Simon Green - Just Another Judgement Day

In the sane and normal world outside the Nightside, if you’re getting older and starting to look your age, there’s always cosmetic surgery and associated treatments. In the Nightside, the rich and the famous and the powerful have access to other options, some of them quite spectacularly nasty and extreme.

The Guaranteed New You Parlour was situated in Uptown, the very best part of the Nightside, offering only the very best services for the very best people. Suzie and I went there anyway. The rent-a-cops in their colourful private uniforms took one look at us and decided they were needed urgently somewhere else. The neon there was just as hot, but perhaps a little more restrained, and the clubs and restaurants and discreet establishments glowed in the night like burning jewels. And the lost souls filling the streets and squares were all pounding the pavements in search of a better class of damnation.

In Uptown, even the Devil wears a tie.

The Guaranteed New You Parlour occupied the site of what used to be a rather tacky place called The Cutting Edge, an S&M joint for people with a surgery fetish. It got closed down for cutting corners on the after-care services, and for being too damned tacky even for the Nightside. The new owner had pulled the old place down and started over, so the Parlour was a gleaming new edifice of steel and glass, style and class, with pale-veined marble for the entrance lobby. Someone had spent a lot of money pushing the place up-market, and it showed. But then, money attracts money.

Suzie and I studied the Parlour from the other side of the street. Very rich people came and went, in stretch limousines and private ambulances, but though a great many old people went in, only young people came out. Which was . . . odd. There are ways of turning back the clock to be found in the Nightside, but the price nearly always involves your soul, or someone else’s. And there are any number of places that will sell you false youth, but nothing that lasts. What did the Guaranteed New You Parlour have that no-one else could provide?

I headed for the main door, Suzie right there at my side. Her steel chains jangled softly, and the butt of her pump-action shotgun stood up behind her head from its holster down her back. There were two very large gentlemen in well-fitting formal suits standing on either side of the door. Security, but discreet, so as not to frighten the nice ladies and gentlemen. They tensed visibly as they saw Suzie and me approaching but made no move to challenge us. We swept past them with our noses in the air and strolled into the lobby as though we were thinking of buying the place. We got various looks from various people, but no-one said anything. We walked right up to the huge state-of-the-art reception desk, and I smiled pleasantly at the coldly efficient young lady sitting behind it. She wore a simple white nurse’s uniform with no markings on it, and her smile was completely professional while at the same time possessing not an ounce of any real warmth. She didn’t bat an eye at my trench coat or Suzie’s leathers. This was the Nightside, after all.

“Welcome to the Guaranteed New You Parlour, Mr. Taylor, Ms. Shooter,” said the receptionist.

I considered her thoughtfully. “You know who we are?”

“Of course. Everyone knows who you are.”

I nodded. She had a point. “We’re here about Suzie’s face,” I said.

Suzie and I had already decided this was our best chance for getting a close look at the Parlour’s inner workings. One side of Suzie’s face had been terribly burned during an old case, leaving it a mess of scar tissue. Her left eye was gone, the eyelid sealed shut. It didn’t affect her aim. The damage was my fault. She’d never have been hurt if she hadn’t been helping me out. Suzie forgave me almost immediately. But I don’t forgive me, and I never will.

She could have had her face healed or repaired in a dozen different ways. She chose not to. She believed a monster should look like a monster. I never pushed her on it. We monsters have to stick together.

The receptionist’s smile didn’t waver one bit. “Of course, Mr. Taylor, Ms. Shooter. If you’ll just fill out these forms for me . . .”

“No,” I said. “We want to see what this place has to offer first.”

The receptionist gathered her papers together again. “One of our interns is on his way here, to give you a guided tour,” she said, still professionally cheerful. If I smiled like that on a regular basis, my cheeks would ache. “Ah, here he is. Dr. Dougan, this is . . .”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Taylor, Ms. Shooter,” the intern said cheerfully. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Our reputation precedes us,” I said dryly, shaking his proffered hand. He had a firm, manly grip. Of course. He offered his hand to Suzie, but she just looked at it, and he quickly pulled it back out of range and stuck it in his coat pocket as though he’d meant to do that all along. He wore the traditional white coat, along with the traditional stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck.

“Every medico in the Nightside knows about you two,” he said, still cheerful. “Most of us get our training in the emergency wards, patching up people who’ve come into contact with you.”

I looked at Suzie. “If nothing else, it seems we provide employment.”

Dr. Dougan babbled on for a while, telling us how marvellous the Parlour was, and how fantastic its new techniques were, while I looked him over. His coat was starched blindingly white and had clearly never seen a bloodstain in its life. And he was far too young and handsome for a real hands-on doctor, which meant he was a shill. He was just for show. He wouldn’t know anything about the real inner workings of the Parlour. But we followed him through the rear doors into the show ward behind the lobby, because you’ve got to start somewhere. Dr. Dougan never stopped talking. He’d been given a script designed to sell the Parlour’s services, he’d learned every word of it, and by God we were going to hear it.

The show ward turned out to be very impressive, and utterly artificial. Neat patients in neat beds, none of them suffering from anything unsightly or upsetting, attended to by very attractive young nurses in starched white uniforms. There were flowers everywhere, and even the antiseptic in the air had a trace of perfume in it. Lots of light, lots of space, and no-one in any pain at all. A complete dream of a hospital ward. We weren’t actually allowed to talk to any of the patients or nurses, of course. The intern did his best to blind us with statistics about recovery rates, while I looked around for something, anything, out of place. The ward looked absolutely fine, but... something about it disturbed me.

It took me a while to realise that the whole ward was simply too normal for the Nightside. If this was all the rich and powerful patients wanted, they could get it in Harley Street. The clincher was that not one of the patients or the nurses so much as glanced at me, or Suzie. And that was very definitely not normal.

Dr. Dougan broke off from his speech when the doors burst open behind us and half a dozen security men moved quickly forward to surround us. Large men, with large bulges under their jackets where their guns were holstered. Suzie looked at them thoughtfully.

“We’re not here to make any trouble,” I said quickly. “We’re just looking.”

“Visiting hours are over,” said the largest of the security men. “Your presence is disturbing the patients.”

“Yeah,” I said. “They do look disturbed, don’t they? We’ll come back another day, when they’re feeling more talkative.”

He didn’t smile. “I don’t think that would be wise, Mr. Taylor.”

“Is he giving us the bum’s rush, John?” said Suzie. Her voice was calm and lazy and very dangerous. The security men held themselves very still.