Simon Green - The Bride Wore Black Leather

But they can’t be bothered to do anything about the graffiti artists. Apparently they consider them beneath their dignity. So the walls are covered with overlapping scrawls of names and boasts and urgent messages from the subconscious of the Nightside. Meet the new Walker, same as the old Walker. Razor Eddie does it with surgical precision. Supersexuals of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your inhibitions. Where have all the elves gone and who do we go to to say thanks? And, a bit intriguingly, Let the sunshine in.

And, of course, the inevitable buskers. I think the poltergeists let them hang around to brighten up their endless job. But only as long as the musicians maintain a professional standard. The untalented and overambitious can often be seen hobbling out of the underpass with their instruments stuffed where the moon doesn’t shine. I dropped the odd coin in every other cap or outstretched hand I passed, on the grounds that the wheel turns for all of us, and karma can be a real bitch. The only difference between any of us and the homeless is one really bad day.

The usual buskers lined the way, giving it their all, such as it was. A trio of Greek Muses were singing a ska version of the “Ballad of Eskimo Nell,” in close-part harmonies. Complete with gestures. A ventriloquist with a vampire dummy had the dummy singing “Love You till the Sun Comes Up Again,” while drinking a pint of blood. An old-fashioned ghost with its head stuck underneath its arm was singing “I Got You, Babe,” in a duet with itself. And a punk barber-shop quartet were making a real mess of that old punk favourite, “She Fucked Me with a Chain-saw and It felt Like a Kiss.” A little style can be a dangerous thing.

I came up out of the Underground on the other side of the street and headed out of the naked jungle and into the expensively suited jungle of the business section. People started giving me even more room than before, often actually stepping aside to let me pass. Of course, they weren’t stepping aside for John Taylor, PI, but for the new Walker, representative of the Authorities. Those powerful but shadowy grey eminences who ran the Nightside, inasmuch as anyone did, or could. Some people faded back into dark doorways, or disappeared down even darker alleyways, and a few actually turned around abruptly and headed back the way they’d come. Part of me thought I could get used to this.

I stopped for a moment, to consider my reflection in a shop-window to see if my new authority had changed me in any way. But the same shabby face looked back at me, a little more battered and hard-used as I headed towards the end of my thirties. The same long white trench coat, traditional armour for a tarnished knight-errant. Tall, dark, and handsome enough from a distance, that’s me, with cold eyes and a colder smile. And perhaps only I could see the beaten-in tiredness, from carrying so many burdens. I made a face, to keep me from getting above myself, and continued on my way.

It does help that I have a special gift for finding things, and people. Whether they want to be found or not.

There was a time when the burdened and the disenfranchised, the desperate and the hag-ridden, would have approached me in the street and hailed me as a King in waiting. The rightful ruler of the Nightside. But I declined that dubious honour; and for my pains ended up as the new Walker, both more and less than a King. I had become the Man; the very thing I spent most of my life fighting against. I suppose we all grow up to become our parents, in the end.

I headed deeper into the business sector, thinking of many things. I was going to my office, a thing I rarely do, if only because it intimidates the hell out of me. I could have used the Portable Timeslip contained inside my gold pocket-watch; one last gift from the previous Walker, before I killed him. It would have teleported me right to my office door, but . . . I felt the need to walk, to tread the familiar streets, and feel the Nightside turn slowly beneath me.

My office was located in a pretty up-market, almost respectable area, where no-one would even think of fleecing the tourists. They dealt in high finance and stole millions from the defenceless every day, without a second thought. The buildings were all much of a muchness, official soulless affairs with little style and no character. You could always tell when you’d reached the business area because the tourists and the punters and the seekers after forbidden knowledge seemed to disappear, replaced by smart-suited functionaries with enchanted briefcases, snapping orders into their mobile phones, to let everyone else know how important they were. Hurrying to their next meetings, to screw someone over before they got screwed. And then there were the rent-a-cops, professional security men and bully-boys, in their private and very gaudy uniforms, carrying all kinds of weapons. They were there to enforce . . . well, if not the law, at least the vested interests of their employers. A business man might steal millions with a straight face but wouldn’t stand for having his pocket picked on the way to work or his office burgled while he was out.

All the rent-a-cops knew who I was, but none of them so much as stepped forward to challenge me. They hadn’t had the guts to face me down while I was just a private investigator, and now that I was Walker, all it took was the occasional cold glance to put them in their place. Some of them actually saluted me as I passed, though none of them could bring themselves to smile. I had history with most of the companies that supplied rent-a-cops to the suits, and it was the kind of history where the cops tended to shoot first and ask questions afterwards, through a medium. They hated me, and I despised them. They were only standing their ground now because Suzie wasn’t with me. If Shotgun Suzie had been striding along at my side, they’d have run away and hidden until we were gone. Though to be fair, most people do that when they see Suzie heading their way. If they’ve got any sense.

Up above, the gargoyles leaned a little further out from their perches on top of the older buildings, to get a better look at me. I made a point of sticking to the far side of the pavement. Gargoyles have very basic humorous urges and a complete lack of restraint when it comes to making use of their bodily wastes. Statues shuffled a little further back into their niches as I passed, their stone eye-balls moving slowly to follow me, with the faintest of grinding sounds. Doors quietly closed and locked themselves, and windows turned suddenly opaque. Good to be the Walker . . . And then I had to stop suddenly, as the B9 Presence appeared out of nowhere, right in front of me. The B9 is a shimmering white shape of roughly human proportions and obscure scientific origin. Someone did try to explain it to me once, but I fell asleep the moment they used the word quantum , in self-defence. Suffice it to say that the B9 Presence is a thing of twisted energies and appalling power, driven by a conscience not easily understood by mortal men. It roams the Nightside freely, because no-one’s worked out how to stop it, appearing to this one and to that one, dispensing words of wisdom and warning, and irritating the hell out of everyone. It moves in mysterious ways its wonders to perform, such as they are, and gets on everyone’s tits big-time. Somehow he or she or it had become unstuck in time, and apparently now saw Past, Present, and Future as simply different directions to look in, and now it seemed to feel a duty to apprise certain people of upcoming significant events. In the most obscure, meaningless, and upsetting ways possible. People only put up with the B9 Presence because, well . . . any edge is better than none. The shimmering, almost human shape bobbed and sparkled before me, its voice a rasping whisper.