Paths Not Taken Read online

  Everything touched by the crackling beams changed its nature immediately. A Spice Girls poster on the wall suddenly featured Twisted Sister. The bullet-proof glass in my office’s only window was abruptly replaced by a stained-glass effort featuring St. Michael slaying the dragon. With an Uzi. The coffeemaker became a Teasmaid, and a big bunch of flowers in a vase started snapping at each other with pointed teeth. One beam hit the steel sphere of the future computers dead-on, but it shrugged off the magic, announcing loudly We’re protected, monkey boy.

  Eamonn 40 stuck his head out from behind the desk to see what was going on, and a sputtering beam of change magic only missed him because Cathy dragged him back out of the way. Unfortunately, she left one hand in plain view a moment too long, and a second beam hit it. And Cathy was suddenly Colin. A tall, good-looking young man in the very latest Versace. He looked at me, wide-eyed, and for once in my life I didn’t have a thing to say.

  Colin stood up to yell obscenities at the two Eamonns, and was immediately hit by another beam, changing him back to Cathy. She dropped back down out of sight with a muffled shriek. We looked at each other again.

  “Don’t ever ask,” said Cathy.

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “You have to Do Something about these two idiots!”

  “I will. I’m thinking.”

  “Think faster!”

  “I could still disinherit you, you know.”

  Fortunately, I already had an idea. The two younger Eamonns were still trying for a clear shot at Eamonn 40 while dodging attacks from each other. I waited till they were on opposite sides of my office, then I charged out from behind the desk, yelling at the top of my voice. They both turned their wands on me, I hit the deck, and two change beams hit each other head-on. The resulting clash of probabilities was too much for local causality to bear, and both Eamonns vanished, as probability decided they’d never been given the bloody wands in the first place.

  The universe does like to keep itself tidy, whenever possible.

  Cathy rose cautiously up from behind the desk, which now seemed to be made of an entirely different kind of wood, and after checking that everything really was all clear, she hauled Eamonn 40 up beside her. His eyes were stretched so wide it had to be painful, and he was visibly shaking. Cathy eased him into a chair, patted him comfortingly on the head in an absent-minded sort of way, and winced as she looked round my haphazardly transmuted office.

  “It’s going to take forever to get everything looking nice again. Though I do like the new poster. And I know I’m going to have to go through every damned folder to check that the contents haven’t been changed. John, I want whoever is responsible for this nonsense strung up by the balls! If I have to work late, I want someone to suffer! Who the hell would be dumb enough to equip complete amateurs with change magics?”

  “Good question,” I said. “There must be more to our new client than meets the eye.”

  “Wouldn’t be difficult,” Cathy sniffed. A thought struck her, and she considered the still-dazed Eamonn 40. “I don’t know if we can really class him as a client, boss. He couldn’t afford our rates, these days. I mean, look at him.”

  “Someone sent all these Eamonns into my life, to mess up my day,” I said. “That makes it personal.”

  Cathy rolled her eyes dramatically. She got away with it because she was a teenager, but only just. “So, it’s another freebie, is it? The money you got from the Vatican won’t last forever, you know. Not with the rent we’re paying on this place. You need to take on some proper-paying cases, and soon. Before someone large and professionally unpleasant turns up here to cut off your credit with a meat-axe.”

  “My creditors can take a number,” I said. “I’ve got far more powerful people mad at me, at the moment. I think… I’ll take Eamonn to Strangefellows. If nothing else, it should prove safer territory.”

  “Strangefellows?” Cathy said dubiously. “Given the shape he’s in, I’m not sure he’s ready to cope with that much weirdness in one dose.”

  “Sink or swim,” I said briskly. “I’ve always believed in shock treatment for someone in shock. Take a look round while I’m gone and see how much actual damage the wands did. Keep anything that’s been improved and throw out the rest. Are we insured?”

  Cathy gave me a hard look. “What do you think?”

  “I think I need several large drinks, followed by a really large drink as a chaser. Come along, Eamonn, we are going to pay a visit to the oldest bar in the world.”

  “Oh, I don’t drink much any more,” said Eamonn 40.

  “Why am I not surprised? We’re going anyway. I have a strong feeling that even more alternate versions of you will be turning up soon, and I’d rather they made a mess of someone else’s place.” I paused and looked about me. “Cathy … didn’t you once tell me we had an office cat?”

  She shrugged. “The future computers ate it. It wasn’t a very good cat anyway.”

  I took Eamonn 40 by the arm and ushered him firmly towards the door. Some conversations you just know aren’t going to go anywhere good.

  Chapter Three

  Oblivion

  Strangefellows is the oldest bar in the world, and not for the faint-hearted. You find it up a back alley that isn’t always there, under a small neon sign with the bar’s name in Sanskrit. The bar’s owner doesn’t believe in advertising. If you need to find the place, you will, though whether that’s a good or bad thing is open to debate. I hang out there from time to time, mostly because it’s full of people with even worse problems than mine, so no-one bothers me. Strangefellows is a seedy place, bordering on sleazy, with good booze, bad service, and really distressing bar snacks. The atmosphere is unhealthy, the mood is changeable, and most of the furniture is nailed to the floor so it can’t be used in hand-to-hand combat. I’ve always felt right at home there. The bar’s current owner, Alex Morrisey, did experiment with going up-market, but it didn’t take. You can give a bad dog all the makeovers you like, but it’ll still hump your leg when you’re not looking.

  Rather than risk freaking Eamonn 40 out by walking him through the streets again, I hailed a horse and carriage to take us to Strangefellows. He seemed somewhat reassured by the solid and uncomplicated nature of the transport, only to get upset all over again when the horse asked me for the destination. Eamonn sat bolt upright beside me in the carriage with his arms folded tightly across his chest and refused to say a single word for the rest of the journey. I had to half cajole and half bully him out of the carriage when we finally stopped, and he stood very close to me as I paid off the driver. He stared determinedly at the ground as I guided him towards Strangefellows, so he wouldn’t have to see what was going on around him. Some country mice have no place in the big city.

  “Why are you doing this?” he said suddenly, still not looking at me. “Why are you helping me? Your secretary was right; I can’t pay you. At least, not the kind of money you’re used to, for dealing with … things like this. So why are you so ready to get involved with my problems?”

  “Because I’m interested,” I said easily. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to introduce you and all your chaos into my life, and I want to find out who, so I can thank them appropriately.”

  “So … you’re using me, for your own reasons.”

  “Well done,” I said. “You see—you’re already learning to think like a Nightsider.”

  He looked at me sharply for the first time. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Taylor. I may be out of my depth, but I still know a shark when I see one. You’re using me, as bait in a trap. But, if it takes enlightened self-interest to get you on my side, I can live with that. Just how good are you, Mr. Taylor? Can you really sort out this mess I’m in?”

  “I’ll give it my best shot,” I said. “And I really am pretty good at this. I may be … any number of things, but I never let down a client.”

  We came to the bar and I took him inside, holding him firmly by the arm so he couldn’t turn and bolt. St
rangefellows can have that effect on people. We descended the metal stairway into the bar proper, and everyone looked round to see who was coming. The place was packed with the usual unusual suspects. Two glowing nuns in white habits were sitting at the bar, Sisters of the Holy Order of Saint Strontium. They were drinking tall glasses of sparkling water, though it probably wasn’t sparkling when they ordered it. A cyborg with jagged bits of machinery poking out of him kept sticking his finger into a light socket and giggling. A vampire was drinking a bloody Mary, and from the look on her face Mary was really getting into it. Ms. Fate, the Nightside’s very own transvestite-costumed adventurer, a man who dressed up as a super-heroine to fight crime, was shaving his legs with a Bic before going out on patrol. A couple of tourists stood in one corner, with cameras raised. Someone had had them stuffed and mounted, for a joke.

  I got Eamonn 40 to the bar with only minimum force, sat him down as far from the radioactive nuns as possible, and nodded to the bartender and owner, Alex Morrisey, who glowered back at me. We’re friends, I suppose, but we’ve never been very demonstrative. It would probably help if I remembered to pay my bar tab now and again.

  Alex Morrisey was a tall streak of misery who always wore basic black, down to designer shades and a stylish French beret perched on the back of his head to hide his growing bald patch. He was in his late twenties, but looked ten years older. Running a bar in the Nightside will do that to you. His permanent scowl had dug a deep notch above his nose, and he only smiled when he was fiddling your change. He’d been married once, and was still bitter about it. Basically, Alex was pissed off at the entire world, and didn’t care who knew about it. Order a cocktail from him at your peril.

  He was descended from Merlin Satanspawn, who was buried in the cellars under the bar, after the fall of Camelot. Merlin occasionally manifests through Alex, and everyone sensible runs for cover. Being dead doesn’t stop you from being a major player in the Nightside.

  “What are you doing here, Taylor?” said Alex. “Trouble follows you around like a stalker. I’ve only just finished refurbishing the place after your last visit.”

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking,” I said. “You’re looking very yourself. Bring me many drinks, and have several for yourself.”

  “How about Mr. Ordinary?” said Alex.

  Eamonn 40 was sitting sullenly beside me, keeping his back stubbornly turned on all the more outrageous elements in the bar. I asked him what he’d like to drink, and he said he’d have a dry white wine. I gave Alex a hard look, and he reluctantly poured Eamonn 40 a glass of the better stuff. Alex hated to waste a good vintage on people he didn’t think were capable of appreciating it.

  “I have a mystery to solve,” I said briskly. “Someone has been messing about with my client’s time-line, yanking other versions of him out of alternate timetracks, to harass and maybe even kill him. They’ve also been messing about with me, by dumping him and his problems in my lap. I hate it when people start interfering with Time. As if the Nightside wasn’t complicated enough as it is.”

  “You take far too narrow a view of things, my dear Taylor,” said a lazy, affected voice. “Where you see problems, other more robust intellects see possibilities.”

  I looked around, carefully not letting myself be hurried, and standing at my side was one of the Nightside’s few other private investigators, Tommy Oblivion. There was a time I was the only PI in the Nightside, but my successes had encouraged others to throw their hats into the ring. One such was Tommy Oblivion, the existential detective, who specialised in cases that might or might not have actually happened. One of the most persuasive men I’d ever met, Tommy could tie logic in square knots and have people swearing black was white and up was down, just to get rid of him. He was a tall, studiedly effete fellow in starkly coloured New Romantic silks. (Unlike most of us, Tommy had a great Eighties. Being existential probably helped,)

  He had long, limp black hair, a long horsey face with a toothy smile, and long-fingered hands he liked to flap around while he was talking. Tommy liked to talk. It was said by many, and believed by most, that Tommy Oblivion could talk his own firing squad into shooting each other to get away from his relentlessly reasonable voice. He thrived in areas of moral obscurity, uncertain reality, and cases so complicated you couldn’t pin anything down even if you used tent pegs. And yet Tommy was very good at getting answers to the kinds of questions people in authority didn’t want answered. Tommy had a gift for getting at the truth. Not a very nice gift, perhaps, but then, that’s the Nightside for you.

  I had a feeling there was something I should remember about Tommy Oblivion, something important, but I couldn’t pin it down.

  “Hello, Tommy,” I said resignedly. “Keeping busy?”

  “Who can say? But I’m almost certain I would like a drink. My usual, Alex.”

  Alex scowled at him. “You always say that, and you always order something different.”

  “Of course,” said Tommy, smiling brightly. “I have a reputation to maintain. I think I’ll have a Buck’s Fizz.”

  “You really shouldn’t tease Alex,” I said, as Alex slunk away, muttering. “He’s quite capable of slipping something in your drink that will have you throwing up meals you ate six months ago.”

  “I know,” said Tommy. “It’s my way of living dangerously. Now then, a little bird tells me you’re contemplating a journey back in Time.”

  “My, what big ears you have, grandma. Why would you be interested, Tommy?”

  “Because I’m desperate to go travelling in Time, but I’ve never been able to persuade Old Father Time to let me. The old poop. Apparently he regards me as a somewhat frivolous character.”

  “Get away,” I said. “And after you’ve made a whole career out of being flippant, foppish, and dropping other people right in it.”

  “How very unkind.”

  “I notice you’re not denying it.”

  “I wouldn’t dare. Image is everything these days. But even you would have to admit I do get results, in my own distinctive and somewhat lateral way. The point is… I know I had a point with me when I came in here … ah yes, the point is, I was wondering whether I could prevail on you to put in a good word for me when you talk with Old Father Time.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a very good word for you, Tommy,” I said.

  Perhaps fortunately, that was when the unpleasantness started. Two sets of heavy feet came crashing down the metal stairs into the bar, and everyone turned to look. Sometimes I think Alex only had those stairs installed so no-one could sneak into his bar unnoticed. I was sort of expecting it, but even so my heart sank as two more Eamonn Mitchells stormed into the bar, brandishing wands. Eamonn 40 made a sad, trapped sound, and clutched at my arm. I murmured something soothing, carefully detached his hand from my arm, and moved to put myself between him and the newcomers.

  One of the new Eamonns looked to be a prosperous businessman in his fifties, overweight with good living. The other man was older, at least in his sixties, and looked like a street person. Malnutrition-thin, and wrapped in ragged charity shop clothes. I immediately tabbed them Eamonn 50 and Eamonn 60, and let my hands drift towards certain useful objects in my coat pockets. Much more than the earlier alternates in my office, these two looked desperate and dangerous. They stalked through the crowded bar, ignoring the strangeness to all sides, their hot angry gazes fixed on the Eamonn behind me. I stepped forward to block their path, and they stopped and smiled nastily at me. All around people were getting up from their tables and backing away, so as not to get caught in the cross-fire. Ms. Fate put his disposable razor back into her utility belt and produced a steel throwing star. I caught his eye, and shook my head slightly. I’ve always felt it important to handle my own messes.

  “You must be Taylor,” said Eamonn 50. Even his voice sounded fat and self-important. “We were warned you might try to interfere. This is none of your business. Get out of our way, or we’ll fix it so you were never born.”

  I had
to smile. “You might find that harder than you think,” I said.

  “Then maybe we’ll fix it so you were born crippled, or diseased,” said Eamonn 60. His voice was harsh and painful, as though he didn’t use it much any more. “We’ll kill you, Taylor. Kill you nasty, if you try and stop us doing what we have to do.”

  “What is it you want?” Eamonn 40 said from behind me. He was scared, but he kept his voice firm.

  “I want you to make the decisions that will lead to me, and my life,” said Eamonn 50. “I worked hard to get all the good things that life has to offer. All the comforts, and the pleasures. I won’t risk losing them now, just because you don’t have the balls to go for the brass ring. I’ll fix you. Make you make the right decisions. Make you become me.”

  “Is that what you want?” I asked Eamonn 60.

  “I don’t want to be me,” he said flatly. “No-one should have to live like I do. I never wanted this. Never wanted to sleep in shop doorways and beg for food from people who walk right past without making eye contact. I’ve been given the chance to undo the decisions that stupid bastard made, that led to him becoming me; and I’ll destroy anyone who interferes.”

  “Kill you all,” said Eamonn 50. “Destroy you all.”

  “Hold everything,” I said, holding up one hand politely. “Can I check something? Have either of you ever been married … and in particular, have either of you ever met a woman named Andrea?”

  The two new Eamonns looked at each other, confused, then they shook their heads angrily.