Something from the Nightside

EIGHT — Time Out At the Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill

I'd just seen the end of the world, murdered one of my oldest friends, and discovered that the one quest I'd always intended to give my life to was now forever barred to me; so I decided I was owed a break. Luckily there was a really good café close by, so I took Joanna firmly by the hand and led her there, so that we could both get our mental breath back. The Nightside will grind down the toughest of spirits, if you don't learn to take the occasional pit stop, when you can. Joanna didn't want to go, with Blaiston Street and the answer to her daughter's fate now so close at hand, hopefully, but I insisted. And she must have been tired and shaky too, because she'd actually stopped arguing before we reached our destination.

The Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill is a sight to see, something special even among the Nightside's many dark wonders, and I stopped outside a moment, so Joanna could appreciate it. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the mood. Which was a pity. It's not every day you get to see such a perfect monument to the psychedelic glories of the sixties, complete with rococo Day-Glo neon and Pop Art posters with colours so bright they practically seared themselves onto your retinas. The Hindu latticed doors swung politely open before us as I urged Joanna in, and I breathed deeply of the familiar air of the sixties as we entered the café; joss sticks and patchouli oils, a dozen kinds of smoke, all kinds of freshly brewing coffee, and a few brands of hair oil best forgotten.

The place was packed and jumping, as always, all the hits of the sixties throbbing loudly on the thick air, and I smiled about me at familiar faces as I led Joanna through the maze of tables to find a reasonably private spot at the rear of the café. Strangefellows is where I go to do business, or a little private brooding; Hawk's Wind is where I go for the peace of my soul. Joanna looked disparagingly at the stylised plastic table and chairs, but sat down with a minimum of fuss. I liked to think she was beginning to trust my instincts. Her nostrils twitched suspiciously at the multicultural atmosphere, and I pretended to study the oversized hand-written menu while she looked about her. There was always a lot worth looking at in the Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill.

The decor was mostly flashing lights and psychedelia, with great swirls of primary colours on the walls, the ceiling and even the floor. A jukebox the size of a Tardis was pumping out an endless stream of hits and classics from the sixties pop scene, blithely ignoring the choices of those stupid enough to put money in it. The Kinks had just finished "Sunny Afternoon," and the Lovin' Spoonful launched into "Daydream." My foot tapped along as I unobtrusively studied Joanna while she studied the faces around her. The tables around us were crowded with travellers from distant lands and times, heroes and villains and everything in between. Plus a special sprinkling of the kind of people who could only ever have felt at home in a place like this. Names and faces, movers and shakers, and all the unusual suspects.

The Sonic Assassin was showing off his new vibragun to the Notting Hill Sorcerer. The timelost Victorian Adventurer was treating his new sixties stripper girlfriend to the very best champagne. The Amber Prince was sitting alone, as usual, trying to remember how he got there. Any number of spies, ostentatiously not noticing each other. And for a wonder, all five Tracy brothers at the same table. While off in a far corner, what looked like the whole damned Cornelius clan were being their usual raucous selves, running up a tab they had no intention of paying. I had to smile. Nothing much ever changed here. Which was, of course, part of the attraction. The Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill was happily and proudly free of the tyranny of passing Time.

In the centre of the great open floor, two go-go dancers dressed in little more than bunches of white feathers were dancing energetically in ornate golden cages, fragging and bobbing their heads for all they were worth. The one in the silver wig winked at me, and I smiled politely back. A waitress came tripping over to our table in eight-inch pink stiletto heels, plastic mini skirt, starched white man's shirt and a positively precarious beehive hairdo. I stood up and peeled off my trench coat, indicating the blood-soaked material, and the waitress nodded brightly.

"Oh sure, JT; anything for you, baby! Welcome back, daddy-o; looking good! You wanna order yet?"

She was chewing gum, and her voice was an irritatingly high-pitched squeal, but there was no denying she was authentic as hell. I sat back down and handed her the menu.

"Two Cokes, please, Veronica. Nothing else. And fast as you can with the coat. I'm in the middle of a case."

"Never knew you when you weren't, dearie. Any messages from the future?"

"Invest in computers."

"Groovy!"

And off she went, swaying on her heels like a ship at sea. Friendly hands reached out to her from all sides, but she avoided them with practised ease and vicious put-downs. A beatnik stood up to recite some poetry, and we all threw things at him. The Animals were singing an uncensored version of "House of the Rising Sun." Try and find that one on a CD compilation. Joanna leaned forward across the plastic table to glare at me.

"Tell me you haven't dragged me into some hideous sixties theme café. I lived through the sixties, and once was more than enough… And we definitely don't have the time to hang around here while they launder your coat! Cathy is close now. I can feel it."

"We could spend a month in here, and not one second would have passed in the street outside," I said calmly. "It's that kind of place. And the laundry here really is something special. They ship your clothes all the way to China and back, and guarantee it'll come back spotless. They could get all the markings out of the Turin Shroud, and add double starch for no extra charge."

"I need a drink," Joanna said heavily. "And not some damned Coke, either."

"Trust me; you're going to love the Cokes they serve here. Because this café isn't a re-creation of the sixties. This is the genuine article."

"Oh bloody hell. Not another Timeslip."

"Not as such… The original Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill was a hang-out for all the great sixties adventurers and cosmic spirits, and much loved in its day, but unfortunately the café burned down in 1970; possibly in self-immolation, as a protest over the Beatles splitting up. It was due to be replaced by some soulless, boring business school, but luckily the café was so fondly remembered by its famous and gifted patrons that it came back, as a ghost. This whole establishment is one big haunting, a deceased building still stubbornly manifesting long after the original was destroyed."

"A ghost café."

"The people, on the other hand, are mostly real. Either Time-tripping in from the sixties, or just getting into the spirit of the thing. The Hawk's Wind is a genius loci for all that was good and great about the Swingingest era of them all. And because the café isn't real, you can order all kinds of things here that haven't existed since the sixties. Ghost food and drink, which as it isn't real, can't affect a real body. The ultimate in slimming diets; and your last chance to wallow in some serious nostalgia. How long has it been since you've tasted a real Coke, Joanna?"

Our waitress was back, bearing two old-fashioned chunky glass bottles with crimped-on caps, balanced expertly on a tin tray decorated with photos of the Monkees. She slammed the crimped tops expertly against the edge of the table. The caps flew through the air, but not one frothy bubble rose above the mouth of the neck. She placed a bottle before each of us, and dipped in curly-wurly plastic straws. She flashed a grin, cracked her gum, and wiggled off while Joanna looked dubiously at the bottle before her.

"I do not need a straw. I am not a child."

"Go with it. It's all part of the experience. This… is real Coke. The old, sugar-rich, caffeine-heavy, thick syrup and taste-intensive kind you can't get any more; except in certain parts of Mexico, apparently, which just goes to show. Try it, Joanna. Your taste-buds are about to convulse in ecstasy."

She took a sip, and so did I. She took several more, and so did I. And then we both sat back in our plastic chairs, oohing and aahing appreciatively, while the dark liquid ran through our bodies, jump-starting all our tired systems. You don't know what you've got till it's gone, was crooning from the jukebox, and I could only nod in agreement.

"Damn," said Joanna, after a respectful pause. "Damn. This is the real thing, isn't it? I'd forgotten how good Coke used to be. Is it expensive?"

"Not here," I said. "This is the sixties, remember? They accept coins from all periods here, and IOUs. No-one wants to risk being barred."

Joanna had relaxed a little, but her mouth was still set in a firm line. "This is all very pleasant, John, but I didn't come into the Nightside to be entertained. My daughter is only a few streets away now, according to you. What are we doing here, when we should be rescuing her?"

"We're here because we need to get our breath back. If we're going to venture into Blaiston Street, we're going to have to be fresh, sharp, and have every last one of our wits about us. Or they'll chop us off at the ankles before we even see them coming. Blaiston Street is only a few blocks away, but it's a whole other world. Vicious, violent, and possibly even more dangerous than the place we just left. And yes, I know that makes you even more desperate to go rushing off to save Cathy, but we're going to need to be at the top of our form for this. And remember, Time doesn't pass out there, while we're in here."

"You're holding up really well after all you've been through, Joanna. I'm impressed. Really. But even the sharpest edge will go blunt if you beat it against a brick wall often enough. So I want you to sit here, enjoy your Coke and the surroundings, until we're both ready to take on the Nightside again. You only think you've seen the bad places. You mess up in Blaiston Street and they'll eat you alive. Possibly literally. And I think… there are things we need to talk about, you and I, before we go anywhere else."

"Things?" said Joanna, raising a perfect eyebrow.

"There are things about Cathy, and her situation, that need… clarifying," I said carefully. "There's more to this than meets the eye. More to this whole situation. I can feel it."

"There are a lot of unanswered questions," said Joanna. "I know that. Who called Cathy here, and why? Why choose her? She's no-one important, except to me. I'm a successful businesswoman, but I don't earn the kind of money that would make kidnap or blackmail attractive. And this is the Nightside. People like me don't matter here. So why pick on Cathy? Just another teenage runaway? If I knew the answers to questions like those, I wouldn't have needed to hire someone like you, would I?"

I nodded slowly, acknowledging the point. Joanna pressed on.

"I don't think we're in here because I need a rest, John. I think this is your rest stop. You've been through a lot too. You killed Razor Eddie. He was your friend, and you killed him."

"I killed him because he was my friend. Because he'd suffered so much. Because it was the only thing left I could do for him. And because I've always been able to do the hard, necessary things."

"Then why are your hands shaking?"

I looked down, and they were. I honestly hadn't noticed. Joanna put one of her hands on top of mine, and the shaking slowly stopped.

"Tell me about Eddie," she said. "Not the Street of the Gods stuff. Tell me about you, and Eddie."

"We worked a lot of cases together," I said, after a while. "Eddie's… powerful, but he's not the most subtle of people. There are some problems you can't solve with power, without destroying what you're trying to save. That's when Eddie would turn up at Strangefellows, asking for my help. Not openly, of course. But we'd talk, and eventually the conversation would come around to what was troubling him, and then he and I would go out into the night, and find a way to put things right that didn't involve hitting the problem with a sledgehammer. Or a straight razor."

"And sometimes… he'd just appear out of nowhere, to back me up. When I got in over my head."

"This sounds more like partners than friends," said Joanna.

"He's a killer," I said. "Razor Eddie. Punk God of the Straight Razor. These days he kills with good rather than bad intentions, but in the end all he is, is killing. And he wouldn't have it any other way. Hard to get close to a man like that. Someone who's gone much further into the dark than I ever have. But… he turned his life around, Joanna. Whatever epiphany he found on the Street of the Gods, he threw aside everything that had ever had power over him, in order to earn redemption. How can you not admire courage like that? If someone like him can change, there's hope for all of us."

"I've tried to be a good friend to him. Tried to steer him towards a different kind of life, where he doesn't have to define who he is by killing. And he… listens, when I have bad times, and need someone I can talk to who won't repeat it. He warns people away from me, if he thinks they're a threat. He hurts people, if he thinks they're planning to hurt me. He thinks I don't know that."

"I killed him in the Timeslip to put an end to his suffering. I've always been able to bite the bullet, and do what has to be done. I never said it was easy."

"John…"

"No. Don't try and bond me with me, Joanna. There's no room in my life for people who can't protect themselves."

"Is that why your only friends are damaged souls like Razor Eddie and Suzie Shooter? Or do you deliberately only befriend people already so preoccupied with their own inner demons that they won't put pressure on you to confront your own? You're afraid, John. Afraid to really open up to anyone, because that would make you vulnerable. This is no way to live, John. Living vicariously through the problems of your clients."

"You don't know me," I said. "Don't you dare think that you know me. I am… who I have to be. To survive. I live alone, because I won't risk endangering someone I might care for. And if it's sometimes very cold and very dark where I am; at least when I do go down, I won't drag anyone else with me."

"That's no way to live," said Joanna.

"And you, of course, are the expert on how to run your life successfully. A mother whose child runs away at every opportunity. Let's talk about some of the questions you have to consider, before we go any further. What if, we finally go to Blaiston Street, find the right house, kick in the door and find that Cathy's actually very happy where she is, thank you? That she's happy and safe and doesn't need rescuing? What if she's found someone or something worth running to, and doesn't want to leave? Stranger things have happened, in the Nightside. Could you turn and walk away, leave her there, after all we've been through to track her down? Or would you insist she come back with you, back to a life you could understand and approve of, where you could keep a watchful eye on her, to ensure she won't grow up to make your mistakes?"

Joanna took her hand away from mine. "If she was genuinely happy… I could live with that. You don't last long in the business world if you can't distinguish between the world as it is and the world as you want it to be. What matters is that she's safe. I need to know that. I could always come back and visit."

"All right," I said. "Try this one. What if she is in a bad place, and we haul her out of there, and you take her back home with you? What are you going to do to ensure she won't just run away again, first chance she gets?"

"I don't know," said Joanna, and I had to give her points for honesty. "Hopefully, the fact that I've come this far for her, gone through so much for her… will make an impression. Make her see that I do care about her, even if I'm not always very good at showing it. And if nothing else, this whole experience should give us something in common to talk about, for once. We've always found it difficult to talk."

"Or listen. Make time for your daughter, Joanna. I really don't want to have to do this again."

"I had managed to work that out for myself," said Joanna, just a little coldly. "I always thought Cathy had everything she needed. Clearly, I was wrong. My business can survive without me for a while. And if it can't, the hell with it. There are more important things."

I nodded and smiled, and after a moment she smiled back. It wasn't going to be as simple or as easy as that, and both of us knew it, but recognising a problem is at least half-way to solving it. I was pleased at how far she had come. I just hoped she could go the distance. We sipped our Cokes for a while. The Fifth Dimension finished "Aquarius" and went straight into "Let the Sun Shine."

"That future we ended up in," Joanna said, after a while. "It may not be the future, or even the most likely, but it was still a bloody frightening one. How could you possibly be responsible for destroying the whole damned world? Are you really that powerful?"

"No," I said. "At least, not at present. It's got to be tied in to what I inherited, or perhaps stand to inherit, from my missing mother. I never knew her. I have no idea who or what she really was. No-one does. My father found out, and the knowledge made him drink himself to death. And this was a man well used and inured to all the worst excesses of the Nightside."

"What did he do here?" said Joanna.

"He worked for the Authorities. The ones who watch over us, whether we like it or not. After my father died, I went through his papers. Hoping to find some kind of legacy, or message, or just an explanation, something to help me understand. I was ten years old, and I still believed in neat answers like that then. But it was all just junk. No diary, no letters, no photos of him and my mother together. Not even a wedding photo. He must have destroyed them all. And the few people who'd known both my parents had vanished long ago. Driven away by… many things. None of them turned up for his funeral."

"Over the years, all kinds of people have come up with all kinds of theories as to who and what my mother might have been. Why she appeared out of nowhere, married my father, produced me, and then disappeared again. And why she didn't take me with her. But no-one's ever been able to prove anything out of the ordinary about me, apart from my gift. And gifts are as common as freckles among the sons and daughters of the Nightside."

Joanna frowned suddenly. "On the tube train, coming here, the Brittle Sisters of the Hive recognised your name. They backed off, rather than upset you. And they asked to be remembered, when you finally came into your kingdom."

I had to smile. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything. In the Nightside, you can never be sure which ugly duckling might grow up to be a beautiful swan, or even a phoenix. So if you're sensible you hedge your bets and back as many horses as possible. And never make an enemy you don't have to."

Joanna leaned forward across the plastic table, pushing her Coke bottle aside so she could stare at me the more fiercely. "And do you still intend to go on looking for your mother, now you know what might happen to the world if you find her?"

"It's a hell of a wake-up call, isn't it? It's certainly given me a lot of food for thought."

"That isn't answering the question."

"I know. Look, I hadn't even intended to stay here, in the Nightside, once this case was over and done with. I left this madhouse five years ago for good reasons, and none of them have changed. But… more and more, this dangerous and appalling place feels like home to me. Like I belong here. Your safe and sane everyday world didn't seem to have any place for me. At least here I get the feeling I could do some real good for my clients. That I could… make a difference."

"Oh yes," said Joanna. "You could make a hell of a difference here."

I met Joanna's gaze as calmly as I could. "All I can honestly say is this — I really don't care enough about my mother to risk bringing about the future we both saw."

"But that could change."

"Yes. It could. Anything can happen, in the Nightside. Drink your nice Coke, Joanna, and try not to worry about it."

The Crazy World of Arthur Brown was belting out "Fire," by the time Joanna had calmed down enough to ask another question.

"I need you to be straight with me, John. Do you think Cathy is still alive?"

"I have no reason to believe she's not," I said honestly. "We know she was alive very recently. The last image my gift picked up was only a few days old. We know Someone or Something called her into the Nightside, but there's no direct evidence that individual means Cathy any harm. There's no evidence that he doesn't, either, but when you're groping in the dark it's best to be optimistic. As yet, no clear threat or danger has manifested. We have to proceed on the assumption that she's still alive. We have… to have hope."

"Hope? Even here?" said Joanna. "In the Nightside?"

"Especially here," I said. This time I put my hand on hers. Our hands felt good together, natural. "I'll do everything I can for you, Joanna. I won't give up, as long as there's a shred of hope left."

"I know," said Joanna. "You're a good man at heart, John Taylor."

We looked into each other's eyes for a long time, and both of us were smiling. We believed in each other, even if we weren't too sure about ourselves. I knew this wasn't a good idea. Never get personally involved with a client. It's written in large capital letters on page one of How to Be a Private Detective. Right next to Get as much cash as you can up front, just in case the cheque bounces, and Don't go looking for the Maltese Falcon because it'll all end in tears. I'm not stupid. I've read Raymond Chandler. But right then, I just didn't care. I did make one last effort, for the good of my soul.

"It's not too late for you to back out," I said. "You've been through enough. Stay here, and let me handle Blaiston Street. You'll be safe here."

"No," Joanna said immediately, pulling her hands away from mine. "I have to do this. I have to be there, when you find… what's happened to my daughter. I have to know the truth, and she has to know… that I cared enough to come myself. Dammit, John, I've earned the right to be there."

"Yes," I said, quietly proud of her. "You have."

"John Taylor, as I live and breathe," said a cold, cheerful voice. "I really couldn't believe it when they told me you'd showed up again. I thought you had more sense, Taylor."

I knew the voice, and took my time turning around. There aren't many people who can sneak up on me. Sure enough, standing behind me was Walker, large as life and twice as official. Every inch the City Gent, sharp and stylish and sophisticated. Handsome, if a little on the heavy side, with cold eyes and smile and an even colder heart. Had to be in his late forties by now, but you still wouldn't bet on the other guy. People like Walker don't slow down; they just get sneakier. His perfect city suit was expertly cut, and he tipped his bowler hat to Joanna with something very like charm. I glared at him.

"How did you know where to find me, Walker? I didn't know I was coming here till a few minutes ago."

"I know where everyone is, Taylor. You'd do well to remember that."

"John, who is this… person?" asked Joanna, and I could have blessed her for the sheer unimpressed indifference in her voice.

"Perhaps you should introduce me to your client," said Walker. "I would so hate for us to start off on the wrong foot."

"Your tie's crooked," said Joanna, and I could have kissed her.

"This is Walker," I said. "If he has a first name, no-one knows it. Probably not even his wife. Ex-Eton and ex-Guards, because his sort always is. Mentioned in dispatches for being underhanded, treacherous and more dangerous than a shark in a swimming pool. Walker represents the Authorities, here in the Nightside. Don't ask what Authorities, because he doesn't answer questions like that. All that matters is he could have you or me or anyone else dragged off without warning, with no guarantee we'd ever be seen again. Unless he had a use for us. He plays games with people's lives, all in the name of preserving his precious status quo."

"I preserve the balance," Walker said easily, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his impeccable sleeve. "Because someone has to."

"No-one knows who or what Walker reports to, or where his orders come from," I continued, "Government or Church or Army. But in an emergency he has been known to call for backup from any damned force he wants; and they come running every time. His word is law, and he enforces it with whatever measures it takes. Always immaculately turned out, charming in a ruthless kind of way, and never, ever, to be trusted. No-one ever sees him coming. You can never tell when he's going to come strolling out of the shadows with a smile and a quip, to pour oil on troubled waters, or occasionally vice versa."

"He has a gift for getting answers. There aren't many who can say no to him. They say he once made a corpse sit up on an autopsy table and talk with him."

"You flatter me," said Walker.

"You'll notice he's not denying it. Walker can call on powers and dominations, and make them answer to him. He has power, but no accountability. And damn all conscience, either. In a place where the Light and the Dark are more than just aphorisms, Walker remains determinedly grey. Like any good civil servant."

"It's all about duty and responsibility, Taylor," said Walker. "You wouldn't understand."

"Walker disapproves of people like me," I said, smiling coldly. "Rogue agents, individuals who insist on being in charge of their own destinies, and their own souls. He thinks we muddy the waters. It's not often you'll see him out in the open, like this. He much prefers to stay in the shadows, so people can't see him pulling strings. Anyone at all could be working for him, knowingly or unknowingly, doing his bidding, so Walker doesn't have to get his own hands dirty. And of course, if one of his unofficial agents should get killed in the process, well, there are always more where they came from. For Walker the end always justifies the means, because the end is keeping the Nightside and its occupants strictly separate from the everyday world that surrounds it."

Walker bowed his head slightly, as though anticipating applause. "I do so love it when you introduce me, Taylor. You do it so much better than I ever could."

"He's been known to fit up people," I said. The words were coming faster now, as my anger rose. "When he finds it necessary, to throw someone to the wolves. He is much feared, occasionally admired, and practically everyone in the Nightside has tried to kill him, at one time or another. At the end of the day, he goes home to his wife and his family, in the everyday world, and forgets all about the Nightside. We're just a job to him. Personally, I think he sees this whole damned place as nothing more than a hideously dangerous freak show, full of things that bite. He'd nuke the Nightside and wipe us all out, if he thought he could get away with it. Except he can't, because his mysterious masters won't let him. Because they, and those like them, need somewhere to come and play the games they can't play anywhere else, to wallow in the awful pleasures they can't even admit to in the everyday world."

"This is Walker, Joanna. Don't trust him."

"How very unkind," Walker murmured. He pulled up another chair and sat down at our table, exactly half-way between Joanna and me. He crossed his legs elegantly and laced his fingers together on the table before him. All around us conversations were starting up again, as it became clear Walker hadn't come for any of them. He leaned forward across the table, and despite myself I leaned forward a little too, to hear what he had to say. If Walker had taken an interest in me and my case, the situation had to be even more serious than I thought.

"People have been disappearing on Blaiston Street for some time now," Walker said briskly. "It took us a while to realise this, because they were the kind of people no-one misses. The homeless, the beggars, the drunks and drug-users. All the usual street trash. And even after the situation became clear, I saw no reason to become involved. Because, after all, no-one cared. Or at least, no-one who mattered. If anything, the area actually seemed to improve, for a while. By definition, anyone who ends up on Blaiston Street by choice has already opted out of the human race. But just recently… a number of rather important people have walked into Blaiston Street, and never come out again. So the word has come down from Above for me to investigate."

"Hold everything." I gave Walker my best hard look. "Just what would these rather important people have been doing in a cesspit like Blaiston Street?"

"Quite," said Walker. If my hard look was bothering him, he hid it very well. "None of them had any business being there. Blaiston Street has none of the usual attractions or temptations that might lead a normally sensible person to go slumming. It seems much more likely they were called, or possibly even summoned, there, by forces or individuals unknown. Except… if something that powerful had come into the Nightside, we should have detected its presence long before now. Unless it's hiding from us. Which, strictly speaking, is supposed to be impossible. So, a mystery. And you know how much I hate mysteries, Taylor. I was considering what to do for the best when I learned you'd reappeared in the Nightside; and then everything just fell into place. I understand you're tracking a runaway."

"This lady's daughter," I said. Walker inclined his head to Joanna again.

"And your gift leads you to believe she's in Blaiston Street?"

"Yes."

"And you have reason to believe she was called there?"

"Not necessarily against her will."

Walker made a vague dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. "Then you have twelve hours, Taylor, to discover the secrets of Blaiston Street and do whatever is necessary to re-establish the status quo. Should you fail, I will have no choice but to fall back on my original plan, and destroy the whole damned street, and everything in it, now and forever."

"You can't do that!" said Joanna. "Not while my Cathy's still in there!"

"Oh yes he can," I said. "He's done it before. Walker's always been a great admirer of the scorched earth option. And it wouldn't bother him in the least if he had to sacrifice a few innocents along the way. Walker doesn't believe anyone's innocent. Plus, by involving me he doesn't have to put one of his own people at risk."

"Exactly," said Walker. He rose gracefully to his feet, checking the time on an old-fashioned gold fob watch from his waistcoat pocket. "Twelve hours, Taylor, and not a minute more." He put the watch away and looked at me thoughtfully. "A final warning. Remember… that nothing is ever what it seems, in the Nightside. I'd hate to think you've been away so long that you've forgotten such a basic fact of life here."

He hesitated, and for a moment I thought he might be about to say something more, but then our waitress came trotting back with my freshly laundered trench coat, and the moment passed. Walker smiled tolerantly as the waitress displayed the spotless coat for my approval.

"Very nice, Taylor. Very retro. I must be off now, about my business. So much to do, and so many to be doing it to. Welcome back, Taylor. Don't screw up."

He was already turning away to leave when I stopped him with my voice. "Walker, you were my father's friend."

He looked back at me. "Yes, John, I was."

"Did you ever find out what my mother was?"

"No," he said. "I never did. But if I ever do find her, I'll make her tell me. Before I kill her."

He smiled briefly, touched his fingertips to the brim of his bowler hat, and left the café. No-one actually watched him go, but the general murmur of voices rose significantly once the door was safely shut behind him.

"Just what is it with you and him?" Joanna said finally. "Why did you let him talk to you like that?"

"Walker? Hell, I'd let him shit on my shoes if he wanted to."

"I haven't seen you back down to anyone since we got here," said Joanna. "What makes him so special?"

"Walker's different," I said. "Everyone gives Walker plenty of space. Not for who he is, but for what he represents."

"The Authorities?"

"Got it in one. Some questions are all the scarier for having no answer."

"But who watches the watchmen?" said Joanna. "Who keeps the Authorities honest?"

"We are drifting into decidedly murky philosophical waters," I said. "And we really don't have the time. Finish your nice Coke, and we'll go pay Blaiston Street a visit."

"About time!" said Joanna. And she gulped down the last of her icy Coke so fast it must have given her a headache.