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I've never carried a gun. I've never felt the need.
My father drank himself to death. He never got over finding out his wife wasn't human. I never knew her at all. People on my street took it in turns to look after me, with varying amounts of reluctance and attention, with the result that I never really felt at home anywhere. I have a lot of questions about myself, and I'm still looking for answers. Which is perhaps why I ended up as a private investigator. There's a certain comfort to be had in finding the answers to other people's problems, if you can't solve your own. I wear a long white trench coat when I'm working. Partly because it's expected of me, partly because it's practical, mostly because it establishes an expected image behind which I can conceal the real me. I like to keep
people wrong-footed. And I never let anyone get close, any more. As much for their protection as mine.
I sleep alone, I eat everything that's bad for me, and I take care of my own laundry. When I remember. It's important to me to feel self-sufficient. Not dependent on anyone. I have bad luck with women, but I'd be the first to admit it's mostly my fault. Despite my life I'm still a Romantic, with all the problems that brings. My closest female friend is a bounty hunter, who operates exclusively in the Nightside. She tried to kill me once. I don't bear a grudge. It was just business.
I drink too much, and mostly I don't care. I value its numbing qualities. There's a lot I prefer not to remember.
And now, thanks to Joa
But as I headed down into the Underground system below London's streets, with Joa
It didn't matter which station or line I chose. All routes lead to the Nightside. And the whole point of
the Underground is that every rail station looks the same. The same tiled walls, the same ugly machines, the overly bright lights and the oversized movie and advertising posters. The dusty vending machines, that only tourists are dumb enough to actually expect to get something out of. The homeless, sitting or lying in their nests of filthy blankets, begging for spare change, or just glad to be away from the elements for a while. And, of course, the endless tramp of hurrying feet. Of shoppers, commuters, tourists, businessmen, and media types, always in a hurry to be somewhere else. London hasn't quite reached saturation point yet, like Tokyo, where they have to employ people to forcibly squeeze the last few travellers into a carriage, so the doors will close; but we're getting there.
Joa
The escalators were all working for once, and we made our way deeper into the system. I took turnings at random, trusting to my old instincts to guide me,
until finally I spotted the sign I was looking for. It was written in a language only those in the know would even recognise, let alone understand. Enochian, in case you're interested. An artificial language, created long ago for mortals to talk with angels, though I only ever met one person who knew how to pronounce it correctly. I grabbed Joa
"Nightside."
I put the phone back and looked expectantly at the wall. Joa
out, like so many competing radio signals. Somewhere a cloister bell was ringing, a lost and lonely, doleful sound.
"You expect me to go into that?" said Joa
"Close," I said calmly. "It's the way to the Night-side. Trust me; this part of the journey is quite safe."
"It feels bad," Joa
"Oh, it's all of that. But it's the best way to get to your daughter. If you can't handle this, turn back now. It's only going to get worse."
Her head came up, and her mouth firmed. "You lead the way."
"Of course."
I stepped forward into the tu
We emerged from the co
that might have been clawmarks, and all kinds of graffiti. As usual, someone had spelt Cthulhu wrongly.
On the curving wall opposite the platform, the list of destinations hadn't changed. Shadows Fall. Night-side. Haceldama. Street of the Gods. The posters were still strange, disturbing, like scenes from dreams best forgotten. Famous faces advertised films and places and services of the kind normally only discussed in whispers. The people crowding the platform were a sight in themselves, and I enjoyed Joa
Here and there buskers were playing unfamiliar tunes, their caps on the floor before them, holding coins from all kinds of places, some of which no longer existed, and a few that never had. One man sang a thirteenth-century ballad of unrequited love in plain-chant Latin, while not far away another sang Bob Dylan verses backwards, accompanying himself on air guitar. The guitar was slightly out of tune. I dropped a few coins into both their caps. Never know when you might need a little extra credit in the karma department.
Further down the platform, a stooped neanderthal in a smart business suit was talking animatedly with
a bored-looking dwarf in full Nazi SS uniform. A noble from Queen Elizabeth I's court, complete with ruff and slashed silks, was chatting amiably with a gorgeous six-foot transvestite in full chorus girl outfit, and it was hard to tell which of them looked more extreme. A woman in futuristic space armour and a nude man covered in tattoos and splashes of woad were eating things on sticks that were still wriggling. Joa