NINE
Old Truths Come Home to Roost In the Nightside, it always pays to expect the worst; but the old girl can still surprise you. Back on Lud's Gate platform, I reached out with my gift to find a train that could take us back to the city, and was pleasantly amazed to find one already waiting for us, right outside the station. It was the same train we'd arrived in, scared to stay but hanging around anyway, in case we might need it. I was genuinely touched and made a point of sending profuse mental apologies for my previous bad manners. The train just shrugged. Apparently trains are used to that sort of thing.
The gleaming steel bullet slammed back into Lud's Gate Station, the carriage doors opened long enough for Larry and I to climb aboard. Then the doors slammed shut, and the train shot out of the station at full speed. Something dark and dripping raised itself from the receding platform, but I didn't look back. Larry and I sprawled tiredly on our seats, staring at nothing in particular.
It's not every day you see a legend murdered in cold blood.
"What about Walker?" Larry said finally.
"He can find his own way home," I said.
"Not what I meant," said Larry. "I meant: what are we going to do about Walker?"
"Nothing," I said. "You can't do anything about him. He's… Walker."
"Is he? The Walker I remember from before I died might have been a ruthless bastard, but he made a point of never getting his own hands soiled. Someone else always did his dirty work for him. And usually with at least the appearance of law or justice to back him up. He didn't just stick knives into people he thought he couldn't trust."
"Yes," I said. "He murdered his oldest friend, right in front of us. As though… he doesn't give a damn any more."
"Did he ever?" said Larry.
"Oh yes," I said. "Walker was always a stickler for the rules and regulations, even if he did make most of them up himself."
"He can't expect us to keep quiet about this?"
"No. He's counting on us to tell everyone. He wants people to know. When a man knows for sure that his time is running out… he can't be bothered with the little things. He wants to tidy up his messes while he still can."
"So I did hear right?" said Larry. "The great and mighty Walker is dying."
"Yes. And that makes him more dangerous than he ever was before. There's nothing left to hold him back."
"I had no warning," said Larry. "Before I was killed. There are a lot of things I would have liked to do… Things I could have said, things I could have put right… I mean, I'm still here, still around, still taking care of business… But there are some things only the living can do and have it mean anything."
I waited, but that was all he had to say. We were, after all, professionals, only partners on a case, not friends. But perhaps there are some things you can only say to a stranger.
"Anyway," Larry said finally, "the important thing is that Walker lied. We have to start hunting for Tommy all over again."
"Looks like it," I said. "And I haven't the faintest idea where we should look next. No clues, no sightings, no suspects to threaten or intimidate… We could try some of the augurs or farseers. I know a wishing well that often comes through…"
"Hell with them," Larry said firmly. "They'll charge an arm and a leg for a rhyming couplet that will only make sense seven years from now or when it's too late to do any good."
"Sometimes… things, and people just vanish," I said. "It's the Nightside."
Larry glared at me. "You're not suggesting we give up, are you?"
"No," I said. "But I'm being realistic. If my gift can't find Tommy, he must really be lost."
"He's not dead!"
"No, I'd know if he was dead." I wasn't actually sure of that until I said it, but it made sense. My gift would have found a body. "We could try the Street of the Gods. A lot of the Beings there claim to be all-knowing."
"Why would they talk to us?" said Larry.
I grinned. "Because Razor Eddie is a friend of mine. And half the Beings on the Street would wet themselves if the Punk God of the Straight Razor even looked harshly in their direction."
"It's nice to have friends," Larry said solemnly.
We sat in silence for a while as the train roared through darkness and dark places.
"What do you suppose will happen to the collection?" Larry said finally. "It did look… very impressive. Will Walker put it up for auction, do you suppose?"
"No," I said. "I don't think so. Walker can get sentimental over the strangest things. I think he'll leave it where it is: all the treasures and curios, and the body of the man who collected them. Let it all remain lost, in a far place, and become its own legend. The Collector would have liked that."
"Will you miss him?" said Larry.
"He was my enemy. He tried to have me killed half a dozen times. He was my uncle Mark. Of course I'll miss him."
Larry and I emerged from the Underground again at Cheyne Walk Station, just in case we'd missed anything the last time. And once again, the Nightside managed a pleasant surprise. No fog, no rain, no showers of frogs; rather a pleasant night under a starry sky. The air was heavy with the scents of a dozen different cuisines, drifting out of restaurant doorways, open invitations for meals so ethnic they didn't even have names outside the Nightside. Forgotten food, from countries and cultures that don't exist any more. Kodo and Burundi drums held long, rolling conversations in the distance, and the barkers outside the members-only clubs chanted their harsh come-ons. People came and went and didn't even look around; but that's the Nightside for you. My mobile phone rang, and I answered it cautiously. The ad mail had been getting pretty aggressive recently, even with the best bullshit filters money can buy.
"Hello, John," said a calm, familiar voice. "This is Walker."
I paused. You had to admire the sheer nerve of the man. "What makes you think I want to hear anything you have to say?" I said finally.
"Hadleigh Oblivion has been sighted at the Church of St. Jude."
"And I should believe you because…?"
"Oh, don't take my word for it, dear boy," said Walker. "Ask anyone. If you can get them to stop screaming long enough. The Detective Inspectre has never been one to hide his appalling light under a bushel."
The phone went dead. I thought for a moment, then called my secretary, Cathy. She knew everything. Especially if it involved celebrity gossip.
"Oh hell yes," she said, as soon as I mentioned Hadleigh Oblivion. "Word's coming in from all over the Nightside, according to these gossip sites on the computer that I just happened to be glancing at when you called. The Detective Inspectre is out and about, punishing the wicked with vim and vigour. Hadleigh's blown up a dozen dubious establishments, made twenty-three notorious scumbags vanish simply by looking at them, and no-one can even find Blaiston Street any more. It's gone, as though it was never there in the first place. Not a great loss there, admittedly, but… People haven't been this scared since the Walking Man was here last month, mowing down the bad guys and giggling while he did it. Everyone I know is at home, locked in their bathrooms, waiting for the storm to pass. And, I might add, if Hadleigh Oblivion even looks as though he's heading in my direction, I am taking the day off. Possibly the whole year."
"You really must learn to breathe occasionally while you're talking," I said, when she finally paused long enough for me to jam a word in edgeways. "Are there any sightings of Hadleigh near the Church of St. Jude?"