Hell To Pay

“Who are they, Paul?” I said. “Who do you think took Melissa? Who do you think is coming for you?”

But he wouldn’t say anything. I could hear him breathing harshly on the other side of the door. He might have been crying.

“Paul, listen to me. I’m John Taylor, and almost as many people are scared of me as are scared of your grandfather. I can protect you…but I need to know who from. Just give me a name, Paul, and I’ll make them leave you alone. Paul? I can protect you…”

He laughed then, a low, small, and terribly hopeless sound. No-one that young should ever have to make a sound like that. I tried to talk to him some more, but he wouldn’t answer. He might still have been on the other side of the door, or he might not. In the end I looked at Hobbes, and he shook his head, his grave face as unreadable as ever.

“Has Paul seen a doctor?” I asked quietly.

“Oh, several, sir. The Griffin insisted. All kinds of doctors, in fact. But they all agreed there was nothing wrong with Master Paul, or at least, nothing they could treat. Miss Melissa was the only one he would talk to, lately. Now that she’s gone…I don’t know what will become of Master Paul.”

I didn’t like to leave Paul like that, but I didn’t see what else I could do. Short of kicking the door in, dragging him out of the Hall by force, and hiding him in one of my safe houses. Even if the Griffin had been willing to go along with it, which I rather doubt. In the end I walked away and left Paul alone, in his locked and protected bedroom. I like to think I could have helped him if he’d have let me. But he didn’t.

Hobbes escorted me back to the front door and made sure I had my briefcase with me when I left. As if there was any way I was going to forget one million pounds in cash.

“Well, Hobbes,” I said. “It’s been an interesting if not particularly informative visit. You can tell the Griffin I’ll make regular reports, when I have anything useful to tell him. Assuming the jungle doesn’t attack my car again on the way out.”

Hobbes went so far as to raise a single eyebrow again. “The jungle attacked you, sir? That should not have happened. All authorised visitors are assured safe passage on their journey up the hill to the Hall. It’s part of the security package.”

“Unless someone didn’t want me here.” I said.

“I’m sure you get that all the time, sir,” said Hobbes. And he shut the door in my face.

FOUR - Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Bottom line, I had a victim who might or might not be missing, and a family who might or might not want her found. And Somebody very powerful had blocked off my gift for finding things. Some cases you just know aren’t going to go well. I got back into Dead Boy’s futuristic car, and it drove me back down the hill. And as we glided smoothly through the brooding primeval jungle, the plants all drew back from the side of the road to give us more room. Nothing and no-one bothered us all the way back down the hill, and soon enough we passed through the great iron gates and back out into the Nightside proper.

The car bullied its way into the never-ending stream of traffic, and I sat thinking and scowling as it carried me smoothly back into the dark heart of the Nightside. One of the first hard lessons you learn in life is never to interfere in family arguments. No matter which side or position you take you can’t win, because family arguments are never about facts or reason; they’re about emotion and history. Who said what thirty years ago and who got the biggest slice of cake at a birthday party. Old slights and older grudges. It’s always the little things that really haunt people; the things no-one else remembers.

The Griffins were held together by power and position, and precious little love that I could see. And anyone who’d lived as long as they had had to have accumulated more than their fair share of grudges and nursed resentments. I felt sorry for the grand-children, Melissa and Paul. Hard enough to be born into such a divided family without having grandparents who’d already lived lifetimes. Talk about a generations gap…Why was the Griffin so keen to raise his grand-children himself? What did he hope to make of them that he hadn’t managed with his children? Had he succeeded with Melissa? Was that why he changed his will in her favour?

I might have a photo of her, but I still didn’t have a clear picture of who she was.

So many questions and not an answer in sight. Luckily, when you’re looking for answers, the oldest bar in the world is a good place to start. You can find the answers to almost anything at Strange-fellows; though noone guarantees you’ll like what you hear.

I looked vaguely out the window at the traffic passing by. The road was crammed full with all the usual weird and wonderful vehicles that speed endlessly through the Nightside, and every one of them was careful not to get too close to Dead Boy’s car. It had really vicious built-in defences, and a very low boredom threshold. There were taxis that ran on virgin’s blood and ambulances that ran on distilled suffering. Things that looked like cars but weren’t, and were always hungry, and motorcycle couriers that had stopped being human long ago. Trucks carrying unthinkable loads to appalling destinations, and small anonymous delivery vans, carrying the kind of goods that no-one is supposed to want but far too many do. Business as usual, in the Nightside.

The car took me straight to the Necropolis, where its owner was waiting for it. The Necropolis is the Nightside’s only authorised cemetery, where rest in peace isn’t a platitude, it’s enforced by law. When the Necropolis plants you, you stay planted. Dead Boy was currently working there as a security guard, keeping the grave-robbers and necromancers out and the dearly departed in. (There’s always someone pla

Dead Boy was mugged and murdered in the Nightside many years ago and came back from the dead to avenge his murder. He made a deal, though he’s never said with whom. Either way, he should have read the small print in his contract, because now he can’t die. He just goes on and on, a trapped spirit possessing his own dead body. We’ve worked a couple of cases together. He’s very useful for hiding behind when the bullets start flying. I suppose we’re friends. It’s hard to tell—the dead have different emotions from the living.

I left the car parked outside the Necropolis and walked away. It could look after itself until Dead Boy came to claim it at the end of his shift, and I had things I needed to be doing. I strolled along the dark neonlit streets, past sleazy clubs and the more dangerous, members-only establishments, and my reputation went ahead of me, clearing the way. There was still a lot of rebuilding going on, aftermath of the Lilith War. The good guys won, but only just. At least most of the dead had been cleared away now, though it took weeks. The Necropolis furnaces ran full-time, and a lot of restaurants boasted a Soylent Green special on their menus, for the more discerning palates.

The streets seemed as crowded as ever, teeming with people busy searching for their own personal heavens and hells, for all the knowledge, pleasures, and satisfactions that can only be found in the darkest parts of the Nightside. You can find anything here if it doesn’t find you first.

Buyer beware…

I made my way to my usual drinking haunt, Strangefellows, the kind of place that should be shut down by the spiritual health board. It’s where the really wild things go to drink and carouse, and try to forget the pressures of the night that never ends. The bar where it’s always three o’clock in the morning, and there’s never ever been a happy hour. I clattered down the bare metal steps into the great sunken stone pit and headed for the long, wooden bar at the far end. I winced as I realised the background music was currently playing a medley of the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits. Music to gouge out your eyeballs to. Alex Morrisey, the bar’s owner, bartender, and miserable pain in the neck, must be in one of his moods again.