Simon Green - The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny

"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?"

"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.