Part 10 (1/2)

”Is that so bad? They're saying all the right things.”

”The only way to stay uncorrupted by power is to turn your back on it. You should know that. Don't let Walker convince you of the rightness of his path. Don't be fooled into thinking you could take his power and not be touched by it. Not be changed by it. The Nightside does so love to break a hero. You can't save the Nightside, John. You can't redeem the Nightside. It doesn't need saving or redeeming. It serves a purpose, just as it is. Or I'd have torn it all down long ago.”

”Hasn't stopped you killing a whole bunch of people,” I said carefully. ”Often in inventively ghastly ways.”

”There are always those who go too far. Bad people, who need killing. I'll always be there, for them. But look what that kind of life has done to me. Honour can be a harsh mistress. You have a chance for a real life, with Suzie. How do you think she'll feel when she hears about you sitting down with Walker?”

”Tell me, Eddie,” I said. ”Why have you never gone after Walker? You've always hated him and everything he stands for. Is it the Voice?”

He smiled slightly, his pale lips hardly moving. ”I can move faster than he can speak. No. I never touched him because ... someone has to be in charge, and better the devil you know. Walker may be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but he's an even-handed b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He doesn't take sides, so we can all hate him evenly.”

”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 Satansp.a.w.n finally pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d.”

”Of course,” I said.

”I first heard the name on the Street of the G.o.ds, pa.s.sed 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 d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d 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, was.h.i.+ng up in the Nightside from G.o.d knows where ... Or could its presence here answer some kind of purpose? Or destiny? Destiny can be a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d, in the Nightside.

It could save or d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+pton 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 h.e.l.l 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 rea.s.suringly 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 G.o.d 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 Financial Times shares index. There were also plenty of the usual creatures trying to pa.s.s themselves off as human, with varying degrees of success. No-one ever says anything to them. It's the thought that counts. shares index. There were also plenty of the usual creatures trying to pa.s.s 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-ma.s.sage 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.

But still the tourists and the punters streamed this way and that, with eyes bigger than their wallets, on the prod and on the prowl, desperate to give away everything they had for everything on offer that was bad for them. The street was alive with noise and bustle and something very like glamour. Candy-coloured neon signs blazed like beacons, and everywhere you looked there was every kind of come-on. The d.a.m.ned leading the d.a.m.ned; the Nightside doing what it did best.

I stopped half-way along the street, trying to remember exactly where I saw Tommy Oblivion go down; first under a falling wall, then under the clawing hands of a maddened crowd. I always a.s.sumed he died here because I saw so many others die that day. Like Sister Morphine, the angel of the homeless. She'd died right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do to help her. There was a war on. I couldn't save everyone. I could still remember the bodies, piled up like refuse, while blood ran so thickly in the gutters it overflowed the storm drains. I could still hear the screams and pleas from the wounded and the dying ... still see the mobs running wild, driven out of their minds by shock and horror, tearing apart everyone in their path. So many dead, and no memorial for any of them. Not even a plaque on a wall.