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Leastways, that's what it says on the tourist leaflet. Me, I just call it home.
The thing is, you also get knots within knots. Something to do with fractals-don't ask me, ask Mandelbrot. Which means that some places in this city get more tangled up than others. This block, for instance. Specifically, this office. This office is just full of dimensions.
And where you get lots of dimensions, you get lots of doors.
Behind the bookcase there's a trapdoor. I pulled it open and shoved Byron down the cellar steps.
"You got a secret passage?" said the golem. He sounded like a small child with a large voice.
"Eighty-nine of them," I replied, "at the last count."
"It's dark. I don't like the dark."
"Stay there while I get my coat."
I went back up the stairs, grabbed my coat from the hook. I glanced outside and saw two unmarked automobiles scuttle up behind the barricade. Unlike the regular wheeled cop cars, these were the walking variety.
The first auto was a plain brown rust-bucket with stiff steel legs and a lamp hanging off. A wide-shouldered zombie climbed out of it holding a bull-roarer. A negotiator. So, as far as the cops were concerned, this was a siege.
The second was a Cadillac. It wasn't plain and it wasn't brown. It kissed the far kerb on expensive millipede feet. It was sleek as a whale and at least as big. A car for a giant. The screens were mirrored but the driver's window was open a crack. Through the crack, a pair of huge pink eyes stared right at me.
The zombie negotiator lifted the bull-roarer to what was left of his lips.
"SEND OUT THE MACERATOR! WE KNOW HE'S IN THERE! JUST CO-OPERATE AND YOU'LL BE FREE TO GO!"
Free to go. Right. Like I'd believe someone who has to hold his guts in with gaffer tape.
All the same: the Macerator. It explained why the cops were so keen to collar the golem.
This city's seen its share of serial killers: Josey Doe, Doctor Eviscerate, the Scalpish Brothers. But they all had short careers. Serial killers get caught pretty quick here: zombies might suck at deduction (their brains are mostly soup) but they're hot on homicide forensics. Show a zombie a corpse, the first thing he does is sniff it. Next, he gives you the name and address of the killer.
But they couldn't catch the Macerator.
The first Macerator killing showed up behind the railhead last year. A male of debatable race was found spread over roughly three square miles of open ground. Since then, the Macerator's struck twenty more times. Each time the victim resembles casserole. And, no matter how much they sniff, the cops are in the dark.
I thought again about turning Byron in. Maybe the golem's story was candyfloss-maybe he was the Macerator. But golems only kill if they're programmed to. Which raised the question: Who wrote Byron's code?
I shook my head. Detective or not, I'm not much better at deduction than your average zombie cop.
Difference is, I play a mean hunch.
I turned my coat inside-out three times until it was made of rubber and used it to scoop the remains of the girl back in the garbage can. I've done messier work, but nothing so pitiful. The worst part was picking up that peeled face. Her dead eyes looked like eggs. And it felt like they were watching me.
Soon there was nothing left but a crimson stain on the carpet. It's got a lot of stains, that carpet, and each one's got a story to tell.
I turned my blood-splattered coat inside-out five times until it was clean, then once more so it was back to moleskin. Then I hauled the garbage can down the cellar steps and took Byron's hand.
"It's still dark," he said. "What's that you dragged down here?"
"Never mind," I said. "Hold tight, big fella."
I squeezed the clay of Byron's hand until it squished between my fingers. Then I teased open a local spatial anomaly, rolled the golem into a ball the size of a tangerine and dropped him in my pocket. I made an origami scarf of the garbage can and threw it round my neck. Then I picked myself up, folded myself in half, and posted myself through the gap between the furnace and the coal chute.
There were the usual howls as I sliced my way through a pack of boundary wolves (you fold yourself in half, you get a sharp edge) but I soon left them behind. Boundary wolves think they're the protectors of the cosmos but they're just dumb animals. Soon I was between the strings. Time stopped for everything but me and for an instant-just an instant-I heard the distant silence of the still point.
"Jimmy," I whispered. "Are you there?"
Then the boundary was rushing at me again. I cut through another wolf-pack and slipped sideways through a fresh crack in reality's wall, all the while with a golem in my pocket and a girl in pieces round my neck.
I landed with a crash on a dust-covered floor and smelt rat droppings.
Why have you entered my domain?
The voice came from the corner. It wasn't a room, just a dark place with corners. The corners moved. The voice bounced off a ceiling that wasn't a ceiling, just something soft and unspeakable hanging over our heads. The words were punctuated by wet thuds. Something dripping that sounded like jelly, but wasn't.
"I need a favour," I said into the darkness. Beside me, Byron trembled like a sack of plaster.
Favour? Who are you that I owe you a favour?
"Last summer, remember? The missing kid? Pornographic ransom notes and severed fingers in the mail? Cops thought it was you. I convinced them it wasn't."
Ah, that favour. Tell me, was the poor little dear where I said he would be?
"You know he was. Fu
I explained that at the time. I am not a killer. I am simply… attuned to those who kill.
"Yeah, I know."
You shudder?
"A creep's a creep, i
Is it with such flattery that you seek a favour? I should turn you from here with your skin burned off and your tongue split in two!
I felt Byron's clammy breath on my ear.
"What is this place," he whispered. "Who're you talking to?"
"Her name is… " I began. Then I addressed the voice. "Say, why don't you introduce yourself?"
The dark place got brighter. I saw the ceiling and wished I hadn't: it was made of rat-tails all woven together. Most still had the rats attached. It was like some crazy rodent jigsaw: tails strangling necks, tails plaited with drawn intestines, tails threaded through empty eye sockets. The mutilated rats dripped blood and pus on the dusty floor. And they squirmed.
A hunched figure stepped into the light. She was gaunt and yellow, wrapped in red rags. Filthy hair made syrupy trails down her sunken chest. She gri
She scratched her cheek with nails like sewing needles.
Greetings. My name is Arachne.
The golem took a step forward. "Uh, pleased to meet you, Arachne. My name's Byron." Then, so help me, he stuck out his hand.
"Let's not waste time," I said, stepping in front of him. "Arachne, there's something I need you to do." Glancing at Byron, I hissed, "Don't let her touch you."
"Why not?" said Byron.
"Venom."
Very well, said Arachne. Call in your favour and begone! Your company is already tiresome. Although, I am curious… this man of clay… does he grow hard when fired?
I dragged the garbage can forward. Arachne stretched her scrawny neck and peered inside.