Simon Green: A Hard Day's Knight

“Yes,” I said. “It was necessary. He’d gone too far into the dark.”

Julien clearly heard something in my voice because he put his glass down on the bar and leaned forward on his bar-stool. “I never did understand what he saw in you, or you in him. You seemed to work well enough together, when you weren’t trying to kill each other. He respected you. I know that.”

“I respected him,” I said. “Best enemy I ever had.”

“He was more than that.”

“Of course. He was Walker.”

“Well,” said Julien, “he was dying, after all, and not in a good way. I suppose you could call his death a mercy killing.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think you could call it that.”

He waited expectantly, but I had nothing more to say. Let Walker take his secrets with him, the good and the bad. In the end, Julien nodded and picked up his glass again, which had mysteriously refilled itself with more pink champagne. One of the perks of Club membership.

“I’ll send some of my people to collect the body.”

“There is no body,” I said.

Julien raised an elegant eyebrow. “Hard core, John.”

“Where are the rest of the new Authorities?” I said. Not because I gave a damn but because I felt like changing the subject.

“They’re ... not entirely comfortable with you yet,” said Julien. “My colleagues are currently upstairs, arguing over whether or not to accept you as our new representative. Walker wanted you, and I recommended you, but ...”

“Yes,” I said. “But.”

I remembered meeting these people before, in a devastated future Nightside, where they were the last human survivors, and my devoted Enemies. Doing their best to kill me in their past before I could bring about the terrible future they were living in. Time travel can really mess with your head. Just say no.

Julien suddenly recognised the gold pocket-watch I was still holding in my hand. “How did you get that?”

“Walker left it to me in his will.”

“We haven’t even found his will yet!”

I shrugged. “Details, details ...”

Julien sighed. “And you wonder why nobody trusts you ...”

“No, I don’t. I don’t give a damn. However,” I said, changing the subject again by brute force, “if I’m going to work for the Authorities, shouldn’t I have an official job title? Something big and dramatic, to strike terror into the hearts of evildoers?”

“You do have a title,” said Julien. “Walker.”

“What?”

“You didn’t really think that was his name, did you? I don’t think anyone ever knew what his real name was, the one he used in the outside world, when he went home to his family. Henry was real enough, I think. He always looked like a Henry to me. He used it often enough, and he seemed comfortable with it. Especially with his closest friends, like the Collector, and your father. But I couldn’t even say for sure whether they ever knew his real surname. To know the true name of a thing is to have power over it, and Henry would never have allowed that. No; he was Walker, like all his predecessors in the job.”

“Then Hadleigh Oblivion was a Walker, too?” I said, trying to get my head round the idea.

“Before he went so thoroughly off message, and disappeared into the Deep School, in search of mysteries, and ended up the Detective Inspectre. Whatever the hell that is, and I have a horrible suspicion I’m not going to like it when I find out ... There have been any number of Walkers, down the years, representing the Authorities as their Voice in the Nightside.”

I scowled at Julien. “Why didn’t I know this?”

“You could have asked. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.”

I decided to change the subject again. “Where’s Hadleigh now?”

“I’d feel a lot more secure if I knew the answer to that one. No doubt he’s out and about in the Nightside, walking up and down in it and disapproving of things in horrible ways. I keep waiting for the other incendiary to drop. Whatever mysteries people learn in the Deep School, it doesn’t do much for their sense of tolerance.”

“So,” I said, “Walker is a title ... like the Walking Man?”

“Might be a coincidence; might not. That’s the Nightside for you. Either way; you’re Walker now. Whether you like it or not. But let me be blunt, John ... The case I’m about to send you on is your first official mission for the Authorities. If you should prove to be ... not up to the job, the others will ignore my recommendations and appoint someone else.”

“Never wanted the job anyway,” I said.

“That’s why I wanted you,” Julien said dryly. “But think on this: you got away with a lot because Walker let you. For his various reasons. You might not do as well with some of the names I’ve heard proposed.”

I smiled briefly. “I handled Walker. And if I could handle him, I can handle anyone.”

“That is exactly the attitude that’s going to get you killed one of these days. There are ... things out there that even the mighty John Taylor can’t handle. You’d do well to arrange a support team, of people you can trust, to be your backup. Walker had all kinds of useful people on his payroll, to be his eyes and ears in the Nightside, or help him deal with the more specialised problems, and naturally you’ll inherit them ... but there are going to be times when only brute force and massed fire-power will do. Walker had the support of the Army and the Church, when necessary, and he also had the Reasonable Men. You do remember the Reasonable Men, don’t you, John? You should; you killed them.”

“They annoyed me,” I said. “Bunch of stuck-up pricks and bully-boys. I can do better than them. How about Suzie Shooter, Dead Boy, Razor Eddie ...”

“I meant people my fellow Authorities could approve of! Though admittedly, those appalling friends of yours would scare the crap out of all the right people ...”

“I think we should talk about the mission,” I said determinedly. “What’s up with the Mammon Emporium that it might go boom? Someone finally realised how unfair and extortionate the prices are? Profit margins down there are so appalling the business owners have to hire transcendental mathematicians just to do their tax returns. And their returns policy sucks like a hooker when the rent’s due.”

“You always did have an elegant turn of phrase, John. Some three hours ago, a man walked into the Mammon Emporium and announced that he was there to blow the whole place up. He gave every impression of being full-on crazy, and perhaps even industrial-strength Looney Tunes; but it only took one scan by the mall’s security people to reveal he was quite serious. He’d made himself into, or allowed himself to be made into, a soulbomb. I can tell from your expression that you have never heard of a soulbomb. I have, which is probably why I don’t sleep as well as I used to.

“When you blow something apart, you get energy, yes? Blow an atom apart, and you get a lot of energy. Blow a soul apart, and you get the kind of energy, the kind of explosion, that can blow holes in reality itself. It has happened in the past. There are those who see it as the ultimate form of suicide. Destroy your soul, and you get to cheat Heaven and Hell.”

“So,” I said, “we’re talking about an explosion big enough to destroy the whole mall?”

“At the very least. The Mammon Emporium is positively crawling with all the very latest kinds of protections, magical and scientific, hopefully enough to contain the explosion. But nobody knows for sure. We could lose the whole district. We could lose the whole Nightside ... And God alone knows what kind of fallout a soulbomb would produce ...”

“He’s been in there three hours, and he hasn’t gone off yet?” I said. “What’s stopping him?”