"Let me check." There was a long pause. No doubt she was doing things with the extremely complicated office computers that I paid for but have never been able to understand. "Right, yes, word just in-definite sighting of Hadleigh exploding a fat guy two streets down from the church. Ooh, messy. Ick. That one's going to end up on YouTube."
"Listen to me, Cathy," I said. "This is important. Walker's lost it. He's killed the Collector. Get the word out; warn people. Walker… doesn't give a damn any more."
She sniffed loudly. "News to me he ever did. Always said he was mad, bad, and dangerous to be within a hundred miles of, behind all that polite public school facade. You watch yourself, boss. I know you like to think you and Walker have a connection, an understanding; but I've always known he'd cut you down in a minute if he thought it served his purposes."
She shut down the connection before I could argue with her, but I wasn't sure I would have. When a man knows he's going to die, his thoughts can turn in strange directions. Walker had surprised me when he called me son, and again when he asked me to take over his position. And yet again when he murdered the Collector. Who knew how many other surprises he had in store?
I filled Larry in on Hadleigh and St. Jude's, and he scowled. "That's a long way off. Too long by the Underground…"
"We could try a taxi," I said. "They can't all be psychopaths, mind robbers, and licensed thieves. You could put it on expenses."
"I think we can do better than that," said Larry, not quite condescending. "I run a large organisation, remember? Just because I'm dead, it doesn't mean I've been lying down on the job."
He got out his mobile phone and called for one of his drivers to come and pick us up. He'd barely put the phone away before a long pearl grey limousine eased out of the traffic and purred to a halt. The driver got out to open the door for Larry and me, a tall, blonde, Valkyrie type in a white leather chauffeur's uniform, complete with peaked cap. She smiled at Larry, winked at me, and was back behind the wheel before I'd even finished doing up my seat belt.
"Image is everything these days," Larry said comfortably. "Act important, and everyone will treat you as though you're important. You might be more comfortable with the traditional ways, walking the mean streets in your iconic white trench coat; but I've always believed in travelling in style. Take us to St. Jude's, Priscilla."
"You see a lot more from the street than you do from a car," I said, but my heart wasn't in it.
The limousine must have been heavily armed, on the quiet, because the rest of the traffic gave us plenty of room. We swept smoothly through the night, leaving the bright lights behind us as we headed into the darker and more obscure areas. Where the shadows have substance, and even the moonlight seems corrupt. Like slipping out of a dream and into a nightmare, leaving everyday temptations behind in favour of darker and more malicious impulses. I watched the streets and squares drift by, swept along in the smooth comfort of the limousine; and all the sharp neon and Technicolor come-ons seemed like a dream within a dream, far, far away.
You find the Church of St. Jude tucked away in a quiet corner, in the back of beyond, far and far from the fields you know. It has no sign outside, no name on any board, no promise of hope or comfort. It's just there for when you need it. The only real church in the Nightside. The limousine eased to a halt a respectable distance away, and Larry and I got out. The night air was cold and sharp, brisk and bracing, alive with possibilities. Larry told his chauffeur to stay put, and he and I headed for the church, neither of us in any hurry. The Church of St. Jude is not a welcoming place.
An old, cold stone structure, older than history, older than Christianity itself, St. Jude's consists of four bare greystone walls with a slate roof, narrow slits for windows, and only one door. Never locked or bolted, always open; and let any man walk into the lion's mouth who would. No priests here, no services or sermons; just a place where a man can talk with God and stand a real chance of getting an answer. Your last chance in the Nightside for sanctuary, salvation, or sudden and terrible justice.
Not many people come to St. Jude's. It is not a place for mercy or compassion. St. Jude's deals strictly in the truth.
It didn't take me long to realise that the church had undergone a change since I was last there. It didn't seem quiet or brooding any more. Brilliant shafts of light blazed out of every window-slit, piercing the dark. A great and mighty power was abroad in the night, emanating from the ancient stone building, pulsing and pounding on the air. There was nothing of Good or Evil in it, only pure naked power. Larry and I looked at each other, hunched our shoulders, and pressed on. The closer we got, the more it was like breasting a tide, or facing into a storm, and we had to fight our way forward through sheer will-power. Whoever or whatever had made itself at home in the church, it clearly wasn't keen on visitors.
"Never been here before," Larry said casually. "Is it always like this?"
"Not usually," I said. "Sometimes it's actually quite dangerous."
"Who do you suppose is in there?"
"Beats me. Maybe someone got a prayer answered."
Larry smiled briefly. "Looks more like a personal appearance."
"Could be."
Larry looked at me. "I was joking!"
"I wasn't. This is St. Jude's."
"Could that be Hadleigh, do you think?"
"What would he be doing in there?"
"I don't know. Talking to his boss?"
"Now, that I have got to see," I said.
The moment we forced our way through the open door and into the church, the pressure on the air disappeared. The sense of power was still there, but it was no longer directed at us. The whole church was full of light, so stark and brilliant it seemed to blaze right through me, throwing all my hopes and needs and secrets into sharp relief, so that anyone could see them. But bright as it was, I could still see clearly without squinting or blinking, for this was no ordinary earthly light. The source was a man, fuelled by heavenly fires but not consumed. The Lord of Thorns had come back into his power again.
He was striding up and down and back and forth, his long white robes flapping about him, raging and raving and brandishing his bony fists. I'd never seen anyone look so purely angry in my whole life. His footsteps were like thunder, slamming on the bare stone floor, and his every movement sent shock waves across the air, as his bearded face contorted with rage. His eyes bulged, and his long grey hair swept about his head as he snarled and roared. His hands worked fiercely, as though eager, desperate, to get a hold on whoever had provoked this fury in him. His presence filled the whole church like an endless ongoing explosion.
Larry and I stopped just inside the door. We both knew a real and present danger when we saw one.
"Who or what is that?" said Larry, leaning close to speak right into my ear.
"That is the Lord of Thorns," I said. "The original Overseer of the Nightside, first and final dispenser of truth and justice for all who live here. Last I saw, he was a broken old man, stripped of his power, nothing but the self-appointed caretaker of St. Jude's. He would appear to have got his mojo working again, and if you and I had any sense, we'd get the hell out of here before he notices us."
"The Lord of Thorns?" said Larry. "Really? I thought he was a myth, a legend."
"Anything can turn out to be true, in the Nightside."
"And you've met him before? What am I saying; of course you have. You're John Taylor. All right; fill me in. The short version, preferably."