The Unnatural Inquirer

“He removes people from reality because they offend him?” said Bettie.

“Pretty much.” I started off down the street again, and Bettie came along with me. Not holding my arm. “Basically, the Removal Man drops the hammer on people if he considers them to be a threat to the Nightside, or the world in general…or because who or what they are offends his particular moral beliefs. Judge, jury, and executioner, though no-one’s ever seen him do it.”

“Like…Jessica Sorrow?” said Bettie, frowning.

“No…Jessica made bits of the world disappear because she didn’t believe in them, and her disbelief was stronger than their reality. Very scary lady. Luckily she sleeps a lot of the time. No, the Removal Man chooses what he wants to disappear. No-one’s ever been able to bring any of his victims back; and a whole lot of pretty powerful people have tried…I’ve never heard a single guess at his name, or who he used to be before he came here and took on his role. And this in a place that runs on rumours. He’s a mystery, and all the signs are he likes it that way.”

“You are seriously spooking me out, sweetie,” said Bettie. “Are you sure he’s involved with this?”

“No; but it sounds right. The Afterlife Recording is exactly the sort of thing that would attract the Removal Man’s attention. Rumour has it he only ever reveals his identity to those he’s about to remove, and not always then. There’s some evidence he can work close up, or from a distance. Certainly he doesn’t give a damn about celebrity, or notoriety, or even reward. He works for his own satisfaction. It’s hard to be a shadowy urban legend in a place full of marvels and nightmares, but he’s managed it. I’m almost jealous.”

“I did hear one rumour,” Bettie said carefully. “That he once tried to remove Walker…but it didn’t take.”

I shrugged. “If it did happen, Walker’s never mentioned it. I suppose it’s possible that Walker secretly approves of the Removal Man. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Removal Man did the occasional job for him, on the quiet, disappearing people that Walker considered a threat to the status quo…No…No, that can’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“Because Walker would have sent the Removal Man after me long ago.”

Bettie laughed and took my arm again. “You don’t half fancy yourself, John Taylor. Any idea where the Removal Man might have gained his power?”

“The same way everybody else does,” I said. “He made a deal with Someone or Something. Makes you wonder what he might have paid in exchange…I suppose it could be the Removal Man, or his patron, who’s been interfering with my gift. I really do hope it isn’t the Devil again.”

“I could ask Mummy for you,” said Bettie. “She still has contacts with the Old Firm.”

“Think I’ll pass,” I said.

Bettie shrugged easily. “Suit yourself. You know, if we don’t get to Pen Donavon before the Removal Man does, we could lose both him and his DVD. And my paper has paid a lot of money for that DVD.”

“It might not be the Removal Man,” I said. “I was thinking aloud. Speculating. I could be wrong. I have been before. In fact, this is one time I’d really like to be wrong.”

“He worries you, doesn’t he?”

“Damn right he does.”

“Tell you what,” said Bettie, snuggling up against me and squeezing my arm companionably against her breast. “When you want the very latest gossip on anything, ask a reporter. Or better yet, a whole bunch of reporters! Come with me, sweetie; I’m taking you to the Printer’s Devil.”

Luckily, the Printer’s Devil turned out to be a bar where reporters congregated when they were off work; printer’s devil being old-time slang for a typesetter. The bar catered almost exclusively to journalists, a private place where they could let their hair down amongst their own kind and share the kinds of stories that would never see print. Situated half-way down a gloomy side street, the Printer’s Devil was an old place, and almost defiantly old-fashioned. It had a black-and-white timbered Tudor front, complete with jutting gables and a hanging sign showing a medieval Devil, complete with scarlet skin, goatee beard, and a pair of horns on his forehead that reminded my very much of Bettie’s, operating a simple printing press. Reporters can be very literal, when they’re off duty.

Bettie breezed through the door like a visiting princess, and I wandered in after her. The interior turned out to be equally old-fashioned, with sawdust on the floor, horse brasses over the bar, and a low ceiling with exposed beams. A dozen different beers on tap, with distressingly twee olde-worlde names, like Langford’s Exceedingly Old Speckled Hen. Taste that albumen! A chalked sign offered traditional pub grub—chips with everything. And not a modern appliance anywhere in sight, including, thankfully, a juke-box. There was a deafening roar of chatter from the mob of shabby and shifty characters crowded round the tables and filling the booths, and the atmosphere was hot, sweaty, and smoky. There was so much nicotine in the air you could practically chew it. A great clamour of greeting went up as Bettie was recognised, only to die quickly away to a strained silence as they recognised me. Bettie smiled sweetly around her.

“It’s all right,” she said. “He’s with me.”

The reporters immediately turned their backs on us and resumed their conversations as though nothing had happened. One of their own had vouched for me, and that was all it took. Bettie headed for the crowded bar, and I moved quickly after her. She smiled and waved and shouted the odd cheery greeting at those around her, and everyone smiled and waved and shouted back. Clearly, Bettie was a very popular girl. At the bar, I asked her what she was drinking, and she batted her heavy eye-lashes and asked for a Horny Red Devil. Which turned out to be gin, vodka, and Worcester sauce, with a wormwood-and-brimstone chaser. To each their own. At least it didn’t come with a little umbrella in it. I ordered a Coke. A real Coke, and none of that diet nonsense. Bettie looked at me.

“Never when I’m working,” I said solemnly.

“Really? It’s the other way round with me, darling. I couldn’t face this job sober.” She smiled happily. “I notice the bartender didn’t ask you to pay for these drinks. Don’t you ever pay for anything?”

“I pay my way at Strangefellows,” I said. “The owner is a friend.”

“Ooh; Strangefellows, sweetie! Yes, I’ve heard about that place! There are all kinds of stories about what goes on in Strangefellows!”

“And most of them are true. It is the oldest pub in the world, after all.”

“Will you take me there after we’ve finished with this assignment? I’d love to go dancing at Strangefellows. We could relax and get squiffy together. I might even show you my tail.”

“We’ll probably end up there, at some point,” I said. “Most of my cases take me there, eventually.”

The bartender slammed our drinks down on the highly polished wooden bar top, then backed away quickly. I didn’t care for the man, and I think he could tell. He was one of those stout jolly types, with a red face and a ready smile, always there to make cheerful conversation when all you want is to drink in peace. Probably referred to himself as Mine Host. I gave him a meaningful look, and he retreated to the other end of the bar to polish some glasses that didn’t need polishing.

“Can’t take you anywhere,” said Bettie.

Behind the bar hung a giveaway calendar supplied by the U