Simon Green - The Bride Wore Black Leather

“What is the one experience left, for the man who has everything? Why, losing it all, of course. Beware the Ides of the March Hare. The Past is never over; it lies in wait, to ambush us. And even the longest night must someday give way to the dawn . . .”

It was gone before I could come up with an appropriate response, so I shrugged, and continued on.

My office was located on the third floor of a tall, ultramodern high-tech building: all gleaming steel and one-way mirrored windows, turning a cold blank face to the rest of the world. The number of floors in the building tended to vary, depending on how successful the various businesses inside were, on any given occasion, and how much sub-letting was going on. Certainly my building was every bit as tall as those surrounding it. Just looking up at the top of the thing gave me a kind of reverse vertigo, as though my feet might suddenly lose their grip on the pavement, leaving me to fly up into the night sky, flailing helplessly. I pulled my gaze away with an effort, shook my head firmly a few times, and strode up to the closed front door.

The only entrance to the building was a large and very solid-looking door of old oak, polished and waxed to within an inch of its life and looking distinctly out of place in such a modern setting. But the best security measures are always based in magic as much as science, and for the best results, it’s always best to go old school. There was no bell, no knocker, not even a door-handle, so I hammered on the gleaming wooden surface hard enough to hurt my hand, then stepped smartly back. The sound of my knocking was somehow dull and soft around the edges, as though the wood was swallowing up the sound. A face appeared before me, rising out of the wood, like a swimmer emerging from the depths to break the surface of the water. The face formed itself out of the door, taking its shape and features from the old wood—not a human face, as such, but full of human emotions, the better to deal with human visitors. It yawned slowly and a bit sullenly, as though awakened from deep slumber, then the face fixed me with its blank eyes, and scowled harshly as it recognised me.

“Oh bloody hell, it’s you again. No need to announce yourself, John Taylor. Everyone here knows you, whether they want to or not. What do you want? I was having a really nice dream about wood nymphs, and it wasn’t only my sap that was rising.”

“Open up,” I said ruthlessly. “I’ve got a lot to do today, and arguing with snotty simulacra is not on my list.”

“You can’t come in unless you know the password,” said the door, cunningly. “What’s today’s password?”

“There is no password! There’s never been a password, and you know it! Now tell Cathy I’m here, or I’ll rub your surface down with a wire brush!”

The face in the door pouted. “Go on. Abuse me! It’s what I’m here for. No-one ever wants to chat, or pass the time. I miss being a tree. I’d throw my nuts at you if I only knew where they were. I’m supposed to be a security measure, you know. Hah! Hah, I say! Half the people who come here try to stuff letters in my mouth.”

“Get a move on,” I said, unfeelingly. “I’ve got a lot to get through before my wedding tomorrow.”

“Ooh! Ooh! A wedding!” said the face excitedly, rising and falling in the wood. “I love weddings! Can I come? Please say I can come! I’ll be very quiet and not get in the way. You could lean me against a wall at the back of the church. I promise I’ll be very good and not bother anyone.”

“We’ll see,” I said, wondering how I got into these kinds of conversations. “Now tell Cathy I’m here and want in.”

“Oh Cathy!” said the face. “The big boss is here again! Are you ready to receive him, or do you need time to get all those naked people out of the office first?”

The reply must have been of an affirmative nature because the face disappeared back into the solid wood, and the door swung open before me. I strode quickly through, before it could change what passed for its mind. The building’s lobby stretched away before me: expensively comfortable, brightly lit, but not overpoweringly so, and so deeply carpeted it felt like walking on water. Which was probably the effect they were hoping for. The usual Pre-Raphaelite prints on the walls. That John Waterhouse does get about. Doesn’t anyone like Turner any more? The tastefully uniformed security man sitting behind his high-security reception desk took one look at me, blanched, and looked very much as though he wanted to sink down underneath his desk and not be noticed. But he gathered all his courage and made himself sit upright and nod to me respectfully. I ignored him, heading for the elevators at the far end of the lobby. There was a time I would have made him wet himself, on general principles, for the snob and bully that he usually was and because his main function was usually to keep people like me out . . . but I must have been mellowing. Besides, I didn’t have the time.

One of the elevators opened its doors for me as I approached. I stepped inside and told it to take me to the third floor. I preferred when elevators had human operators. You could bribe them to keep quiet. They also ensured that the elevator wouldn’t try and eat you. Predators come in all shapes and sizes in the Nightside. But the doors closed easily, and the elevator moved smoothly upwards. It then immediately got on my bad side by playing Muzak versions of 1970s prog rock: ELO, ELP, PFM. There really ought to be an off switch for elevator Muzak. And then, as if this wasn’t annoying enough, the elevator started trying to sell me things, in a very posh voice.

“Have you ever considered the advantages offered by really up-to-date life-insurance?”

“I’ve never really seen the point in someone else having a vested interest in my being dead,” I said. “Don’t encourage people, that’s what I say.”

“I could get you a really good premium . . .”

“I’m John Taylor.”

There was a pause. “Ah, yes. I see. Right; forget it. Would you like to change your provider for your mobile-phone service? And no, I don’t know where the satellites are, so don’t ask. Oh do say yes; I get a really nice bonus for every person I get to sign up.”

“What use is a bonus to an elevator?” I said. “What use do you have for money?”

“I’m saving up to have my conscious downloaded into something a little more upwardly mobile. Socially speaking . . . Preferably something with legs and hands. You can do a lot if you’ve got legs and hands. Could I perhaps interest you in taking out a new credit card, from those wonderfully friendly people, EnGulf & DeVour?”

“Do you have an off switch?”

“Do you?”

“Look,” I said, “it’s up to you . . . Either you stop trying to sell me things, or I’ll push all your buttons before I get out and send you up and down the building for ages.”

“Beast!” muttered the elevator. “It’s not my fault. Never wanted to be an elevator anyway.”

“If you are about to tell me that you really wanted to be a lumberjack, you and I are about to have a serious falling out.”

Perhaps fortunately, just then the elevator stopped at the third floor and opened its doors. I stepped out, and the doors slammed shut behind me so quickly they nearly trapped the tail of my trench coat.

“Have a good day!” it shouted after me, defiantly.

Chance would be a fine thing, I thought wistfully, and strode down the long corridor before me. My office was exactly where I remembered it. The door was a huge slab of solid silver, deeply scored with protective signs and sigils, and an extremely rude curse in Enochian. Once again, there was no bell or knocker or voicebox, so I announced myself loudly. The door swung slowly open, smoothly and silently, despite its obvious great weight, and I walked in like I owned the place. Which, for once, I actually did.