Simon Green - Sharper Than A Serpent's Tooth

I was in the Gallery of Bone, in All Hallows’ Hall. The house at the heart of the world. The place where Time lives.

On the mantelpiece over the fireplace, there was a simple clock set in the stomach of a big black bakelite cat. As the clock ticked, the cat’s red tongue went in and out, and its eyes went back and forth. It looked like something you’d win at a cheap carnival. Standing on either side of the cat were stylised silver figures of a lion and a unicorn. And on either side of them, a series of small carved figures that made me think of chess pieces, though they clearly weren’t. I moved forward, for a closer look.

They were carved out of a clear, almost translucent wood, and I had no difficulty in recognising who the figures were. Razor Eddie, Dead Boy, Walker, Shotgun Suzie. I wondered if I kept looking… would I find one of me? I deliberately turned my back on the figures, and found that the centre of the floor was now taken up with a huge old-fashioned hourglass. It was easily a foot taller than I, and two feet in diameter, with sparkling clear glass supported by more of the strange translucent wood. Most of the sand had fallen through, from the upper glass to the lower, and something about that made me feel very sad.

I walked slowly round the massive hourglass, and met someone coming the other way, even though I was sure no-one else was there when I started. I stopped short, and so did she, and we regarded each other suspiciously for a while. Tall and almost painfully slender, with long cords of muscle on her bare arms, she was a teenage punk, in battered black leathers adorned with studs and chains, over a grubby white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. Her hair was a spiky black Mohawk, shaved high at the sides, and her face was almost hidden behind lashings of black and white makeup. A safety pin pierced one ear, while a rusty razor blade dangled from the other. Her eyes were fierce, her black-lipped mouth a snarl. She glared at me, two large fists resting on her hips. She had hate tattooed on both sets of knuckles.

“I’m Mad,” she announced abruptly, in a deep harsh voice.

“Of course you are,” I said, keeping my voice calm and soothing.

“It’s short for Madeleine, you divot!” She brought up her right hand, and suddenly there was a flick-blade in it, the blade snapping out with a nasty-sounding click. I think I was supposed to be impressed, but then, I knew Razor Eddie. And Shotgun Suzie. The punk girl snarled at me. “What are you smirking at? You think I won’t use this? This is Time’s house. I look after him, because, well… someone has to. Otherwise, he goes wandering… Look, we don’t like unexpected, uninvited visitors, so you can just turn around and go straight back where you came from. Or there’s going to be trouble.”

“Actually, I’m afraid I’m stuck here,” I said. “I came by train. From the Nightside.”

She sniffed loudly. “That shit-hole? I wouldn’t go there on a bet.”

“Yes, well, a lot of people have been known to feel that way, but… I really do need to speak to Old Father Time.”

“Well he doesn’t need to see you, so piss off, before I decide to start cutting lumps off you.”

I thought for a moment. “Is there anyone else I could talk to?”

“No! I’m Mad!”

“Yes, we’ve already established that… Is there perhaps someone who looks after you, makes sure you don’t hurt yourself, that sort of thing?”

“Right! That’s it! You’re going back to the Nightside inside thirty-seven chutney jars!”

I think we were both about to do something unfortunate at that point, so it’s just as well Old Father Time finally decided to make himself known. He appeared out of nowhere, looking exactly the way I remembered him from our last encounter in the Time Tower. A tall gaunt man in his late fifties, dressed to the height of Victorian fashion. Julien Advent would have loved it. Time wore a long black frock coat of a most severe cut, over severely tailored grey trousers, and, except for the gold watch chain stretched across his waistcoat, the only splash of colour in his outfit was the apricot cravat at his throat. He was handsome enough, in an old-fashioned way, with a determined chin held high, a steely smile, and old old eyes. A thinning mane of long white hair had been brushed back from a noble brow, and left to lie where it fell. An air of quiet authority hung about him like an old comfortable cloak, only slightly undermined by a certain vagueness in his gaze.

“It’s all right, Madeleine,” he said calmly. “I know who this is. I’ve been expecting him. Now go and find something useful to do, there’s a dear, while I tell this gentleman things he almost certainly doesn’t want to hear.”

Madeleine sniffed loudly again, and made her flick knife disappear. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Absolutely not, but it’s been that sort of a day for several centuries now.”

Madeleine walked around the hourglass and disappeared, leaving Time and me alone in the great Hall. He smiled briefly as he looked down at himself.

“I really should change this image for something more appropriate. I am a Transient Being, after all… but so many of you seem to find this appearance comforting, these days. I think I know why, and the Travelling Doctor has a lot to answer for…”

“Quite,” I said, because you have to say something, into pauses like that. “I’m sorry to intrude, but…”

“Yes, yes, my boy, I know. Lilith has come to the Nightside at last, and it’s all falling apart at the seams. But unfortunately, I can’t intervene. I can’t help you. No-one can.”

“Ah.” Not what I wanted to hear. “I came here because…”

“Oh I know why you’re here, John Taylor. I know what you want from me. I’ve got it right here. But you won’t like it.”

He gestured vaguely with his left hand, and there floating on the air between us was a small black case with a dull matte surface. The lid rose up on its own, revealing the Speaking Gun, lying nestled in bloodred velvet. It lay there quietly, for the moment, the ugliest gun ever made. Just looking at it made me feel as though a mad dog had just entered the Hall. The Gun had been fashioned from meat, from flesh and bone, with dark-veined gristle and shards of cartilage, all held together with strips of colourless skin. Living tissues, shaped into a killing tool. Thin slabs of bone made up the handle, held in place by tightly stretched skin with a hot sweaty look. The trigger was a long canine tooth. The red meat of the barrel gleamed wetly. I wondered just how much of my mother’s body had gone into making this awful thing, this Speaking Gun. Up close, the ancient weapon smelled like an animal in heat. And I could hear it, breathing, in its case.

“I really don’t care for the thought of such a powerful weapon in the hands of the infamous John Taylor,” Old Father Time said sharply. “Far too much temptation for any mortal. Let alone you. But… I’m going to give it to you anyway.” He looked briefly at the huge hourglass. “Partly because time is running out for the Nightside. Partly because try as I might, I can’t seem to find anyone else more fitting to give it to… But mostly because a future version of myself came back in time to tell me to give it to you, and I really wish I wouldn’t do things like that to myself.”

The lid of the case snapped shut, and the black box dropped unceremoniously into my hands. Time sighed heavily, shook his head, and snapped his fingers. And all at once, I was somewhere else.

I was back in the Nightside, in Time Tower Square, and my first thought was how quiet and peaceful everything was. I looked slowly around me, and no-one looked back. The mobs and monsters had all moved on, probably because there was nothing left in the Square to destroy, and no-one left to kill. The buildings were fire-blackened frameworks, collapsed inwards or outwards, cracked stone and broken bricks. There were bodies lying everywhere, men and women and others so damaged or torn apart it was impossible to tell who or what they might have been originally. They looked like so many broken toys someone had got tired of playing with. Nothing moved, anywhere. There weren’t even any rats nosing among the bodies. Maybe they’d all been killed, too. Out beyond the Square, the War was still going on, in the distance. I could hear faint cries and roars and explosions, and now and again there’d be a sudden surge of light, pushing back the darkness. But the Square was still, and silent.