Just Another Judgement Day

SIX The Only Thing Worse Than Asking Questions of God

We set fire to the Boys Club before we left. It seemed like the least we could do.

Afterwards, Chandra Singh and I stood outside in the street and watched the place burn. It went up very nicely. A crowd gathered around us to enjoy the spectacle. We like free entertainment in the Nightside. A street trader soon turned up to provide the crowd with snacky things on sticks, and in no time at all we were all variously toasting and roasting things in the flames of the burning Club. There’s nothing like a good pork, beef, and quite probably something else sausage you’ve personally blackened in a fire. Chandra politely declined to get involved and looked around uncertainly.

“Shouldn’t the fire brigade be here by now?”

“No such thing in the Nightside,” I said cheerfully. “The surrounding clubs have their own fire-insurance spells, so the blaze won’t spread. And in a high-rent area like this, reconstructive magics come as standard. This time tomorrow, there’ll be a whole new club standing here. Minus the Boys and their lackeys, of course.”

“What about the Walking Man?” said Chandra, apparently determined to be upset about something. “Shouldn’t we be hot on his trail before he causes another massacre?”

“If he’d been planning something imminent, he’d have told us,” I said, around a mouthful of sausage. “The man does love an audience. No, we’ve got time to do a little research. I need to talk with some Christian authorities, someone who can give us more detailed information...on the Walking Man in general, and the present incumbent in particular. Trouble is, there aren’t that many truly Christian people in the Nightside, apart from some rather extreme groups on the Street of the Gods, and a handful of missionaries.”

“Wouldn’t we be better off in a library?” said Chandra, tactfully. “You have some of the most famous libraries in the world here.”

“I think you mean infamous,” I said. “Not to mention downright dangerous. Some of our libraries have books that read people. And edit them. No, I think we need a more personal touch for something like this. Which rules out the big organisations, like the Salvation Army Sisterhood. They’d only feed us the party line. We need to talk to the missionaries, the holy rollers, and the dedicated individuals. Like Prestor Johnny, Saint Gorgeous, Kid Christ, or the Really Righteous Brothers.”

“They sound . . . rather eccentric,” said Chandra. Still being tactful.

“Well, yes,” I said. “You’ve got to be a little weird, not to mention certifiably strange, to want to spread the good word in a place like this. But we’ve always attracted more than our fair share of determined and highly individual religious zealots. Like Tamsin MacReady, the current rogue vicar. Yes, I think she’s our best bet. Ooh look—are those marshmallows?”

“The rogue vicar?” said Chandra, refusing to be side-tracked.

I finished the last of my sausage, discarded my stick, and wiped my greasy fingers on the coat of the person standing next to me. I strode away from the burning Boys Club, and Chandra walked along with me. A mothman had turned up, circling overhead, attracted by the light, and already people were using it for target practice.

“Direct agents from Above and Below have always been banned from the Nightside,” I said patiently. “Lilith designed it that way. Even the bigger organisations have trouble operating here, not least because the Street of the Gods offers mighty and ineffable Beings you can actually have a conversation and even do business with. But there’s a long tradition of rebel priests and rogue vicars who come here against standing orders, to test their faith and their mettle against the Nightside. Half-mad missionaries and holy terrorists, no practice too extreme, variously successful and always a pain in the arse. Tamsin MacReady is the latest in a long line of hard-nosed optimists. She probably knows all there is to know about the Walking Man. If only I can persuade her to talk to me.”

“Would I be correct in assuming that there is some bad feeling between you?” said Chandra.

“Sort of,” I said. “The previous rogue vicar was a man called Pew. My mortal enemy, for many years. He’s dead now, because of me.”

“I can see that would cause problems,” said Chandra.

Because I was in a hurry to get some information on the Walking Man before the bodies started dropping again, I broke one of my oldest rules and hailed a passing taxi-cab. Normally I know better. You can’t trust the taxis in the Nightside. Partly because you can never be sure who the drivers are really working for, or reporting back to . . . but mostly because taxis are just too bloody dangerous. Some of them run on powdered virgin’s blood, some of them interrupt their journeys to fight duels with cabs from rival firms, and some of them eat their passengers. Not everything that looks like a cab is necessarily a cab. But this was an emergency, so . . .

An old-fashioned black London taxi-cab pulled sharply out of the endless roar of Nightside traffic and screeched to a halt before me. I recognised the firm, Infernal Taxis. Their proud motto—We promise you a Hell of a ride! I held the door open for Chandra so he could get in first, just in case. I let him get settled comfortably and only then got in after him. You can’t be too careful.

A sign inside the cab said Please refrain from smoking or the driver will rip your lungs out. Fair enough. I’d barely settled back into the scuffed leather seat beside Chandra before the driver slammed through the gears and forced his way back into the flow of traffic through brute force and intimidation. He body-slammed a few slower-moving vehicles out of his way, and heavy-duty automatic weapons deployed from the gleaming black bonnet to threaten any other vehicles that didn’t move fast enough, or looked like they were getting too close. Which was also fair enough. Offensive driving is the norm in the Nightside if you want to reach the end of your journey alive, or even in one piece. I relaxed a little, feeling that I was in safe hands.

The driver was human enough, from the waist up. From the waist down, his torso plugged directly into the driving seat. Cables, wires, and tangles of translucent plastic tubing full of pulsing liquids connected him to the cab on both a physical and a mental level. Basically, he was a cyborg, and the cab was an extension of his truncated body. He drove it with his thoughts, but he kept his hands on the steering wheel to reassure his passengers. He kept a bonsai pine tree on his dash-board to serve as an air-freshener.

Chandra took one look at the driver’s situation, and immediately lost his temper.

“Who did this to you, sir?” he demanded loudly. “Give us the man’s name, and I promise you we shall hunt him down and inflict dire punishments upon him!”

“Will you relax?” I said. “He paid for it himself. You can make serious money driving a cab in the Nightside, if you live long enough. Being a cabby here is a vocation, like mountain-climbing or spree killing. You leave him alone, Chandra, he’s quite happy.”

“Too right, squire,” said the cabbie, without looking round. His skin was as pale and puffy as a mushroom, but his voice was disturbingly hale and hearty. “I had that Walker in the back of my cab the other day, you know. A real toff. Lousy tipper, mind. Where to, squire?”

“I need to speak to the rogue vicar,” I said. “Take us to the Vicarage.”

The driver sucked in a sharp breath between his yellow teeth. “Ooh no, I don’t think so, squire. I don’t go that far into the badlands. Far too dangerous.”

I leaned forward so he could get a good look at me in his mirror. “I’m John Taylor. How dangerous do you think it’s going to get in here if you don’t do what I tell you to?”

“Oh bloody hell,” said the driver.

He sniffed loudly, put his mental foot down, then sulked in silence for the rest of the way. Which suited me well enough. He’d only have wanted to talk politics, and how there were far too many elves in the Nightside these days. Chandra was apparently lost in his own thoughts, so I just stared out the window at the traffic. It was the usual mixture of vehicles—from the past, present, and future—thundering through the Nightside on their way to somewhere more interesting. Ambulances that ran on distilled suffering. Articulateds with unfamiliar logos emblazoned on their sides, transporting goods too dangerous or too disturbing even for the Nightside. Demon messengers on souped-up motorcycles, with hellfire flying out their exhausts. And a whole bunch of things pretending to be vehicles, for reasons of their own.

At least there are never any roadblocks to slow things down, mostly because the road is tougher than the traffic, and bites back if it gets annoyed. In fact, certain sections have been known to eat slower-moving vehicles, to encourage everyone else to get a move on. The whole road system in the Nightside is basically one big Darwinian struggle for survival, with only the strongest making it to the end of their journeys. Hell, sometimes you can actually watch vehicles evolving, right before your eyes. Some have become so advanced they’re now purely conceptual—just the idea of vehicles in motion . . .

And no, there aren’t any traffic lights. Anywhere. We tried putting some in a few years back, and they all retired with nervous breakdowns.

“Hello,” said the driver suddenly. “Don’t remember seeing that before . . .”

I immediately leaned forward to take a good look over his shoulder. Anything new and unexpected in the Nightside is automatically considered dangerous until proven otherwise by exhaustive testing. Up ahead a new bridge straddled the road, all gleaming steel and bright lights. The rest of the traffic seemed to be going out of their way to avoid it. I frowned.

“Is there another way we can take, driver?”

“Not one that doesn’t add an hour or more to our journey,” said the driver. “That new bridge crosses the only main road into the badlands. What do you say, squire? How much of a hurry are you in?”

“We’re going in,” I said. “Take it slow and steady. And if anything even looks at you in a way you don’t like, feel free to shoot the crap out of it.”

“Got that right, squire.”

“Are we in trouble, John?” said Chandra.

“Maybe,” I said. “That bridge wasn’t there yesterday. It could have dropped out of a Timeslip, or it could be a projection from another dimension. Or it could just be a new bridge. I have absolutely no idea as to who’s in charge of traffic improvements. Mostly, they just . . . happen.”

The bridge and the tunnel it made remained reassuringly solid and ordinary as we approached the entrance. The lights inside were bright and steady. The taxi slowed right down as we passed under the bridge and entered the tunnel . . . then the beast revealed its true colours. The smell hit me first, even through the cab’s closed windows—rotting meat spoiling in digestive juices. The lights lost their electric fierceness and sank into the blue-white glare of bioluminescence. The walls of the tunnel rippled slowly, the blue steel look replaced by a soft organic pink. And the road ahead and under us was suddenly the rough red meat of an endlessly long tongue. Sharp bones protruded from all sides of the tunnel, like the cutting parts of a meat-grinder. The tunnel was alive . . . and we were driving right down its throat.

The driver slammed on his brakes, but the tongue convulsed, rising and falling beneath us, carrying us on. The driver opened up with all his guns, but the heavy-jacketed bullets did little damage to the walls, which absorbed them. Thick pearly digestive juices were already dropping from the ceiling, hissing and fizzing on the cab’s metal surfaces. The driver swore loudly, and threw the cab into reverse. Its wheels dug deep into the red meat of the road, and churned madly, but still we were carried deeper into the tunnel. I yelled for the driver to open the windows, and they juddered down slowly.

Chandra immediately leaned right out of his window, so far out I had to hold on to his legs for fear he’d fall. He stabbed the red road with his sword, the tip digging deep into the red meat, leaving a long, bloody furrow behind us. The tongue convulsed, throwing the taxi this way and that, but we were still being pulled in. I hauled Chandra back into the cab and concentrated on raising my gift. I forced my inner eye all the way open, the better to See the situation we were in. It only took me a moment to find what I was looking for, and hit the tunnel in its weakest spot. The red road whipped out from under us, the whole tunnel shaking violently. The taxi’s wheels dug into the road again, and just like that we were backing out of the tunnel at speed. The starry skies reappeared above us as the taxi accelerated back into the Nightside traffic, which made every angry noise conceivable as it fought to avoid us. Chandra looked at me.

“All right, what did you do?”

I grinned, just a little smugly. “I used my gift to find its gag reflex . . .”

The taxi finally lurched to a halt, and we watched the living bridge melt away into mists. Getting around in the Nightside can be murder sometimes.

The taxi took us deep into the badlands, the roughest, most desperate and desolate part of the Nightside. So rough that even the more adventurous tourists find excuses to avoid it, and only the hardiest sinners venture in, looking for the pleasures and satisfactions they can’t find anywhere else. The techno fetishists, looking to have sex with computers. Volunteers for drug-testing labs, only too willing to take on the latest pharmaceutical heavens and hells, just to be first in line for the latest trip. Innocence for sale on every street corner, only slightly shop-soiled. Sin eaters, soul eaters, sleep eaters. The darkest delights and the deepest damnations, for all those foolish enough to think they’ve already hit bottom. There’s always further to fall, in the Nightside.

The buildings slouch together for support, with brickwork blackened by decades of traffic, or maybe just the general environment. Broken windows, holes patched with faded newspapers, doors hanging permanently half-open because the locks were broken long ago. Street-lights that sometimes worked, and the burned-out skeleton shapes of dead neon. Heaps of garbage everywhere, that sometimes moved, revealing the homeless. Many of them had missing limbs. You can sell anything in the badlands.

And, finally, long after we’d had to shut the cab’s windows to keep out the smell, when it seemed we’d reached the sleaziest scummiest depths of the badlands, the taxi eased to a halt outside the Vicarage, the only civilised-looking building in the middle of a row of destitute properties. The streets looked wet and sticky, and something told me that had nothing to do with the recent rain. I’ve walked through alien jungles that looked less dangerous and forbidding. Exactly where a Christian missionary would be most needed . . .

Chandra and I stepped out of the taxi, which had parked under the only working street-light. I’d barely shut the cab door before the cabbie revved up and roared away, so desperate to get out of the badlands that he hadn’t even paused to ask for his fare. Not that I’d had any intention of paying, of course.

Various figures stirred in the darkest parts of the shadows, deliberating whether Chandra and I were easy targets. Chandra drew his sword with a dramatic gesture, and the long curved blade burned supernaturally bright in the gloom. The figures shrank back, dim silhouettes disappearing into the concealing night. One predator can always recognise another. Chandra smiled briefly and sheathed his sword. I knocked on the Vicarage door. It was an old-fashioned brass knocker, in the shape of a lion’s head, and the sound it made echoed on and on behind the closed door, as though travelling unguessable distances. There were no lights on anywhere, and I began to wonder if this was really such a good idea after all. But after a worryingly long pause, the door swung abruptly open, and bright, golden light spilled out into the street, like the illumination of Heaven itself. And standing in the doorway was a healthy, happy, young lady in a baggy brown jumper over worn-in riding britches and boots. She had short, tufty red hair and vivid green eyes, and she grinned broadly at Chandra and me as though we were two old chums who’d come to tea.

“Hello!” she said, in a bright cheerful voice. “I’m Sharon Pilkington-Smythe. Come in, come in! All are welcome here. Even you, John Taylor! No sin too great to be forgiven, that’s our motto!”

“You know me?” I said, the moment I could get a word in edgeways.

“Of course, sweetie! Everyone knows you. You’re right at the top of People we intend to save by whatever means necessary before we die. Now in you come, don’t be bashful, all are welcome in the Vicarage! Don’t know your friend.”

Chandra drew himself up to his full impressive height and stuck out his beard. “I am Chandra Singh, holy warrior, mighty monster hunter, and legend of the Indian subcontinent!”

He was clearly gearing up to say a lot more, but Sharon butted in before he could get going.

“Gosh!” she said, with that particular mixture of innocence and ignorance that can be especially galling. “A real live monster hunter! We really could use you round here. If only to keep the local rat population under control. You can’t keep using land-mines; it upsets the neighbours. Come in, Chandra, you’re just as welcome as John Taylor, and probably more so. I should go easy on the whole monster-killing bit when you meet the vicar, though—not really her thing.”

“She doesn’t approve of killing monsters?” said Chandra.

“Well, I don’t give a damn myself,” Sharon said airily. “Carve them all up and make soup out of them, see if I care. But the vicar takes her beliefs very seriously. To her, a monster is only another lost soul that needs saving. The sweet and soppy thing. Come on, come on in both of you, and I’ll take you to meet Tamsy!”

Sharon Pilkington-Smythe stepped smartly back, encouraging us both to enter with emphatic arm gestures, and Chandra and I allowed ourselves to be ushered in, if only to stop her talking. She slammed the door shut behind us with casual violence, and there was the sound of many heavy-duty locks, chains, and bolts closing by themselves. I can’t honestly say it made me feel any safer. Sharon led the way down an excessively neat and tidy hallway that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a traditional country vicarage, the kind that only seems to exist on the lids of biscuit tins these days. Gleaming linoleum covered the floor, while pretty flowered prints adorned the walls. The light was a pleasant golden glow, warm and comforting. The whole scene couldn’t have seemed more cosy if it tried. I didn’t trust it an inch. Half a dozen puppies scrambled suddenly out of a side doorway, furry little bundles with oversized paws, falling over each other to get to us. And, of course, nothing would do but Chandra had to stop and make a fuss of them. They were still too young for me to guess their breed, and some of them clearly hadn’t had their eyes open long. Chandra knelt and petted them all happily. He held one up before his face, and the puppy wagged its stumpy tail ecstatically. Chandra looked at me.

“Would you like one, John?”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I’ve already eaten.”

Chandra gave me a disapproving look and put his puppy down. Sharon herded them all back through the side door with brisk efficiency, then closed the door firmly. She looked at me reproachfully, and I stared right back at her. Actually, I’m quite fond of dogs, but I had a reputation to maintain.

Sharon led us down the hallway and ushered us into a nice comfortable parlour, which contained everything you’d expect to find in a cosy vicarage parlour, but rarely do outside of a Jane Austen novel. Bright and open, with flowered wallpaper, tasteful prints on the walls, and the usual mixture of rough-and-ready furniture. The big surprise was the huge bay-window, which opened out on to a view of wide-open fields and low stone walls. Bright sunlight flooded in through the open window, beyond which I could hear a church-bell ringing in the distance. I didn’t ask Sharon what was going on there because she so obviously wanted me to. So I nodded, and smiled, and said nothing. I can be really mean-spirited sometimes. The door opposite opened, and in came the current rogue vicar, Tamsin MacReady. She’d just been baking her own bread. I could tell, because she brought the smell in with her. How homey can you get?

The rogue vicar was a tiny little thing, barely five feet tall and slender with it. She looked like a strong breeze would blow her away, but there was something about her, a strength, a gravitas, that suggested hidden depths. Which was only to be expected. Delicate blossoms don’t last long in the badlands. Tamsin had sharply defined features, softened by kind eyes and a winning smile, with frizzy blonde hair held in place by a cheap plastic headband. She wore a simple grey suit, with a white vicar’s collar. She extended a hand for me to shake, and it was hardly bigger than a child’s. I shook it carefully, and so did Chandra, then we all sat down in the surprisingly comfortable chairs.

“Well,” the vicar said sweetly. “How nice. Two such important men, come all the way here to visit me. John Taylor and Chandra Singh. Monster, and monster hunter. What can I do for two such vaunted figures?”

“Just looking for a little advice,” I said. “So you’re the new rogue vicar, Tamsin?”

“I have that honour,” she said. “I am Pew’s replacement. Sharon, sweetie, there’s blood all down the front of Mr. Taylor’s coat. Be a dear and see to it, would you?”

And, of course, everything had to stop while I stood up and took off my coat, and handed it over to Sharon to be cleaned. She accepted the coat with a brisk, flashing smile, held it carefully between finger and thumb, and darted out of the room. I sat down again. I could have warned her about the coat’s built-in defences, but I had a feeling Sharon could look after herself. Just as the coat could. And, in fact, Sharon was back almost immediately, without the coat, clearly not wanting to be left out of anything. She settled herself on the arm of the vicar’s chair, one arm draped across Tamsin’s shoulders.

Tamsin MacReady made a big deal out of serving us all tea and biscuits, from a silver tray that I would have sworn wasn’t there on the table a moment ago. The tea service was delicate bone china, and I handled the cup carefully with my little finger extended, to show I wasn’t a complete barbarian. Chandra insisted on pouring the tea, putting the milk in first and frowning at me when I added more than one teaspoon of sugar. I waited patiently until everyone was settled again, then addressed the vicar while Chandra chomped happily on a mouthful of biscuits.

“Why are you here, vicar?” I said bluntly. I was finding pretending to be civilised very wearing, especially when the clock was ticking its way down to another massacre.

“People need me,” said Tamsin, quite equably. “I choose to live here, amongst the lowest and worst of human kind, because they need me the most. People tend to forget that our Lord came down to earth to live among sinners because they needed him most. And since most of them can’t or won’t come to me, I must go out amongst them.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” said Chandra.

“Oh no,” said Tamsin. “Not while I’ve got Sharon.”

Sharon wriggled happily on the arm of the chair, and the vicar patted her arm companionably.

“She’s my partner. All gals together, ever since school. Inseparable, really, though I often fear Sharon hasn’t got a truly Christian bone in her entire delightful body. Have you, dear?”

“I’ll believe whatever you believe, Tamsy,” Sharon said doughtily. “And Heaven help anyone who tries to hurt you while I’m around, that’s what I say.”

“Sharon is my body-guard,” Tamsin said fondly. “She is so much more than she seems.”

She’d have to be, I thought, but had the good sense not to say so out loud.

“I bear the word of the Lord to those who need it most,” said the vicar. “I listen, offer advice and comfort where I can, and if I can lead just one sinner back into the light, then my time here will have been well spent. Though of course I hope to save rather more than that. Still, I am a missionary, not a crusader. The way of the sword is not mine.”

“It is mine,” said Sharon. “Though I don’t usually limit myself to a sword.”

“Not much like your predecessor, then,” I said. “Pew always saw himself as a holy terrorist, fighting the good fight by any and all means necessary.”

“Dear Pew,” said Tamsin. “He is sorely missed.”

“He was my teacher, for a time,” I said. “Before he decided I was an abomination.”

“I know,” said Tamsin. “I’ve read his diaries from that period. He had great hopes for you, for a time.”

I raised an eyebrow despite myself. “I didn’t know Pew left any diaries.”

“Oh yes. Fascinating reading. He wrote quite a lot about you. Before he gave away his eyes, in return for knowledge. About you. Do have another biscuit, John, that’s what they’re there for.”

“I don’t have time for distractions,” I said bluntly. “What can you tell me about the Walking Man?”

Tamsin and Sharon shared a look. “We heard he was here, at last,” said Tamsin. “It’s said . . . he talks directly with God, who talks directly with him.” She looked directly at Chandra. “I understand you are a khalsa, Mr. Singh. A holy warrior. What brings you here, to the Nightside? At this time in particular? Did you know the Walking Man was going to be here?”

“Like you, I go where I am needed,” said Chandra. “My life is a holy quest, for purpose and meaning, in the service of my god.”

“Have you ever tried looking for your god on the Street of the Gods?” said Tamsin.

“No,” said Chandra. “Have you?”

They both laughed, politely. A new subtle tension had entered the Vicarage parlour. It was getting in the way, so I intervened.

“The Beings on the Street of the Gods aren’t gods at all, strictly speaking,” I said. “Some of them are other-dimensional travellers, some are psychonauts from higher dimensions, some are aliens or icons or manifestations of abstract concepts. You get all sorts in the Nightside. Many of the older Beings are descendants of my mother Lilith, from when she went down to Hell and lay down with demons, and gave birth to monstrous Powers and Dominations. It’s probably a lot more complicated than that, but there’s a limit to how much weird shit the human mind can cope with.”

“So...some of these Beings are related to you?” said Chandra.

“Only very indirectly,” I said. “We’re not close. Like so many other relationships in the Nightside, it’s complicated.”

“There is only one Supreme Being,” said Tamsin.

“Yes,” said Chandra. “There is.”

“And the one true God has one true nature.”

“Yes,” said Chandra. “I would agree with that.”

“But your god and mine are very different,” said Tamsin. “I preach love and understanding and living peaceably with one another; and you follow the way of violence. We can’t both be right. Is that why you came here to the Nightside, to see the Walking Man in action . . . and test your faith against his? Because if he really is what he says he is, a man touched directly by the Supreme Being, then what does that make you?”

“A searcher after truth,” said Chandra. “In my travels, I have met many who claimed to hear the Voice of God instructing them to do things, and most of them had to take a lot of medication. Few of them were in any way worthy of the God they claimed to worship. You said it yourself—yours is the way of love and peace. John and I have seen the Walking Man at his work, and it seems to me that if he serves any Lord at all, it is the Lord of Darkness.”

“God moves in mysterious way,” said Tamsin, implacably.

“So does Walker,” I said. “But I’ve never felt like worshipping him. Save the religious debates for another time. The Walking Man—do you know of any way to stop him, or turn him aside?”

“No,” said Tamsin. “No-one can. That’s the point.”

“We did a lot of reading up on the Walking Man, once we heard he was here, didn’t we, sweetie?” said Sharon. “Pretty disturbing stuff, actually. Real Old Testament retribution, eye for an eye and all that. Give him the jawbone of an ass and stand well back.”

“We don’t know anything for sure about the Walking Man,” said Tamsin. “I was hoping he’d come to see me, so I could . . . reason with him. But I have no authority over him, or any control over his actions. He will do what he will do. He answers to God, not the Church. To be honest, I always thought he was just a myth, a story they tell in seminaries as an example of faith getting out of hand. But myths have a way of coming true in the Nightside, don’t they, Lilith’s son?”

“If I can’t find a way to stop him, he’s going to destroy the Nightside and everyone in it,” I said, as harshly as I could. “Including you and Sharon and all those poor sinners you were hoping to save. Isn’t there any help or advice you can offer?”

Tamsin thought for a long moment. “Only a certain kind of man becomes a Walking Man. Broken men, their lives destroyed by great tragedy and loss. Men with nothing left to lose . . . seeking redemption, by enforcing justice on a world that seems to have none. Heal them, and they often don’t feel the need to be the Walking Man any more. In fact, certain very old texts seem to suggest that the office of the Walking Man only exists to give the most desperate of men a chance to heal themselves and return to a state of grace.” She looked at me, not smiling at all. “In another time, and in another place, I think you might have become a Walking Man, John Taylor.

“My only advice...is to go to church. The only real church in the Nightside, St. Jude’s. A place where prayers are heard, and answered. If you’re really serious about wanting the truth . . . go and talk to the Walking Man’s Boss. But remember, John, the only thing worse than asking questions of God . . . is getting them answered.”

Chandra leaned forward suddenly. “There is a place here, where a man can talk directly with his God?”

“Yes,” said Tamsin. “You should go, Mr. Singh. Ask your questions, and see who answers you.”

“Yes,” said Chandra. “That should prove most interesting.”

Tamsin turned to Sharon. “Mr. Taylor’s coat should be clean by now, dear. Go and get it for him, would you?”

“Oh sure, sweetie! Won’t be a moment!”

She bounced up off the chair’s arm and hurried out the door. It seemed it was time to leave, so I got up. Chandra made a point of finishing his tea first and making appreciative noises, then he got up, too. Sharon came bustling back in with my coat. It was, of course, spotless. I put it back on, and said good-bye politely to the rogue vicar. Chandra was even more polite. Sharon led us back down the cosy hallway to the front door. I glanced covertly at Chandra. Tamsin MacReady had been pushing him pretty strongly about whose god was biggest, but it didn’t seem to have ruffled his composure. If there’s one thing I’ve come to be sure of, in all my years of walking up and down in the Nightside, it’s that while there are always answers to be found if you know where to look... they inevitably only lead to more questions.

Sharon opened the front door for us, and Chandra and I stepped back out into the night. I looked back to say good night, and Sharon smiled at me through the closing gap. And for a moment I caught a glimpse of her hidden self, the vicar’s body-guard—a quick flash of huge teeth and ragged claws and something hideously vile and vicious. Just a glimpse, then it was gone, and Sharon Pilkington-Smythe smiled good-bye as the door closed. I wondered whether Tamsin MacReady knew. I thought she probably did. I looked at Chandra.

“Did you see that?”

“See what?”

“Never mind.”

I took a moment to check my trench coat thoroughly, in case Sharon had planted any listening or tracking things, or some other little surprise. You can never be too careful with the truly righteous—their faith allows them to justify all kinds of underhanded behaviour. I found half a dozen small silver crucifixes, scattered through various pockets. They didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary, but I discarded them anyway, just in case. What is the world coming to, when you can’t even trust a rogue vicar and her demon lover?

A movement further down the street caught my attention, and I looked round sharply. Out of the shadows, walking calmly and serenely in the night, came Annie Abattoir, large as life and twice as glamorous. She was wearing a rich purple evening gown, complete with elbow-length gloves, high heels, and enough jewellery to fill a pawnbroker’s. Not that anyone would bother her, of course, even here. She was Annie Abattoir. She strode up to me, and I nodded respectfully.

“Hello, Annie. Seduced and killed anyone interesting recently?”

“No-one you’d know,” said Annie.

“What is a high-class courtesan, experienced assassin, and truly dangerous individual such as yourself doing in this low-rent area?”

“I’m here to visit the rogue vicar.”

I raised an eyebrow, and Annie looked at me witheringly.

“What’s the matter?” she said. “Can’t a mother visit her own daughter?”

She knocked on the Vicarage door. Sharon opened it and let her in. I looked thoughtfully at the door as it closed. I never knew Annie had any family. I thought she killed them all. So, the most vicious assassin in the Nightside had a vicar for a daughter. Made you wonder which of them was the black sheep . . .

Chandra Singh and I walked from the Vicarage to St. Jude’s. It wasn’t far. The church’s actual location had become somewhat elusive, ever since the Lilith War, and is seldom to be found in the same place twice. You have to need to find it really badly, then there it is, right in front of you. Or not. It’s not supposed to be easy to find. Either way, St. Jude’s has always preferred the darkest and most out-of-the-way locations in the Nightside. I must have wanted to find the church really badly, because after only a few minutes walking, it loomed up before me, in a setting I was pretty sure it had never patronised before.

St. Jude’s is the one real church in the Nightside, and it wouldn’t be seen dead anywhere near the Street of the Gods. A simple cold stone structure that almost certainly predates Christianity itself, it has no trappings, no rituals, and no services. You don’t come to St. Jude’s for prayer or contemplation or comfort. It’s a place to go when you’ve tried everywhere else. A place where prayers are heard and paid attention to. A church where you can talk to your god directly, and be pretty damned sure of an answer. St. Jude’s deals in truth, and justice, which is why most people have the good sense to steer clear of it.

And only the truly desperate would ever use it for sanctuary.

Which is why it really shouldn’t have surprised me to find one particular person already there, kneeling before the crude but functional altar, lit by the light of hundreds of candles. I knew him, and stopped just inside the doorway. Chandra stopped beside me, and looked dubiously at the old man in his torn and tattered robe.

“That,” I said quietly, “is the Lord of Thorns. Once, and for a long time, the most powerful man in the Nightside. Overseer and Court of Last Resort, very powerful and very scary, he believed God had put him here to be the Nightside’s protector. Until Lilith came, and slapped him aside like he was nothing. He’s been trying to figure out his true role and purpose ever since. Be warned, Chandra. The Nightside does so love to break a hero.”

“It hasn’t broken you,” said Chandra.

“Exactly,” I said.

Even though we’d been talking in low voices, the Lord of Thorns still heard us. He rose slowly and painfully to his feet, as though his many centuries of existence were finally catching up with him, and turned to face us with a certain wounded gravitas. He no longer had his staff of power, supposedly grown from a sliver off the original Tree of Life. Lilith broke it, when she broke him. I could remember when just his presence was enough to make me kneel to him, but he was just a man now. Someone had cut his Old Testament prophet’s hair and beard to more manageable proportions, and it looked like someone had been feeding him. People will adopt the strangest pets, in the Nightside.

He came down the aisle to join us, taking his time, and I nodded respectfully.

“Didn’t expect to see you still here,” I said.

“I look after the church,” he said flatly. “Or it looks after me. It’s often hard to tell . . . I keep it clean, keep the candles lit . . . because someone has to, and I tell myself it’s all about learning patience and humility. I’m still waiting for an answer to my prayer, the question I put to God. If I’m not the Nightside’s Overseer, then what am I? What is my true nature and purpose?”

“Isn’t that what every man would know of his god?” said Chandra.

“Most people haven’t lived a lie for as many centuries as I have,” said the Lord of Thorns.

“Have you regained any of your power?” I asked.

“No,” said the Lord of Thorns, his voice quite matter-of-fact. “I’m just a man. I sometimes wonder if I’m supposed to work out the answer myself, before I can take up my old power and authority again. Right now I’d settle for a sign. Or even a hint.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “I could have returned to my old home, in the World Beneath. It has been largely rebuilt and repopulated, since the end of the Lilith War. But it wouldn’t feel right. It would feel too much like hiding. So here I stay, in the church named after the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. What are you doing here, John Taylor? Come to talk to God at last, and ask him what you’re supposed to be?”

“I already know,” I said. “That’s my problem.”

“A moment, please,” said Chandra. “Is this really a place where a man can speak directly with God? And get an answer? There are so many things I would dearly love to ask Him . . .”

“This is the place,” said the Lord of Thorns. “Can’t you feel it?”

“Yes . . .” said Chandra. “There are places such as this in India. Ancient and sacred places that feel like this . . . But I never considered myself worthy enough, holy enough, to approach them. But then, perhaps this is not a place to find my god.”

“God is God,” said the Lord of Thorns. “You think he gives a damn what name we choose, just as long as we talk to him and listen for his answers? This is not a Christian place, though it currently uses Christian forms . . . It’s much older than that. This is the real thing, the pure pattern, just a man and his god, and nothing to separate them. Could anything be scarier?”

Chandra looked at me. “You’ve been here before. Have you ever asked a question?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve got more sense. The last thing any sensible man wants is God taking a keen interest in him. I have no wish to be given a quest, or a duty, or a destiny. I’m not a holy warrior, or any kind of saint. I’m just a man, trying to get through life as best I can. Don’t look at me like that, Thorns. You know what I mean.”

“Sorry,” said the Lord of Thorns. “I thought you were being ironic.”

“I decide my life,” I said. “No-one else.”

“I used to think that,” said the Lord of Thorns.

Chandra approached the stone altar, his voice soft and flat with awe. “To speak directly with God, without the intervention of priest or ritual. I am khalsa, a holy warrior. I have dedicated my life to serving my god, and yet still . . . I fear to hear what he might say to me. What does that say about me?”

“That you’re still human,” I said. “Only a fool or a fanatic never has doubts about himself.” I looked at the Lord of Thorns. “What do you know about the Walking Man?”

“I’ve met a few, in my time,” he said easily. “I haven’t always been bound to the Nightside. I have met Walking Men, out in the world. Not the happiest of men, usually. Driven, desperate to make the world make sense . . . by making sure the guilty are punished. For supposedly holy men, they seem to have remarkably little faith in the justice of the world to come. They want their justice here and now, where they can see it.”

“What if I were to bring him here, to you?” I said suddenly. “Could you stop him from destroying the Nightside?”

“Even if I still had my old power, and my old certainty, I am nothing compared to the Walking Man,” said the Lord of Thorns. “He is the wrath of God, you see. And besides . . . perhaps he’s right in what he’s doing. Perhaps God has finally decided to do away with the Nightside, for the sinfulness of its inhabitants. There are precedents . . .”

“There has to be a way to stop him!” I said, almost shouting at the old man. He didn’t flinch.

“There might be a way,” he said slowly. “Not a very pleasant way, but that’s often how these things go . . . I suppose it would depend on how desperate you are.”

“Oh, I am way past desperate,” I said. “What is it?”

“To stop a man of God, you need a weapon of God,” said the Lord of Thorns. “You need the Speaking Gun.”

That stopped me. I turned away. My mouth was suddenly very dry, and there was a chill in my bones.

“What exactly is this Speaking Gun?” said Chandra.

“An ancient, terrible weapon,” I said. “It uncreates things. It could destroy everything. So I destroyed it.”

“It still exists in the Past,” said the Lord of Thorns. “If you could travel back into Time Past... Perhaps if you were to speak with Old Father Time?”

“No,” I said. “Not after . . .”

“Oh yes. Quite. Well then, I suggest you visit the Street of the Gods. Time has never been too strongly nailed down there. And that is where the Walking Man is, right now.”

“What?” I said. “Oh shit . . .”

I left St. Jude’s at a run, with Chandra pounding along behind me. I had to get to the Street of the Gods. Before the Walking Man brought the wrath of God to things that only thought they were gods.