and stuffing. And perhaps there wasn’t. Certainly she seemed no weight at all to Starlight as he headed determinedly for the wings. I didn’t see any point in trying to stop him. He didn’t have anything I needed, and an unwilling partner would only slow us down. But then Nasty Jack Starlight stopped abruptly, turned round and looked back, moving slowly, almost reluctantly. And that was when we all realised there was someone else onstage with us. We looked slowly at the back of the stage, even the rag doll raising her satin face. There, standing behind us, still and silent like a living shadow, was a grey man in a grey suit.

  He waited till we were all looking, then he blazed like the sun, a light so bright it was painful to merely human eyes. Suzie and I stumbled back, shielding our faces with upraised arms. Starlight turned and ran for the edge of the stage. The rag doll hanging down over his shoulder was the only one to stare adoringly at the angel, with her dark-painted eyes. The audience was in a panic, shrieking and crying out in alarm, while the word angel moved swiftly among them like a curse. Ghosts disappeared, snapping out of existence like popping soap bubbles. Vampires became bats and flapped away. Those still burdened with material bodies fought their way out into the aisles and sprinted for the lobby doors.

  The angel became a pillar of fire in human form, spreading wide his glowing wings, brilliant and terrible and incandescent with glory. There was a stench of burning flesh and melting metals. The rag doll hanging limply over Starlight’s shoulder burst into flames. They leapt up impossibly fast, consuming the doll from head to toe. And still she stared adoringly through the flames at the angel. Starlight cried out in pain and rage, and threw her from him. She flopped about on the stage, burning fiercely. She tried to crawl towards Starlight, but the flames were too hot, too eager, and she was only rags and stuffing. She burned up, and she was gone, and in moments there was nothing left of her but a scorch mark on the stage, and dark smoke drifting slowly though the air. It smelled of violets.

  Starlight didn’t spare the burning doll a glance once he’d thrown her aside. He ran for the edge of the stage, and had almost made it when his clothes burst into flames. The sailor’s cap went up first, burning fiercely with a pale blue flame, setting his hair on fire. Then the Harlequin’s costume caught alight, flames leaping everywhere at once. He beat at the flames with his bare hands, but soon they were burning too. In a matter of seconds, his whole body was burning hotter than a furnace. He screamed once, and a long jet of yellow flame shot out of his mouth from his burning lungs. He fell forward onto the stage, and lay there kicking and jerking, while the flames leapt even higher. They quickly consumed Nasty Jack Starlight, until there was nothing left but a few charred and blackened bones, and sizzling melted fat dripping slowly off the edge of the stage.

 
By that time, Suzie Shooter had the Speaking Gun out of its case, and was holding it rock steady in her hand, aimed right at the angel. But I could see from her twisted features that she was feeling the same sick horror at the Gun’s touch that I had. Her iron self-control fought off its attempt to seize control of her mind, but her whole body was shaking from the effort of the struggle, even while the hand holding the Gun remained perfectly steady. All she had to do was pull the trigger. But she couldn’t spare enough willpower to do it.

  The angel turned its gaze away from Starlight’s remains and looked at Suzie. It saw the Speaking Gun in her hand, and in a moment it was gone, flying upwards on wings of dazzling brightness, crashing through the roof of the theatre and up and out into the safety of the night skies.

  Suzie didn’t move, still aiming the Speaking Gun at where the angel had been. Her face was pale, and slick with sweat. Her eyes were fixed and wild. Her whole body was shaking now, as she and the Gun fought for control of her mind, and her soul. And in the end she won, and threw the Gun from her. Perhaps because in the end she was Shotgun Suzie, who owned guns, and not the other way round. She won, and I never knew how much it cost her. I never asked. Because what she did tell me was so much worse.

  She sat down suddenly on the stage, as though her legs had just given out. Her hands twitched meaninglessly in her lap, and she rocked back and forth like a troubled child. She wasn’t crying; she was beyond that. Her eyes were wild, desperate, feral. She was making a low, moaning sound, like an animal in pain. I sat down beside her, and put an arm round her shoulders to comfort her. She shrieked dismally, and scuttled away from me like a child afraid of a beating. I moved cautiously after her, careful not to get too close.