Simon Green - The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny

"A reputation helps keep the flies off," I said. "But it's there to protect me, not feed my ego."

"And it is a useful tool, to make people do what you want them to do."

"Yes," I said. "But…"

And then I stopped, because I didn't know what came next. Walker just smiled. And so we carried on quietly together, for a while.

"Normally, I'd take you to the Exiles Club next," said Walker. "Introduce you to all the otherworldly and other-dimensional royalty in exile; thrown up here on the Nightside's shores through Timeslips or dimensional doors, or some other unfortunate celestial accident. All the lost Kings and Queens, Emperors and Divinities… If only to show you that royalty can be a real pain in the arse, just like everyone else. Still, nothing like having a King or Queen bow their head to you to cheer up a dull day. Unfortunately, the Exiles are currently a bit mad at me, ever since I found it necessary to have some of them killed to maintain public order. You remember, John."

I nodded. I remembered their severed heads set on iron spikes outside the Londinium Club. Queen Helena, Monarch of the Evening in a future twilight Earth. Uptown Taffy Lewis, crime boss, and the scumbag's scumbag. And General Condor, a great leader of men from some future Spacefleet; who made some unfortunate alliances in his quest to do the right thing. Walker never hesitated to deal firmly with anyone who might challenge his authority.

Was he trying to tell me something in his own subtle way? Did he have an iron spike ready for my head if I turned him down?

That was Walker's main strength; he always kept you guessing.

Somewhat to my surprise, our next stop turned out to be Rats' Alley; where the homeless scrabble for thrown-out food or a place to lay their heads. Rats' Alley is a wide, cobbled square and a few narrow tributaries, set behind some of the finest and most upscale restaurants in the Nightside. Here, out of sight of the fine clientele who swan in through the front door, exists a small community of those who have fallen off the edge and can't find their way back. The homeless, the beggars, the lost and the ragged, the damaged and the damned, living in cardboard boxes, lean-to shelters, plastic sheeting, or only layers of clothing and the occasional blanket. Refugees from the world the rest of us take for granted.

I spent some time here, once.

Rats' Alley was a rougher, more dangerous place these days, with the loss of their saint and guardian angel, Sister Morphine. Razor Eddie still slept there as often as not, keeping the vultures at bay, and, of course, they still had Jacqueline Hyde. She came lurching out of the shadows to block our way, wrapped in the grimy tatters of what had once been an expensive coat. Walker and I stopped, to show respect for her territory. Everyone knew Jacqueline's story. This grim, bedraggled figure had once been a debutante and a high flyer, until she made the mistake of experimenting with her grandfather's formula. Now she's one of the Nightside's sadder love stories. Jacqueline is in love with Hyde, and he with her, but they can only ever meet briefly, in the moment of the change.

She snarled at Walker and me, and her body exploded suddenly into muscle and bulk. Hyde stood swaying and growling before us, his huge hands clutching at the air, eager to rend and tear, break bones, and feast on their marrow. He towered over us, his brute face flushed with the hatred he felt for all Mankind. Jacqueline Hyde: two souls in one body, together and separated at the same time.

"Easy," said Walker. "Slow and easy, that's the way. You don't want to hurt us, Hyde. It's Walker. You remember Walker."

If anyone else had tried the calm and reasonable routine, Hyde would have turned him into roadkill. But Walker was using the Voice, in a calm and soothing way, rather than his usual abrupt commands. Hyde's great head swayed slowly back and forth, deep-set eyes blinking confusedly under heavy eye-brow ridges, then he turned away suddenly and was gone, back into the shadows.

"I didn't know you could use your Voice like that," I said.

"Lot you don't know about me, John," Walker said cheerfully. "I could write a book. If I only had the time."

He moved easily among the soggy cardboard boxes and the piles of blankets, stepping carefully past and over the filth that covered the cobbled square. He greeted many of the homeless by name, as one by one they emerged from their shelters and hiding-places to crouch uneasily before him, like a pack of suspicious wild dogs. Most didn't want to get too close, but others fawned openly, begging for food or spare change, or a kind word-some sign that they had not been entirely forgotten by the real world. Walker murmured soft words and let them sniff his hands, and they quickly lost interest and retreated back to their own private little worlds. Walker smiled easily about him, in the last place you can fall to before the grave claims you for its own.

"This used to be Peter Pendrake," said Walker, gesturing at a bundled-up figure pressed up against the rear of its mould-covered box. "You used to work for me, didn't you, Peter? Until I caught you with your hand in the till."

"Long time ago, Henry," said a dry, ghostly voice from the shadows at the back of the box. "I'm a different person now. You could take me back. I could still do the job."

"That wasn't all I caught you doing, was it, Peter? You really were a very bad boy. But I'll tell you what; keep your eyes open and keep reporting in, and I'll think about it."

A painfully thin man, stained and filthy, in the ragged remains of a futuristic pressure suit, huddled against the cold under a very basic lean-to. He clutched possessively at his bottle and hugged it to his chest, glaring at Walker with sullen defiance.

"This was the famous Jet Ace Brannigan," said Walker. "Air hero from some alternate time-line. Flew a supersonic jet of his own design, fighting crime in the skies. Then he flew through a Timeslip and ended up here. You used to work for me, too, didn't you, Ace? Hunting dragons in the night sky? Until the drink got to you, and you crashed your jet on a main street, killing one hundred and twenty-seven people. You walked away with hardly a scratch; but I couldn't let you fly again, after that."

"I never used to drink," said Ace. "Until I met you."

The last person Walker wanted me to see was a shivering wreck of a man, trying to keep out the cold and the damp with a single thin blanket. He looked a hundred years old, his face the colour of bleached bone, his features hidden behind heavy wrinkles. He turned his head away, not wanting to be seen. Walker considered him for a long moment.

"This pathetic wreck used to be Somerset Smith, Gentleman Adventurer," he said finally. "Worked for Hadleigh, then for me, taking care of all those important, necessary, but very unpleasant situations that sometimes have to be dealt with quietly, by expendable people like yourself, John. Quite a name in his time, was Somerset; had a hell of a reputation. But then he tried to bring me down, and I broke him. A lot of my enemies end up in places like this. So much more satisfying than simply killing them."

"Are you warning me?" I said. "Or threatening me?"

"What do you think, John?" said Walker.

Everywhere we went, people noticed Walker. They smiled and bowed, glared and turned their faces away… but no-one ever ignored him. Walker was the Man. Everyone knew who he was, and what he did. But the one thing they all had in common, when you looked past the smiles and pleasant words, was that no-one was ever genuinely pleased to see Walker. A lot of them faked it remarkably well, so well that perhaps only a trained and experienced eye like mine might have spotted the falseness; but I knew. And I was pretty sure Walker did, too. I had to wonder if Walker had any real friends any more, or if he'd only see that as a weakness others would exploit. He kept his wife and his sons outside the Nightside, in an entirely separate life.