Simon Green - The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny

"You fight really dirty, don't you?"

"You just have to know how to talk to them," I said solemnly.

The train ran smoothly through the dark, not turning at all; heading in a remorseless straight line for Lud's Gate. Once, something outside in the dark ran its fingernails along the side of our carriage, a soft scraping sound that made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Larry stared straight ahead, as though he hadn't heard anything; and perhaps he hadn't. There are some things only the living can hear because warnings are wasted on the dead. We travelled on for ages, the air growing steadily colder. Frost appeared on the inside of the carriage, forming harsh abstract faces on the inner walls. I huddled inside my trench coat, my hands thrust deep in my pockets. Larry didn't feel any of it. Not even when frost began to form whorled patterns on his dead face.

The train suddenly screeched to a halt, rocking Larry and me back and forth in our seats. The carriage doors jerked open, a few inches at a time, splinters of ice falling from the frozen metal frame. I got to my feet and moved over to the doors, standing well back as I looked out. Larry got up and stood behind me. Outside, on the platform, the lights were a corrupt yellow glow, more organic than electric, like something from the sick-room. Dust and cobwebs everywhere, and deep dark shadows. Hot sweaty air gusted in through the open carriage doors, heavy with the stench of dying things. The frost on the doors melted and ran away. Larry moved forward to leave the carriage, but I stopped him with a raised hand. There was no-one out there on the platform, no obvious threat, but still I felt uneasy. Someone was watching.

Larry stirred impatiently, and I made myself step out of the carriage and onto the platform. Sweltering hot air hit me like a slap in the face. Larry was at my side, glaring about him. The frost on his dead face quickly melted, running away like unfelt tears. The carriage doors jerked together behind us, and the train roared away, getting the hell out of the station before something bad happened. Ahead of me, the old station sign of Lud's Gate was set out in heavy black Gothic lettering. The bottom of the sign was soaked in old dried blood.

Thick mats of vine and ivy covered the station walls, stirring slowly when I looked at them, agitating in long green tremors beside me as I walked slowly down the platform. Fierce bright eyes peered out of the heavy greenery. Black flowers thrust up through the platform floor, turning slowly to watch as Larry and I passed them by. One of them hissed at Larry, and he deliberately stepped on it, crushing it under his heel.

"Plants should know their place," he said loudly.

His voice didn't echo at all in the quiet. The silence was so deep and long-established it seemed to swallow up all new noises, including our footsteps. It was like walking through a painting of a place rather than the place itself. Larry stopped abruptly and glared about him.

"Is this supposed to scare me?" he said loudly. "I'm dead! My house is spookier than this!"

"Way too much information," I murmured. "And so much for the element of surprise."

"Leave it out," said Larry. "This place is deader than I am. Whatever happened here, it's over. We missed it. This… is just the mess it left behind. I want the Collector. Where is he?"

"He must know we're here by now," I said. "But it's a big station. The entrance to his lair could be concealed anywhere. And I really don't feel like wandering around… Lud's Gate had a really bad reputation back in the day, before the old Authorities sent a squad in to shut it down."

"Hadleigh led that squad," said Larry. "Back when he was the Man… Didn't you know?"

"No," I said. "But the Nightside does so love its little coincidences."

"Couldn't you…?"

"No, I couldn't," I said quickly. "The Collector knows me of old. The number of times I've casually wandered into his secret hideouts and made a complete nuisance of myself, he's bound to have set up booby-traps, keyed to my gift."

"That's right," said Larry. "You and he go way back. What's he like?"

"Crazy, spiteful, and vindictive, and dangerous with it," I said. "He's lots of other things, too, as the mood takes him, but those are the ones to bear in mind."

"I meant," said Larry, "what's he like as a person?"

I thought about it. "I'm not sure how much of a person is left any more. He didn't always use to be like this. He had a name once, a position, friends, and a life. But one by one he gave them all up to pursue his obsessions. And now he's just the Collector."

"So how do we find him?"

"We won't have to," I said. "He'll find us."

We both looked round sharply as a spotlight stabbed down out of nowhere, a brilliant shimmering pillar of light filling one of the exit arches, clear and sharp against the rotten corrupt light of the platform. And in that spotlight, glaring at me: the Collector. A barely medium-height man, badly overweight, wrapped in a simple white Roman tunic. His face was red and sweaty, his piggy eyes were fixed solely on me, and his podgy hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"John Taylor," he said heavily. "Once again you come knock knock knocking at my door. How did I end up with you as my personal cross to bear? It's not as if I shot an albatross. And which part of secret lair do you find so hard to comprehend? If I wanted visitors, I'd advertise. And who the hell's that?"

"That's Larry Oblivion," I said. "You'll have to excuse his manners. He's dead."

The Collector looked Larry over and shrugged. "I've already got a zombie. And a lich. I used to have a mummy, but the damn thing fell apart when I tried to steam-clean its bandages. What do you want this time, Taylor? Whatever it is, you can't have it. I'm very busy right now."

"What's with the new outfit?" I said cunningly. The Collector never could resist showing off his latest acquisitions.

"Oh, this old thing?" said the Collector. "It is rather fine, isn't it? This is the very tunic Pontius Pilate was wearing when he washed his hands. Would you believe I found it tossed away in a laundry basket? If people can't be trusted to look after things, they shouldn't be allowed to have them." He scowled suddenly as he realised he'd allowed himself to be distracted. "Why can't you just leave me alone, Taylor? What did I ever do to you?"

"You know what you did," I said, and he looked away, not meeting my gaze.

"That was a long time ago," he said. "How many times must a man pay for his sins? There ought to be a statute of limitations on guilt." He glared at me sullenly. "You can't keep on dropping in on me, whenever you feel like it! If I wanted company, I'd put a personal ad in the Inquirer! Oh hell, tell me what you want this time, and let's get on with it. I'd keep guard dogs, but they pee on the exhibits."

"You were right," Larry said to me. "Crazy as a bag of arse-holes."

"Shut up, grave dodger," said the Collector.

I cut in quickly. "The last time we met, Collector, you said you were busy with something new. And now you say you're still busy… I have to ask: have you taken on a new interest? Something… different?"

The Collector stared at me for a moment. He seemed honestly puzzled. "No… Not really. I've spent most of my time recently trying to pin down a particularly elusive Arthurian artefact that isn't when it's supposed to be, but that's not enough to bring you here… So, what is it, Taylor? Spit it out!"

"Word is, you've started collecting people," I said bluntly. "Unique, important, and significant individuals. Larry thinks you've got his brother Tommy here, because of his gift. Have you?"

The Collector actually gawked at me. "That's it? That's why you're here? Are you crazy? What the hell would I want with people? Nasty, noisy, demanding things. Which part of I live alone in secret lairs as far from bloody people as I can get have you failed to grasp? I collect rare and fascinating objects, from all ages of history. Mainly to protect them from other people, who wouldn't appreciate them. I like things. You know where you are with things. Oh… come and take a look, then, if that's what it will take to get rid of you. You can have half an hour to admire my collection and satisfy yourselves that I'm not stockpiling people, then I'm throwing you out of here."