"But, could you take him?" I said.
Razor Eddie thought about it. "Maybe. Walker has his secrets; but then, don't we all?"
I decided to change the subject. "So what have you been up to lately, Eddie? Killed anyone interesting?"
"No. I've been… travelling." Razor Eddie stirred uneasily in his seat. "Ever since Merlin Satanspawn finally passed on, I've felt… restless. Disturbed. As though waiting for the storm to break. I've being spending time down in the subterranean ways, listening and learning. There are rumours in dark places, whispers in the shadows… People, and others, have talked to me when they wouldn't talk to anyone else. And definitely not to Walker."
"You trust them to tell you the truth?" I said.
"Of course," said Razor Eddie. "I'm a god."
"Of course," I said.
"I first heard the name on the Street of the Gods, passed from hand to hand and mouth to mouth like an isotope too hot to handle. I heard it again in the Moon Pool, and among the Openers of the Way. Something is coming to the Nightside, John, something very old and very powerful, enough to scare even me. It could change everything."
I leaned forward, caught up in his intensity. "How do you mean, 'change'?"
"Something that could save or damn us all." He smiled briefly. "Whether we like it or not. Which rather begs the question: what could be powerful enough to enforce its will upon the whole Nightside and make it stick?"
"My mother is gone," I said steadily. "And she won't be coming back."
"Well, that's good to know. But I wasn't thinking of her. This is a legend that made itself true, an artefact that can rewrite history. A weapon that could sweep the stars out of the sky."
"Does it have a name?" I said.
"Oh yes. And it's a name you'll know. But don't be fooled by the glamour. The stories were rewritten many times, to disguise just how terrible it is."
"Say the name," I said.
"Excalibur," whispered Razor Eddie, Punk God of the Straight Razor.
He got up and left before I could say anything, and I wasn't sure what I would have said anyway. Twice now someone had dropped that name, and not in a good way. I brushed dead flies off the table-top, and thought about it. Could this be the real thing, lost for centuries, come back out of legend and into history again, its time come round at last? How had Puck known about Excalibur? Was there some connection between that ancient sword and the most ancient of races? Supposedly, the great sword could only be wielded by the true King of England, or by the truly pure in heart; which ruled me out on both counts. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to name anyone in the Nightside who came even close. So why was it coming here? Had someone summoned it? Or stolen it? Could it be a larger-than-usual piece of celestial flotsam and jetsam, washing up in the Nightside from God knows where… Or could its presence here answer some kind of purpose? Or destiny? Destiny can be a real bastard, in the Nightside.
It could save or damn us all…
My concentration was interrupted by the tinkling sound of "Tubular Bells," and I got out my mobile phone and answered it, glad to be interrupted. I hadn't liked where my thoughts were taking me…
"Hi. It's Suzie. The whole Mother Shipton business was a waste of time. She was warned, and the whole place was empty by the time I got here. Thing is, I'm almost sure the warning came from Walker. Like he wanted me out here, out of the way."
"Could be," I said. "Walker came to see me. He's up to something."
"I'm coming straight back," said Suzie. "Don't agree to anything, and above all don't sign anything until I've looked at it first."
"I did survive for years without you, you know."
"Beats the hell out of me how. See you soon. My love."
And she was gone. Suzie never was one for small talk. I put the phone away. Like a lot of people in the Nightside, I can't help wondering where the satellites are. Or even if there are satellites. I keep hoping someone will hire me to find out.
And then the three witches appeared, advancing on my booth. Bent-over hags in shapeless shrouds, with warts and hooked noses and evil eyes. They gathered before me, cackling hideously, then bowed deeply.
"Hail!"
"Hail!"
"Hail!"
"All hail John Taylor, who shall be King hereafter!"
I glared at them. "Alex put you up to this, didn't he?"
SIX
Crime Scene Investigators I travelled to Cheyne Walk on the Underground. After all the more than usually crazy weirdness of my day so far, I felt in need of the ordinary everyday weirdness of the Tube system. From the moment I descended the crowded stairs into the packed station, everything seemed reassuringly normal. The buskers were out in force, singing for their supper with more enthusiasm than talent. A wide-eyed gentleman with multiple personality disorder was doing three-part harmonies with himselves, in a rocking rendition of "My Guy." A malfunctioning android in a monk's robe was blasting out Gregorian chants interspersed with quick bursts of hot Gospel soul. And a soft ghost sang a sad song in a language no-one recognised, from a world no-one remembered any more. I dropped a little spare change on all of them. Because you never know. All it ever takes is one really bad day, and we can all fall off the edge.
The tunnels and platforms seemed more than usually crowded, with people-and others-from here, there, and everywhere. All of them full of a restless nervous energy, desperate to get to wherever they were going, as though afraid it might not be there when they arrived. No-one was talking to anyone else, and the crowded conditions led to a certain amount of elbowing and shoving and barging aside, the sort of behaviour that really wasn't safe in the Nightside.
Everyone gave me plenty of room, though. I'm John Taylor.
I leaned against a platform wall and waited for my train, aimlessly studying the posters on the wall opposite. They stirred and changed in subtle ways, advertising movies that could only be seen in certain very private clubs. Weird images that came and went like scenes from disturbed dreams.
A tall diva in all-white leathers led a shaved chupacabra past me on a leash. A clone boy band with seven identical faces slouched arrogantly after her. A dead surfer with rotting jammies came to stand beside me, leaning patiently on the coffin lid he was using as a board. (Though God alone knew where he thought he was going to find a decent wave in the Nightside.) City gents in smart city suits stood close together in their proud little cliques, discussing ritual sacrifice and the Financial Times shares index. There were also plenty of the usual creatures trying to pass themselves off as human, with varying degrees of success. No-one ever says anything to them. It's the thought that counts.
A few yards away a group of mimes beat up a pickpocket with their invisible mallets.
Just another day in the Nightside.
By the time the train got me to Cheyne Walk, I was so relaxed I almost dozed off on my seat, and my head came up with a jerk as the train slammed into the station. I made my way up through the tunnels, swept along with the hurrying crowds, and finally emerged onto the street. The air was hot and sweaty, and a gusting wind blew lighter pieces of garbage this way and that. There are no street-cleaners in the Nightside; because there's always something around that'll eat anything. I strolled down the street, taking my time, looking the place over. It hadn't been that long since the Lilith War, but you'd never have known there'd ever been any fighting or destruction here. It had all been repaired, rebuilt, renewed. Old shops and businesses destroyed by fire and explosion and the madness of rioting mobs had been replaced by bright new establishments; like a carnival built on a neglected graveyard.
Heavy-drinking bars stood alongside advanced dance salons, while brightly lit book-shops offered volumes of forgotten lore and forbidden knowledge. In paperback, and usually remaindered. There was even one of those new age soul-massage parlours, guaranteed to put your inner self at rest, and a restaurant from the Strange Offerings chain, spe cialising in food from other worlds and dimensions. For the more adventurous, there was a branch of Baron Samedi's Bide A Wee; where you can pay to be briefly possessed, just for the kick of it. And for the truly creepy among us, there was the Dreamy Travel Agency, where lucid-dreaming potions allowed the discerning client to go tripping through the Dreamtime, to skinny-dip in other people's dreams.