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“Got that right, squire.”
“Are we in trouble, John?” said Chandra.
“Maybe,” I said. “That bridge wasn’t there yesterday. It could have dropped out of a Timeslip, or it could be a projection from another dimension. Or it could just be a new bridge. I have absolutely no idea as to who’s in charge of traffic improvements. Mostly, they just . . . happen.”
The bridge and the tu
The driver slammed on his brakes, but the tongue convulsed, rising and falling beneath us, carrying us on. The driver opened up with all his guns, but the heavy-jacketed bullets did little damage to the walls, which absorbed them. Thick pearly digestive juices were already dropping from the ceiling, hissing and fizzing on the cab’s metal surfaces. The driver swore loudly, and threw the cab into reverse. Its wheels dug deep into the red meat of the road, and churned madly, but still we were carried deeper into the tu
Chandra immediately leaned right out of his window, so far out I had to hold on to his legs for fear he’d fall. He stabbed the red road with his sword, the tip digging deep into the red meat, leaving a long, bloody furrow behind us. The tongue convulsed, throwing the taxi this way and that, but we were still being pulled in. I hauled Chandra back into the cab and concentrated on raising my gift. I forced my i
“All right, what did you do?”
I gri
The taxi finally lurched to a halt, and we watched the living bridge melt away into mists. Getting around in the Nightside can be murder sometimes.
The taxi took us deep into the badlands, the roughest, most desperate and desolate part of the Nightside. So rough that even the more adventurous tourists find excuses to avoid it, and only the hardiest si
The buildings slouch together for support, with brickwork blackened by decades of traffic, or maybe just the general environment. Broken windows, holes patched with faded newspapers, doors hanging permanently half-open because the locks were broken long ago. Street-lights that sometimes worked, and the burned-out skeleton shapes of dead neon. Heaps of garbage everywhere, that sometimes moved, revealing the homeless. Many of them had missing limbs. You can sell anything in the badlands.
And, finally, long after we’d had to shut the cab’s windows to keep out the smell, when it seemed we’d reached the sleaziest scummiest depths of the badlands, the taxi eased to a halt outside the Vicarage, the only civilised-looking building in the middle of a row of destitute properties. The streets looked wet and sticky, and something told me that had nothing to do with the recent rain. I’ve walked through alien jungles that looked less dangerous and forbidding. Exactly where a Christian missionary would be most needed . . .
Chandra and I stepped out of the taxi, which had parked under the only working street-light. I’d barely shut the cab door before the cabbie revved up and roared away, so desperate to get out of the badlands that he hadn’t even paused to ask for his fare. Not that I’d had any intention of paying, of course.
Various figures stirred in the darkest parts of the shadows, deliberating whether Chandra and I were easy targets. Chandra drew his sword with a dramatic gesture, and the long curved blade burned supernaturally bright in the gloom. The figures shrank back, dim silhouettes disappearing into the concealing night. One predator can always recognise another. Chandra smiled briefly and sheathed his sword. I knocked on the Vicarage door. It was an old-fashioned brass knocker, in the shape of a lion’s head, and the sound it made echoed on and on behind the closed door, as though travelling unguessable distances. There were no lights on anywhere, and I began to wonder if this was really such a good idea after all. But after a worryingly long pause, the door swung abruptly open, and bright, golden light spilled out into the street, like the illumination of Heaven itself. And standing in the doorway was a healthy, happy, young lady in a baggy brown jumper over worn-in riding britches and boots. She had short, tufty red hair and vivid green eyes, and she gri
“Hello!” she said, in a bright cheerful voice. “I’m Sharon Pilkington-Smythe. Come in, come in! All are welcome here. Even you, John Taylor! No sin too great to be forgiven, that’s our motto!”
“You know me?” I said, the moment I could get a word in edgeways.
“Of course, sweetie! Everyone knows you. You’re right at the top of People we intend to save by whatever means necessary before we die. Now in you come, don’t be bashful, all are welcome in the Vicarage! Don’t know your friend.”
Chandra drew himself up to his full impressive height and stuck out his beard. “I am Chandra Singh, holy warrior, mighty monster hunter, and legend of the Indian subcontinent!”
He was clearly gearing up to say a lot more, but Sharon butted in before he could get going.
“Gosh!” she said, with that particular mixture of i
“She doesn’t approve of killing monsters?” said Chandra.
“Well, I don’t give a damn myself,” Sharon said airily. “Carve them all up and make soup out of them, see if I care. But the vicar takes her beliefs very seriously. To her, a monster is only another lost soul that needs saving. The sweet and soppy thing. Come on, come on in both of you, and I’ll take you to meet Tamsy!”