A Hard Day's Knight

THREE The Memory That Bears the Gun Smoke’s Traces

I might be going back to the real world, but no-one said I had to feel good about it. London Proper never did feel like home to me. Home is where monsters dwell; home is where someone tries to kill you every day; home ... is where you belong. I’ve always known I belong in the shadows, along with all the other shades of grey.

But, in my business you go where the job takes you. So I headed for Whitechapel Underground Rail Station, with Suzie Shooter striding silently along beside me. She stared straight ahead, her face cold and composed and very dangerous, as always, and perhaps only I could recognise how much stress she was under. Suzie’s never been very demonstrative, except when she’s shooting people. It took her a long time to get on speaking terms with her emotions, and she still wasn’t sure what to do with some of them. And now here I was heading off into danger, into a part of my life she’d never known or shared, and I couldn’t let her come with me. I couldn’t, for all kinds of reasons. She wouldn’t lower herself to argue, and she had more pride than to sneak along after me, so she settled for escorting me to the station, to make sure no-one messed with me along the way. I didn’t say anything. How could I? I was always proud to have her walk beside me.

Everyone took one look at her face and gave us even more room than usual.

There are those who say Whitechapel was the first Underground railway station to be built in the Nightside, back in Victorian times, linking us to its duplicate in London Proper. Do I really need to tell you why they chose Whitechapel? The man currently known as Mr. Stab, the immortal uncaught serial killer of Old London Town, stuck a knife deep into the heart of the city, and while the blood was washed away long ago, the psychic wound remains. Back before the Underground, it was all hidden doors and secret gateways, and certain rather unpleasant methods provided by very private members-only clubs. Though there have always been weak spots in London Proper, places where anyone could take a wrong turn, walk down the wrong street, and end up in the night that never ends. Sin always finds a way.

“So,” Suzie said abruptly, still staring straight ahead, “Walker’s dead, and now you’re in charge. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“How about this,” I said, as casually as I could. “You’re going to need something to keep you occupied while I’m away. So I hereby deputise you to keep the peace while I’m gone. You can be Walker till I come back. Be tough but fair, and try not to shoot too many people.”

She turned her cold gaze on me. “You give me the nicest presents, John.”

“You can’t come with me, Suzie.”

“You’re going back into the outside world, the London of guns and gangs and knives in the back. You need me.”

“I’m all grown-up now, Suzie. I can cope. And I know how to fit in; you’ve lost that knack if you ever had it. I need to do my work under the radar, so I won’t be recognised or bothered by any of the outer world’s authorities. Official, or supernatural. Or, indeed, by any of the various enemies from my past who might still wish me ill.”

“You’re trying to reason with me,” said Suzie. “You know I don’t do reasonable.”

“I still know how to fake being normal, Suzie. You don’t.”

“I haven’t been back to the real world since I first found my way here,” said Suzie. “Fifteen years old, on the run from everyone and everything. My dead brother’s blood still wet on my hands. Don’t know why I waited so long ... I should have killed him the first time he forced himself on me. You’re right, John. I wouldn’t know what to do in that world any more. I prefer it here, where I can be the monster I always knew I was.”

I stopped, and she stopped with me. I looked her right in the eye, and held her cold gaze with my own.

“He was the monster, Suzie. You did what people are supposed to do: you killed the monster. Now say good-bye and let me go.”

“If they kill you ... I will go out into London Proper, kill them all, and burn the city down.”

I smiled. “You say the sweetest things, Suzie.”

We hugged each other, right there in the middle of the street, ignoring the people who hurried past. Suzie still had problems with public displays of affection, but again, probably only I could have known that. She kissed me briefly, then turned and strode away. She kept her head up and her back straight, and she didn’t look back once. Her way of being brave. I watched her till she was out of sight, then I entered Whitechapel Station, and descended into the Underground.

The cream-tiled corridors and tunnels were packed with men and women and other things, coming and going, intent on searching out all those pleasures that were bad for them. They didn’t talk to each other and made a point of looking straight ahead, not wanting to be distracted or diverted from their chosen paths. Without quite seeming to, everyone gave me plenty of room to move. Having a good, or more properly bad, reputation does have its benefits. I was going to have to learn how to get results without that where I was going. The John Taylor who’d lived in London Proper five years earlier had been a much smaller man.

I hurried down the escalators, ignoring the sweet-talking ads on the walls, and headed for the Outer Line. The usual beggars and buskers were out and about, singing and dancing for their supper. A ghost of a nun sang “Ave Maria,” accompanying herself with hand signals for the deaf. Three zombies with skin as grey as their shabby suits performed a careful soft-shoe routine that never ever stopped. Half a dozen clones made up a one-man band, and something from a Black Lagoon crooned old calypso songs as he tended his sushi stall. Recent graffiti on the walls included the Yellow Sign, the Voorish Sign, and an official sign saying all familiars must be carried on the escalators.

Down on the platform, the destinations board offered SHADOWS FALL, HACELDAMA, HAVEN, and WHITECHAPEL. The platform was half-full, with all the usual unusual types. A bunch of cheerful teenage girls in public-school outfits were kicking the crap out of a bunch of thugs in bowler hats, heavy eye make-up, and padded cod-pieces. While a circle of City business types in smart City suits with blue woad daubed thickly on their faces steadily ignored the unpleasantness by immersing themselves in the City pages of the Night Times. And a large ambulatory plant thing was taking an unhealthy interest in a tree nymph. She was a pretty little thing, all gleaming bark and leaves in her hair, and I did consider getting involved—until the nymph decided she’d had enough and kneed the plant thing right in the nuts.

I looked away and found myself facing a knight in dark armour. He was standing at the far end of the platform, unnaturally still, looking right at me. His armoured suit was made up of large black scales, moving slowly against each other and sliding over one another in places. Satanic markings had been daubed on his breast-plate, in what looked like dried blood. His squat steel helm covered his entire head, with only a Y-shaped slot in the centre for his eyes and mouth. He carried a sword like a butcher’s blade on one hip and a spike-headed mace on the other. I’d seen his type before. He was one of the knights in armour King Artur had brought with him to the Nightside, from Sinister Albion. A world where Merlin Satanspawn embraced his father’s work, corrupted Arthur, and made a dark and terrible world for him to rule.

That’s parallel dimensions for you. For every heaven, a hell; and for every Golden Age, a kick in the teeth.

The dark knight seemed to be displaying more than usual interest in me, but when I turned to face him squarely, he turned away and gave all his attention to the departures board. I shrugged mentally and put it down to paranoia. Lot of that about, in the Nightside.

A growing roar, a blast wave of displaced air, and the train burst out of the tunnel-mouth, screaming to a halt beside the platform. A long, featureless, silver bullet, pulling windowless carriages because you really didn’t want to see some of the places the train had to pass through on its way from the Nightside to the outer world. The doors hissed open, I stepped into a carriage, and everyone else in the carriage got up and hurried out onto the platform. Not so much a mark of respect; more that they didn’t want to be round when the trouble started. I settled myself comfortably on the battered red-leather seat, the door hissed shut, and the train set off smoothly.

The journey itself was remarkably quiet and peaceful; nothing tried to break in from outside, nothing tried to block the tracks, and there wasn’t even much of the usual strange noises and threatening voices. Perhaps because this wasn’t one of the busy lines. People are always queuing up and even fighting each other to get into the Nightside, but only a few ever go home again. For all kinds of reasons.

When the train finally ground to a halt at London Proper, I took a deep breath, stood up, and walked steadily out onto the platform. It was, of course, quite empty. No-one else left the train. The door behind me hissed shut, and the train went away. I walked slowly down the empty platform. The air was still and stale, and the sound of my footsteps didn’t echo far, as though the sound didn’t have quite enough energy to make the effort. The walls were utterly bare, no posters or adverts, no graffiti. The whole place had the feel of a stage-set that was only rarely used.

The blank wall stretched away before me, with no sign of an exit anywhere. I finally stopped before a courtesy phone, set on the wall inside a dusty glass shield. I picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. I said London Proper and put the phone down again. I stepped back, and the wall before me split slowly in two, pulling itself apart in a series of grinding juddering movements until a long, narrow tunnel fell away before me. Its inner walls were dark red, like an opened wound, and the sourceless light was dim and smoky, smelling of corrupt perfumes and crushed flowers. I walked steadily forward, and mists swirled round my ankles like disturbed waters. Faint voices and snatches of strange music faded in and out, like so many competing radio signals. Far and far away, a cloister bell tolled sadly.

I burst out the other end of the tunnel, and immediately, I was standing on an ordinary, everyday platform, while perfectly normal people hurried past me. None of them seemed to notice that I’d arrived in their midst out of nowhere. I glanced behind me, and the wall was just a wall, with nothing to show it had ever been anything else. Which was as it should be. I joined the crush and followed the crowd down the platform, heading out and up into the real world above.

I left Whitechapel Station and stepped hesitantly out into a London I hadn’t seen in years. The real world seemed almost defiantly grey after the relentless sound and fury and garish neon of the Nightside. Everywhere I looked, the street and the people were all remarkably ordinary. And the traffic thundering up and down the road was only cars and buses, taxis and messengers on bicycles, and lumbering delivery trucks. They even stopped for the traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. Mostly.

It was early evening, still quite light, and I wasn’t used to that. I felt ... exposed, and vulnerable, now that I no longer had any shadows to hide in. I stared up at the cloudy grey sky and tried to remember when I’d last seen the sun. I wasn’t impressed. Sunlight’s overrated if you ask me.

Everything felt different. The pace felt slower, with none of the familiar sense of danger and opportunity, none of the Nightside’s constant pressure to be going somewhere, to do something unwise and probably unnatural. London Proper did have its own bustle and air of excitement, like every big city, but it was strictly amateur hour compared to the Nightside.

The real difference between the Nightside and London Proper was attitude. In the Nightside, it’s all out and open and in-your-face. From magic to super-science, from the supernatural to the other-dimensional. You can sink yourself into it all, like soaking in a hot bath full of blood. In London Proper, in what we like to think of as the real world, such things are hidden. Behind the scenes, or behind the scenery. You won’t even know it’s there unless you have the Sight; and most don’t. You have to go looking for the hidden world, and even then you probably won’t find it if it doesn’t want to be found.

I knew I should go straight to Oxford Street, and the London Knights’ secret headquarters ... but it had been a long time since I’d been back, and nostalgia can be a harsh mistress. I felt a need, almost a hunger, to see my old haunts again, to go back to that small grubby place where I had lived and worked, and tried so hard to be normal. So I hopped on a bus, one of the old reliable red London double-deckers, and travelled back into my past.

I got off the bus at a stop no-one else seemed interested in and strolled down the grim, shabby streets to where my office used to be. The whole area looked even grubbier and seedier than I remembered, though I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. Narrow streets and crumbling tenements, smashed windows and kicked-in doors. Broken people in worn-out clothes, hurrying along with their heads lowered so they wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye. A cold wind gusting down deserted alleyways, and shadows everywhere because someone had been using the street-lamps for target practice.

Homeless people sitting bundled up in doorways, drinking forgetfulness straight from the can or the bottle. Soot-stained brickwork, darkened by generations of passing traffic. Posters slapped one on top of the other, messages from the past, advertising things long gone, faded and water-stained. When I finally got to the old building that housed my small office, most of the windows were boarded up. There were a few lights on, in the surrounding buildings. People too stubborn to leave, or with nowhere else to go. Rubbish in the gutters, and worse in the alley mouths. And what street lighting there was seemed faded and stained.

I was surprised my old office building was still there. I’d been half-convinced, half-hoping, it would have been torn down by then. The place had been officially condemned even while I was still living in it. I stopped on the opposite side of the street and looked it over. No lights, no signs of life. People had given up on it, like rats deserting a sinking ship. The front door was hanging open, hinges creaking loudly on the quiet, as the gusting wind gave the door a shove, now and again, to remind it who was boss. I stood there for a while, studying the gloom beyond the door, but I was putting off the moment, and I knew it.

I looked round the deserted street one last time, then walked briskly across the road, pushed the front door all the way open, and strode into the dark and empty lobby. It was dark because someone had smashed the single naked light bulb. The place stank of stale piss. And yet, the place couldn’t just be abandoned, or the local homeless would have moved in and claimed it for their own. No light, no heating, no signs of occupation; so why had the front door been left so conveniently open? An invitation—or a trap?

I smiled despite myself. Looked like this might turn out to be interesting after all.

I made my way up the narrow wooden stairway to the next floor. The steps complained loudly under my weight, as they always had. The tenants liked it that way, to give warning that visitors were coming. I paused at the top to look about me, my eyes already adjusting to the gloom; but there was no sign anyone had been here in ages. I moved along the landing, checking the open office doors along the way. Old memories of old faces, neighbours who were never anything more than that. Cheap and nasty offices that had been home to a defrocked accountant and a struck-off dentist, dark and empty now, cleaned out long ago, with no sign left to show anyone had ever used them.

My office was still there, exactly where I’d left it. The door stood quietly ajar, with just enough of the old flaking sign to make out the words TAYLOR INVESTIGATIONS. The bullet-hole in the frosted-glass window was still there, too. I should have had it repaired, but it made such a great conversation piece. Clients like a hint of danger when they hire a private eye. I pushed the door all the way open with the tip of one finger, and the hinges complained loudly in the quiet. I took a deep breath, bracing myself against something I couldn’t quite name; but all I smelled was dust and rot, so I walked right in.

My old office was completely empty, abandoned—lots of dust and cobwebs, and a few rat droppings in the corner. Amber light fell in through the single barred window, pooling on the floor. All the furniture was gone, but I could still see it with my mind’s eye. The blocky desk and the two functional chairs, the cot I’d pushed up against the far wall when I was sleeping in my office because the landlord had locked me out of my flat, as a gentle hint that he’d like some of the back rent paid. This was the place where I tried to help people even worse off than I was, for whatever money they had. I did my best for them. I really did.

I looked slowly round me. Hard to believe that I’d spent five long years here, trying to pass for normal. Trying to help real people with real problems, in the real world. Burying myself in their problems, their lives, so I wouldn’t have to think about my own. I found out the hard way I wasn’t that good as an investigator when I didn’t have my gift to back me up. I didn’t dare use it, not here. The Harrowing would have detected it immediately, known I’d fled the Nightside, and come after me. They could pass for normal, when they had to. They looked like people, but they weren’t. They wore plain black suits with neat string ties, highly polished shoes, and slouch hats with the brims pulled low, so no-one could see what they had instead of faces. They’d been trying to kill me since I was a child. They wouldn’t have hesitated to come into the real world after me.

One of the reasons why I’d come here. To be free of them. They terrified me. Dominated my life for so long. Gone now, at great cost to me and those who’d stood by me.

They were only one of the reasons I’d left the Nightside. I wanted to at least try to be a man rather than a monster. To live my own life rather than the one planned for me by so many vested interests. I thought I’d be safe, in the real world, as long as I didn’t use my gift, or get involved with any unnatural situations. I should have known better. It didn’t take me long to discover that, without my gift, I wasn’t half the investigator I thought I was. I helped some people, solved my fair share of cases, but made damn all money doing it. I amassed a lot of debts along the way, and made a number of real-world enemies, human monsters. Because even in the real world, no good deed goes unpunished.

Because I wouldn’t take bribes, I wouldn’t back down, and I was too damned honest for my own good.

I later found out that my once-and-future Enemies in the Nightside had orchestrated the series of tragic events that sent me running from the Nightside with Suzie’s bullet burning in my back. Their idea of mercy. A second chance, to not be the person they thought I was, or might become. I did try to take the chance they offered. But it wasn’t me. My hand drifted to my lower back, where the scar from Suzie’s bullet still ached dully when it rained. A struck-off doctor dug it out of my back while I bit down on a length of cord to keep from screaming. Welcome to the real world.

Suzie hadn’t meant to kill me. It was just her way of trying to get my attention. We forgave each other long ago.

I looked round sharply, brought back to the present by the sound of someone approaching. Slow, steady footsteps ascending the wooden stairs, making no attempt to hide themselves. Someone wanted me to know they were coming. I moved quickly over to stand behind the open door. A white trench coat may be iconic as all hell, but it does make it difficult to hide in the shadows. I stood very still, straining my ears at every sound, as the footsteps made their unhurried way along the landing, ignoring all the other offices, heading straight for mine. They stopped outside my open door, then a man walked unhurriedly in. A short, middle-aged, balding man in an anonymous coat, so nondescript in appearance he was hardly there. I relaxed, a little. I knew him. I stepped out from behind the door.

“Hello, Russell.”

He turned his head calmly, not surprised or startled in the least. He nodded once, as though we’d happened to bump into each other in the street. Russell was a small grey man, always quiet and polite, always ready to do something illegal. If the price was right. He did some work for me, back in the day. Russell did some work for a lot of people. He was a grass, a runner, and a reliable supplier of dodgy items. He never got his own hands dirty; he made it possible for other people to do what they had to. He knew all the wrong people, drank in all the worst dives, heard it all and said nothing. Until you put money in his hand. No-one liked him, but everybody used him. Russell never complained. He had self-esteem issues.

He hadn’t changed much. A little greyer, a little more rat-like. Still giving the impression that he wasn’t really there. When he spoke, it was the same old polite, self-effacing murmur that I remembered.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Mr. Taylor. Back again, after all these years. How unusual, to find you in this old place again. Most of us assumed that you had shuffled off this mortal coil, or been shuffled off it, with important bits missing. Where did you disappear to, Mr. Taylor? No-one could find you, and some people looked really hard.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said.

“Wherever you’ve been, it would seem to have agreed with you, Mr. Taylor. You are looking very well. One might even say prosperous. Do you by any chance have the money you owe?”

“Not on me, no.”

“Oh dear. I would have to say, that is most unfortunate, Mr. Taylor. Though after all these years, I would have to say that even if you did have the money, it would not be enough. It’s the interest, you see. The emotional interest; it accumulates. Certain people are very angry with you, Mr. Taylor. You are the one who got away. The one who set a bad example ...”

“Why are you here, Russell?” I said, interrupting a flow that threatened to go on forever. “I mean, even I didn’t know I was coming here. It can’t be a coincidence, you turning up like this.”

“Hardly, Mr. Taylor. Certain people have kept this place empty, but observed, all these years. In case you showed up again.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “I didn’t owe that much.”

“You made certain people very angry, Mr. Taylor,” Russell said simply. “It’s no longer about the money; it’s the vengeance. No-one can be allowed to get away with defying the men in charge. It’s just not done. It might give people ideas.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m glad I achieved something while I was here. But having given the matter some thought, I would have to say that I don’t give a wet fart what the men in charge want.”

“They have been watching and waiting for years, Mr. Taylor, on the chance ... And here you are! Back again, after all this time. Certain people are going to be very happy about that.”

“People have been watching my old office for years? Why?”

“For the reward, Mr. Taylor.”

“There’s a price on my head? I feel strangely flattered. How big a reward?”

“A significant amount, Mr. Taylor. In fact, I would have to say, quite a substantial reward.”

I looked at him thoughtfully. “Is that why you’re here, Russell? So soon after my return? For the reward money?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Taylor. But you know how it is ... And if I’m here, others won’t be far behind.”

“How long have I got, before word gets out?”

He smiled for the first time. “They’re already here, Mr. Taylor.”

I moved quickly over to the barred window and looked out at the street below. Several cars were parked outside that hadn’t been there before, and more were arriving. Car doors slammed loudly as armed men spilled out onto the street. They didn’t care if I knew they were there. The trap had been sprung. The men in the street were large men, serious men with serious intent. They carried their guns like they knew how to use them. I was flattered they saw me as such a dangerous threat. Everyone else was quietly disappearing off the street, including the homeless. None of them wanted to be witnesses to whatever was about to happen. Being a witness wasn’t good for your continued health.

I smiled down at the men milling outside the building. It had been a long time since anyone had come after me with only guns to back them up. But, of course, these people only knew the old me, from when I was still hiding my gift under a bushel. I looked forward to disillusioning them. Still, given the sheer number of hard men who’d turned up, it would seem Russell was right when he mentioned a substantial reward. I turned back to look at Russell. He hadn’t moved—a small grey presence in a half-lit room.

“It occurs to me,” I said, “that the reward isn’t for money returned but for me personally. Somebody wants to lay hands on me, and not in a good way.”

“Somebody bears a grudge, Mr. Taylor. Someone wants you to pay, in blood and suffering.”

There was a gun in his hand, pointing at me. I was actually shocked. I’d never seen Russell with a gun, in all the time he’d worked for me. But the gun didn’t look out of place. Something in the way Russell held his gun told me he was used to it.

“You never used to like shooters, Russell,” I said reproachfully. “You were never a violent man. First out the pub door when the fight started. What happened?”

“You happened, Mr. Taylor.” He was aiming his gun at a spot directly above my groin. A disabling shot but not a deadly one. He didn’t want me dead. Not yet. Which gave me the advantage even if he didn’t realise it. I raised an eyebrow, to indicate that he should continue, and he couldn’t stop himself. The words came pouring out, as though he’d been rehearsing them for years. “After you went away, after you abandoned me, I had to look after myself. Turned out I was really good at it. I never realised how much you were holding me back. I stopped working for other people and went into business for myself. And now ... I’m the boss. I’m the man. I run things in this territory. I bought up all your debts and put a price on your head. You owe me, Mr. Taylor.”

“The money, or for not saying good-bye when I left?”

“You never valued me, Mr. Taylor. Never respected me. Even after all the things I did for you.”

“I paid you the going rate, like everyone else. And I treated you better than most. I thought we had fun along the way. Didn’t we have fun, rescuing the good people from the bad guys, righting wrongs, and dropping the ungodly right in it? I may not have been the most successful private eye in London, but I like to think I made my mark. With your help.”

“Don’t talk to me like I was your friend, or even your partner. You used me.”

“That’s what you were for, Russell. You were an informer, the lowest of the low, despised by all. You had no principles and less dignity. You would have sold your mother’s organs for transplant while she was still alive for the right offer. At least I gave you a good purpose in life. Now put the gun down, Russell. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh, but it does, Mr. Taylor. With you gone, and all the enemies you’d made circling like vultures, I had to learn to look after myself. And the first thing I learned was that a gun makes all the difference. A small man can be a big man if he’s got a gun, and the guts to use it. Much to my surprise, I found I had. Actually, I enjoyed it. I’ve come a long way since you were last here, and I enjoyed every nasty bit of it. Kneel down, Mr. Taylor. Kneel down and say you’re sorry.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll shoot your kneecaps out, for starters. Then ... I’ll take my time. Enjoy myself. I do so love to hear my enemies scream.”

“You should never go back,” I said. “People are never how you remember them. I’m really very disappointed in you, Russell.”

“Kneel down and beg for your life!”

“No,” I said. “I don’t do that.”

I stared into his eyes, holding his gaze with mine, and I saw fear fill his face as he realised he couldn’t look away. The hand holding the gun trembled as he tried to pull the trigger and found he couldn’t. I stepped forward, holding his will firmly with mine. Blood seeped out from under his eyelids and spurted from his nose. He whimpered once as I took the gun out of his hand and tucked it into my coat-pocket. And then I let him go, and he fell to the floor, shuddering and crying out.

“I’m a whole new man myself these days, Russell,” I said easily, turning my back on him as I headed for the door.

“You bastard.” I looked back, and Russell had forced himself up onto his knees, so he could glare at me through blood-shot eyes. “You still don’t respect me!”

“Yes, well, there’s a reason for that, Russell. I’ve flushed things I respected more than you. Now I really must be going. Important things to be about; you know how it is. A shame it had to come to this ... Don’t let the past define you, Russell. You can’t move on if you’re always looking back over your shoulder.”

“Bastard!”

Words of wisdom are just wasted on some people. I walked out the door and stepped cautiously out onto the landing. I could hear the armed men milling about in the lobby below. And then Russell raised his voice in a vicious, commanding scream.

“He’s up here! Taylor’s up here! Get up here and find him! Forget the taking-him-alive shit; I want him dead! Dead! Ten grand bonus to whoever brings me his head, so I can piss in his eyes!”

A whole army of men came clattering up the stairs, heavy feet slamming on the complaining wooden steps. I moved silently down the landing towards them, then slipped into the office before mine and hid behind the open door. Some tricks are classics. A whole bunch of very heavy people moved purposefully along the landing, slamming open each door they came to. I braced myself and took the impact on my shoulder, gritting my teeth to make sure I didn’t make a sound. The thug stepped into the doorway, looked quickly round the empty office, and moved on. Not all thugs are brain-dead muscle; but that’s usually the way to bet.

I eased forward, peering carefully round the edge of the door. The armed men had come to a halt, clustered before my open office door. Russell was yelling at them, but they simply stood there and took it. Probably part of their job description. Russell looked like he was the sort who’d enjoy yelling at people. All of the thugs were carrying guns, in a very professional way. Mostly pistols, a few sawn-off shotguns. I counted twenty-two armed men, in all; rather a lot, to bring down one man. Especially since I’d never been considered that dangerous, back in the day. Either Russell was taking no chances on me disappearing again, or ... someone had been talking.

Twenty-two armed thugs. In a very confined space. Oh well, you have to make a start somewhere.

I slowly eased round the office door and padded carefully down the gloomy corridor until I could ease in behind the man at the very back of the crowd. I slipped an arm round his throat from behind and had him in a choke hold before he knew what was happening. I dragged him quickly back into the adjoining office, tightened the hold till he was well out, then lowered him carefully to the floor.

Suzie had taught me a lot of useful grips and holds. Often during foreplay.

I stepped out of the office, strolled casually down the corridor, and tapped the shoulder of the man in front of me.

“Who are we after?” I murmured into his ear.

“Some scumbag called Taylor,” said the thug, not looking round. “Word is he owes the boss, big-time.”

“Taylor,” I said. “That’s a name from the past.”

The thug shrugged briefly. “Should never have come back. The boss has a real hard-on for this guy.”

“What a perfectly appalling mental image,” I said. “Is this all of us? Any more coming?”

“No; we’re it. But watch yourself; this Taylor’s supposed to be a bit tricky.”

“Oh, he is,” I said. “Really. You have no idea.”

Something seemed to occur to the thug, and he turned to look back at me. His eyes widened as he realised who he’d been talking to. He opened his mouth to give the alarm, and I kneed him briskly in the balls. His eyes squeezed shut, and he dropped to the floor. Other members of the crowd before me began to turn round, sensing something was wrong. I took out the sachet of coarse pepper I always keep in my coat-pocket, tore it open, and threw the granules right into their faces. They cried out in shock and pain as fierce tears ran down their faces, blinding them; and then the sneezing and the coughing started, convulsing their bodies as their lungs heaved for air. Never go anywhere without condiments. Condiments are our friends.

I moved quickly forward, forcing my way through the hacking, teary-eyed, almost helpless thugs, handing out nerve pinches, low blows, and the occasional really nasty back elbow when the opportunity presented itself. I slammed thugs against the wall, sent them crashing to the floor, and even tipped a few over the railings. Not one of them even managed to lay a hand on me.

I was actually starting to feel a bit cocky when the men on the furthest edge of the crowd, and therefore furthest away from the pepper, raised their guns and opened fire. The noise was deafening in the confined space, and the bullets went everywhere. Some pock-marked the wall beside me, some hit their own men, but none of them went anywhere near me because I was down on one knee and out of sight. Gun smoke thickened on the air, confusing the situation even more. There was screaming and shouting and general uproar, and I contributed a few He’s over there!s. Just to be helpful.

I slipped easily through the confused crowd and out the other side, ducking and dodging and bestowing vicious unexpected blows on the unworthy. Nothing like a lot of people in a tight space to put the odds in favour of the lone fighter. Particularly if he’s a dirty fighter. I waited at the foot of the stairs to the next floor, until I was sure they knew where I was, then I used one of my favourite tricks, and employed a small but useful magic to take all the bullets out of their guns. The crash of gunfire cut off abruptly, and there was a lot of confused shaking of guns. I took advantage of their confusion to run up the stairs to the next floor. And then I sat down abruptly, by the railings, and gasped for air. I’m not as young as I used to be. I peered cautiously down through the banisters to see what was happening below.

More than half the thugs were on the floor: unconscious, bleeding, shot by their own people, or still recovering from various dirty tricks. Most of them wouldn’t be taking any more interest in proceedings for a while, and the rest were too busy cursing their fellows for being such lousy shots. Russell could still be heard screaming orders and abuse, almost incandescent with rage. I never knew he had it in him. Bullet-holes had pock-marked the first-floor wall, and all my frosted glass was gone. The gun smoke was slowly clearing, but there was still only intermittent light from outside. It occurred to me that I shouldn’t be able to see all this as clearly as I did ... And then I pushed the thought aside, as some of the thugs reloaded their guns and started cautiously up the stairs towards me, driven on by Russell’s screeching voice.

I could feel Excalibur on my back, a fierce and dangerous presence, nagging at me like an aching tooth, demanding to be drawn and used. The sword would have made short work of the thugs, guns or no; but I didn’t want to draw it. I didn’t need a legendary sword to see off a few bad guys with delusions of adequacy. I was John Taylor, no longer trying to be normal.

I took a flashbang out of my coat-pocket, primed it, and tossed it lightly down the stairs. I counted off five, then turned my head away and squeezed my eyes shut. The flashbang detonated, filling the stairs with unbearably bright light. The thugs screamed like little girls as the fierce-light-blasted eyes adjusted to the gloom, and they fired blindly ahead of them, peppering the stairs and the walls but not coming anywhere near me. I waited till they stopped firing, then strolled casually back down the stairs, snatching the guns out of their hands and hitting them here and there with vicious intent. One by one, I kicked their unconscious bodies down the stairs and threw their guns after them. I’ve never cared for the things. One lone thug remained, at the foot of the stairs. He’d managed to avoid the worst of the flashbang, and the pepper, and had his gun trained on me. He looked seriously spooked, though; his hand was trembling, and his eyes were almost painfully wide as he watched me descend the stairs towards him. I’d taken down his entire gang, and I wasn’t even breathing hard.

I gave him my best unnerving smile. “Tell you what: you run away now, terribly quickly, and I won’t do horrible and upsetting things to your person.”

His hand was seriously trembling by then. Sweat was running down his face. I let my smile widen a little, and he made a low, whining noise.

“Boo!” I said, and he turned and ran for his life. Potentially sensible young man, I thought.

I went back into my old office. Russell made a small, horrified sound in the back of his throat as he saw me. He backed away, and I went after him. He kept retreating until he slammed up against the barred window and realised he had nowhere else to go. All the colour had gone out of his face, but his wide eyes were still sharp and mean and calculating. If I was stupid enough to turn my back on him, he’d stick a knife in it. I stopped in the middle of the room and considered him thoughtfully.

“How do you like being the big man, Russell?” I said. “Making loans to desperate people, at two thousand per cent interest, then sending round the leg-breakers when they can’t keep up with the payments? Taking your cut from all the drugs and the working girls and the protection rackets? Leeching money from all the small people, like you used to be? You were never interested in any of that, back in the day.”

“Never had any money, back in the day, Mr. Taylor.” His voice was flat and collected, wary rather than frightened. “I’m a whole new man, with a whole new life. I don’t need you to protect me any more. And you’re out of tricks.”

“You think so?” I said.

“Of course; or you wouldn’t be standing there talking to me. Talk all you like. I’ve put in a call. There’ll be more of my people here any minute.”

I took his gun out of my pocket and offered it to him. He gaped at me for a moment, then snatched it from my hand and pointed it at me. As his finger tightened on the trigger, I took all the bullets out of his gun and let them fall from my open hand onto the floor, jumping and rattling noisily. Russell made a high, whining noise, and pulled the trigger anyway. When nothing happened, he threw the gun onto the floor and looked at me haughtily.

“I know you, Mr. Taylor. You might have learned a few tricks, but you haven’t changed. You won’t kill an unarmed man.”

I looked at him thoughtfully. Russell would never stop coming after me all the time I was in London Proper. He wouldn’t stop until he was dead, or I was. Unless I did something about him. The sword on my back wanted me to kill him, to execute him. My hand rose to the invisible hilt behind my shoulder, then I pulled it back again. I was not an executioner. And all that fighting, all the action stuff, diving into danger with a smile on my face and letting the chips fall where they may—that wasn’t me. I have more sense. The sword had been influencing me. And it stopped there. I’d deal with Russell in my own way.

I strode briskly forward, grabbed him firmly by one ear, and dragged him out of my old office, down the stairs, back through the lobby, and out onto the street. I then stripped him naked, quickly and efficiently, and left him hanging upside down from the nearest lamp-post. Tied firmly by one ankle with a handy piece of cord from my coat-pocket. Russell struggled weakly, but there was no way he’d be able to work himself loose. He flopped upside down before me, his skin already grey from the cold, his mouth working weakly.

“I’ve thrown things back that looked less disgusting than you, Russell,” I said. “And you really do have a remarkably small willy. Which explains a lot. Let’s see who’ll work for you now, after this. Even the most basic thugs draw the line somewhere. Good-bye, Russell. If I should see you again ... I’ll think of something even worse to do to you.”

Enough nostalgia, I thought, walking off down the street. Time to find the London Knights.