“And now you’re among friends,” I said.
“More or less,” said Dead Boy.
“I am John Taylor,” I said, ignoring Dead Boy with the ease of long practice. “And I’m a private eye. Yes, really.”
Her mouth twitched in a brief smile. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, to find one more mythical creature, among so many.”
“And my appalling friend here is Dead Boy. Yes, really.”
“Hi,” said Dead Boy, leaning forward and offering a pale dead hand for her to shake. “Yes, that is formaldehyde you’re smelling, so get used to it. I’m dead, I’m wild and exciting and extraordinarily glamorous, and you’re very pleased to meet me.”
“Don’t put money on it,” said Liza. “What’s it like, being dead?”
“Cold,” said Dead Boy, unexpectedly. “It’s getting hard for me to even remember what being warm feels like. Though I think I miss sleep the most. Never being able to just lie down and switch off. No rest, no dreams . . .”
“Don’t you get tired?” said Liza, fascinated despite herself.
“I’m always tired,” Dead Boy said sadly.
“Cut it out,” I said firmly. “You think I don’t know you main-line that synthetic adrenaline when no one’s looking?” I shrugged apologetically at Liza. “Sorry, but you mustn’t encourage him. He’s not really as self-pitying as he likes to make out. He just thinks it makes him more attractive to women.”
“Never dismiss the pity factor,” Dead Boy said easily. “Suicide girls go crazy for dead flesh.”
“That’s disgusting,” said Liza, very firmly.
He leered at her. “You haven’t lived till you’ve rattled a coffin with someone on graveyard Viagra.”
“Changing the subject right now,” I said loudly. “Tell me about your memory loss, Liza. What’s the last thing you do remember, before waking up here?”
She frowned, concentrating. “The last twenty-four hours are just gone. A whole day. The last thing I’m sure of, I was in London. The real London. Down in Tottenham Court Road Underground station . . . though I can’t quite seem to remember why . . . I think I was looking for someone. The next thing I knew, I was here. Running through the streets. Crying as though my heart would break. I don’t know why. I’m not the crying kind, usually. I’m just not.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “What happened next?”
“I was attacked! They came out of nowhere . . . Tall spindly men in top hats and old-fashioned clothes, with great smiling faces, and . . . knives for hands.”
“Scissormen,” I said. “Always looking for someone weaker to prey on. They can home in on guilt and horror like sharks tasting blood in the water.”
“I haven’t done anything to feel guilty about,” said Liza.
“As far as you know,” said Dead Boy, reasonably. “Who knows what you might have done, in the missing twenty-four hours? It’s amazing how much sin a determined person can cram into twenty-four hours. I speak from experience, you understand.”
“Ignore him,” I said. “He’s just boasting.”
“But . . . Scissormen?” said Liza.
“Everything comes to the Nightside,” I said. “Especially all the bad things, with nowhere else to go. Still, it’s always a shame when childhood characters go bad. How did you get away from them?”
“I didn’t,” said Liza, her eyes and her voice becoming uncertain again as she remembered. “They were all around me, smiling their awful smiles, opening and closing their . . . scissorhands, chanting something in German in shrill mocking voices. They cut at me, always drawing back at the very last moment, and laughing as I jumped this way and that to avoid them. Scuttling round and round me, always pressing closer, smiling and smiling . . . And nobody did anything! Most people didn’t even stop to watch! I was screaming by then, but no one helped. Until this . . . strange man appeared out of nowhere, and the Scissormen stopped, just like that. They huddled together, facing him like a pack of dogs at bay. He said his name, and the Scissormen just turned and ran. I couldn’t believe it.”
“What was his name?” I said.
“Eddie. He was very sweet, though he looked like some kind of vagrant. And from the smell of him, he’d been sleeping rough for some time. I tried to give him some money, but he wasn’t interested. He listened to my story, though I don’t know how much sense I made, and then he brought me here. Told me to look for you. John Taylor. That you’d be able to help me. Do you know this man?”
“Oh, sure,” said Dead Boy. “Everyone here knows Razor Eddie. Punk God of the Straight Razor. No wonder the Scissormen cut and ran. Most people do.”
Liza looked at me, and I nodded. “Eddie’s a good man, in his own disturbing way. And he’s right; I can help you. I have a gift for finding things.”
“Even missing memories?” Liza managed a real, hopeful smile for the first time.
“Anything,” I said. “But I have to ask . . . are you sure you want to remember? A lot of the time, people forget things for a reason.”
She looked at me steadily. “Of course I want to remember. I think I need to. I think . . . something bad happened.”
“In the Nightside? I can practically guarantee it,” said Dead Boy.
“You’re really not helping,” I said. “Liza, you’re sure you’ve never even heard of the Nightside before? It’s not unheard of for innocents to wander in by accident, but usually you have to want it pretty bad.”
“I never knew places like this existed,” Liza said stubbornly. “I never knew monsters were real.”
“The world is a much bigger place than most people realise,” I said. “Magic still exists, though it’s grown strange and crafty and maybe just a bit senile.”
“Magic?” she said, raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Magic, and other things. Time isn’t as firmly nailed down in the Nightside as it might be. We get all sorts turning up here, from the Past and any number of alternate Futures. Not to mention all kinds of rogues, adventurers, and complete and utter scumbags from other worlds and dimensions, all looking for a little excitement, or a nice bit of sin that isn’t too shop-soiled.” I stopped, and considered her thoughtfully. “You really don’t care about any of this, do you? It doesn’t interest or attract you in the least.”
“No,” said Liza. “I don’t belong in a madhouse like this. I have no business being here.”
“I could just take you home,” I said. “Back to the safe and sane London you’ve always known.”
“No,” she said immediately. “There’s a whole day of my life missing. It’s mine, and I want it back.”
“But what if you’ve done something really bad?” said Dead Boy. “Most people come to the Nightside to do something really bad.”
“It’s always better to know,” Liza said firmly.
“No,” I said. “Not always. And especially not here. But if that’s what you want, then that’s what you get. The client is always right. Now, the odds are you came here looking for something. Or someone. So let’s take a look in that shoulder bag of yours. The way you’ve been clinging to it since you got here, it must hold something important.”
She looked down at the bag as though she’d honestly forgotten it was there. And when I reached out a hand to take it, she actually shrank back for a moment. But once again her stern self-control reasserted itself, and she made herself hand over the bag. But there was a subtle new tension in her that hadn’t been there before.
I hefted the bag. It wasn’t that large, and it didn’t feel like there was that much in it. Nothing obviously special about it. Expensive, yes; white leather Gucci without a mark on it. I opened the bag, and spilled the contents out onto the wooden bar top. All three of us leaned in for a closer look. But it was just the usual feminine clutter, with nothing out of the ordinary. Apart from a single colour photograph, torn jaggedly in two. I fitted the pieces together as best I could, and we all studied the image in silence for a while. The photo showed a somewhat younger Liza Barclay in a stylish white wedding dress, hugging a handsome young man in a formal suit. They were both laughing at the camera, clearly caught a little off guard. They looked very happy. As though they belonged together, and always would. Someone had torn the photo fiercely in two, right down the middle, as though trying to separate the happy couple.
“That’s Frank,” said Liza, frowning so hard her brow must have ached. “My husband, Frank. That’s our wedding day, just over seven years now. I was never so happy in my life, the day we got married. Poor Frank, he must be worried sick by now, wondering where I am. But . . . this is my favourite photo ever. I must have worn out half a dozen copies, carrying it around in my bag and showing it to people. Who could have torn it like this?”
“Maybe you tore it,” said Dead Boy. “Been having problems recently, have you?”
“No! No . . .” But even as she objected, I could practically see the beginnings of memories resurfacing in her. She concentrated on the two pieces of the photo, speaking only to them. “We were always so much in love. He meant everything to me. Everything. But . . . I followed him. All the way across London, on the Underground. He never saw me. He’d been so . . . preoccupied, the last few months. I could tell something was wrong. I was worried about him. He’d been keeping things from me, and that wasn’t like him. There were letters and e-mails I wasn’t allowed to read, phone calls he wouldn’t talk about. He’d never done that before. I thought he might be in some kind of trouble. Something to do with his business. I wanted to help. He was my love, my life, my everything. I was so worried . . .”
“Sounds like another woman,” Dead Boy said wisely, and was genuinely surprised when I glared at him. “Well, it does.”
But Liza was smiling, and shaking her head. “You don’t know my Frank. He loves me as much as I love him. He’s never even looked at another woman.”
“Come on,” said Dead Boy. “Every man looks at other women. When he starts pretending he doesn’t, that’s when you know he’s up to something.”
“You followed Frank through the Underground,” I said to Liza, ignoring Dead Boy. “What happened then?”
“I don’t know.” Liza reached out to touch the photo, but didn’t, quite. “The next thing I remember, I’m here in the Nightside, and there’s no sign of Frank anywhere. Could we have been kidnapped, dragged here against our will, and I somehow escaped?”
“Well,” I said diplomatically, “it’s possible, I suppose.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“It’s not the way I’d bet, no. But at least now we know you’re not here alone. If you’re here, then the odds are Frank is too. I can find him with my gift, and see if perhaps he holds the answer to your missing memories.”
“No!” said Liza. “I don’t want my Frank involved in all this . . . madness.”
“If he’s here, he’s involved,” said Dead Boy. “If only because the Nightside doesn’t take kindly to being ignored.”
She shook her head again, still smiling. “You don’t know my Frank.”
“And you don’t know the kind of temptations on offer here,” said Dead Boy. “Sex and love and everything in between, sweet as cyanide and sprinkled with a little extra glamour to help it go down easier. Sin is always in season in the Nightside.”
“And you followed him here,” I said.
She glared at me. “How could he know the way to a place like this?”
“Because he’d been here before,” said Dead Boy. “Sorry, but it’s the only answer that makes sense.”
Liza glared at him, and then looked me right in the eye. “Find him. Find my Frank for me. If only so he can tell us the truth, and throw these lies back in your faces.”
“I’ll find him,” I said. “Anything else . . . is up to you, and him.”
I picked up the two pieces of the photo, holding them firmly between thumb and forefinger, and held them up before me. I took a deep breath and concentrated, reaching deep inside myself for my gift, my special gift, that allowed me to find anyone or anything. I concentrated on the photo until I couldn’t see anything else, and then slowly, my inner eye opened; my third eye, my private eye . . . from which nothing can hide. With my inner eye all the way open, I could See the world as it really was, every last bit of it. All the things that are hidden from Humanity, because if we could all See the true nature of this world, and the kinds of things we share it with, Humanity would go stark staring mad with horror.
I can only bear to See it for a little while.
I sent my Sight soaring up out of my body, shooting up through the roof of my skull and the roof of Strangefellows, until I was high in the star-speckled sky, looking down on the Nightside spread out below me, turning slowly, like the circles of Hell. Hot neon burned everywhere, like balefires in the night. Sudden bright glares detonated in this place or that; as souls were bartered, great magical workings rewrote the world, or some awful new thing was born to plague Mankind. There were great Voices abroad in the night, and terrible rumblings deep in the earth, as Powers and Dominations went about their unknowable business.
Ghosts howled in the streets, trapped in moments of Time like insects in amber. Demons rode their human hosts, whispering in their ears. And vast and powerful creatures walked the night in majesty, wonderful and terrible beyond human ability to bear.
I dropped down from my high vantage point, sending my Sight flashing through the packed narrow streets, slamming in and out of buildings with the quickness of thought, following a trail only I could See. The photo of Frank Barclay had let me sink my mental hook in his consciousness, if not his soul, and I could See the ghost of him still striding purposefully through the streets. Semitransparent and fragile as a soap bubble, the mark he’d made in the Nightside was still clear, his imprint on Time itself, still walking the streets that he had walked not so long ago . . . and would do until the last vestiges of it faded away.
Frank Barclay showed no interest in any of the usual pleasure joints or temptations. The open doors of nightclubs where the music never ends, the heavy-lidded glances from dark-eyed ladies of the twilight, had no attraction for him. He never hesitated once, or paused to check directions. He knew where he was going. And from the increasingly intense, almost desperate anticipation in his face, wherever he was going promised something none of the usual temptations could hope to satisfy. I could See him clearly now, and he was smiling. And something in the smile chilled me all the way to my soul.