The Good,the Bad and the Uncanny

"You'd be surprised at some of the things I know." I actually found out by eavesdropping at a party, but I wasn't about to admit that. "And, I just worked with Puck."

"You do get around, don't you?" said Larry. And that was all he would say.

I decided to change the subject, for the moment. "You're part of the new Authorities. Why not go to them for help?"

"Because Hadleigh's involved. That makes it family business."

"A thought has just struck me," I said. "And not a very pleasant one. Could Hadleigh be responsible for all these disappearances?"

"I can't believe he'd harm his own brother," said Larry. "I can't afford to believe that."

"He's your brother," I said. "Are you scared of him, Larry?"

"Of Hadleigh? Oh yes… We got on quite well, when I was young. He was more like a really cool uncle than an elder brother. But then he went away, to the Deep School, and when he came back… I couldn't even stand to be in the same room as him. None of us could. Just to look at him… was like staring into the sun. People aren't supposed to blaze that brightly. I don't know what the Detective Inspectre is; but he's not the Hadleigh I knew. I'm not even sure he's human any more."

Time to change the subject again. "So," I said. "You don't drink, you don't eat, and you don't…"

"No," said Larry. "I don't. I'm dead. I don't need the distractions and illusions of life."

"So what do you do?"

"I keep busy. To avoid brooding on the realities of my condition."

"You don't like being dead? I'm told there are advantages…"

"I don't sleep. I'm cold all the time. When I touch something, it feels like I'm wearing gloves. I never get tired, never get out of breath, never feel anything… that matters. I can't feel any of the things that make us human. No advantages are worth that."

"If you hate being a zombie so much," I said carefully, "why do you keep going? There are any number of people in the Nightside who could… put you to rest."

"I know," said Larry. "I've talked to some of them. But I have to go on because I'm afraid of what might come next. I did a bad thing once, when I was young and stupid. I did a terrible thing… so I have to go on until I can put things right again." He shook his head slowly. "It's the wand. It always comes back to the wand."

"What did you do, Larry?" I said. "What did you do to earn your wand?"

"I brought Queen Mab up out of Hell."

"What?" I said. "How? And more importantly, why? Mab is one of the great old monsters! Everyone knows that!"

"I didn't know what I was getting into! I thought it was just another job. I wasn't a private eye back then. Just a treasure-hunter, trying to make a name for myself. And I always was a fool for a pretty face."

FOUR

Larry Oblivion, Treasure-Seeker I never told anyone this story, said Larry Oblivion. Whom could I tell? Who would believe me, and believe that it wasn't my fault?

Only those who have been damned to Hell while still alive can be brought back up out of Hell, and restored to the lands of the living. To do this, you need a hellgate, a go-between, and one poor damned fool to play the patsy.

I was a lot younger then. Thought I knew everything. Determined not to follow in the footsteps of my famous father. I wanted a bigger adventure, something more glamorous. I wanted to be the Nightside's Indiana Jones, digging up forgotten treasures from their ancient hiding places and selling them for more money than I could spend in one lifetime. I spent a lot of time in the Nightside's Libraries, digging patiently through discarded stacks and private collections, sifting through diaries and almanacs and very private histories. Looking for clues to point me in the right direction and set me on the trail of significant valuable items that had slipped through history's fingers. There have always been treasure-hunters in the Nightside, but I flattered myself that no-one had ever taken such a methodical approach before. Sometimes all you have to do is look carefully.

I'd just turned twenty, and I'd already had a few triumphs. Tracked down some important items. One of the original seven veils, from when Salome danced before her father for the head of John the Baptist. A set of dentures made up of teeth taken from the skull of the Marquis de Sade. And one of Mr. Stab's knives. Nothing big, but enough to start a reputation, put some decent money in my pockets.

I needed to find something special, something important, something to make people sit up and take notice. The Holy Grail, or Excalibur, or Merlin Satanspawn's missing heart. Think big, and you'll make it big. I had a lot of sayings like that, in those days.

I was drinking a nice chilled merlot in the Bar Humbug that night. A small and very exclusive place, for ambitious young people on the way up. A civilised watering hole for every bright young thing prepared to do absolutely anything to get to the top. Kind of place where you swap business cards instead of names, smile like a shark, and preen like a peacock; and slip the knife in so subtly that your mark won't even notice till you're gone. The Bar Humbug was comfortable rather than trendy, with richly polished oak-panelled walls, padded booths to drink in, and only the most pleasant music in the background. Refreshingly normal and refined, for the Nightside. An oasis of calm and serenity, and never very full, because people don't come to the Nightside for calm and serenity.

Place was run by a sweet-natured old lady in tweeds, pearls, and pince-nez. Grey-haired, motherly, mind like a steel trap when it came to money. Miss Eliza Fritton; always pleasant, always obliging, and not one pe

I was talking with the Beachcomber that night, a dry old stick with a military ma

"A Shakespeare first folio, of Love's Labour Redeemed. A betamax video of Orson Welles's Heart of Darkness. An old 45 by the Quarrymen, though played half to death, I regret to say. I do so love alternative histories. Though I believe I could have lived quite happily without seeing the nude spread featuring a young Hugh Hefner, from a 1950s copy of Playgirl, Oh, and a rather interesting ash-tray, made out of a werewolf's paw. Nice little piece, with the disconcerting habit of turning back into a human hand every full Moon. Rather upsetting, I suppose, if you happened to be stubbing out a cigarette in it at the time."

I was waiting for him to run out of breath, so I could slip in a few exaggerated claims of my own, when I happened to glance over his shoulder as a very pretty girl walked in. Young and fresh and bubbling over with high spirits, she marched into the bar as though at the head of her very own parade. She wore a tight T-shirt and tighter jeans, with cowboy boots and all kinds of bangles and beads. Skin so clear it almost glowed, huge dark eyes, a scarlet mouth, and close-cropped platinum blonde hair. Without even trying, she took my breath away. Now, pretty girls have always been ten a pe