The Unnatural Inquirer (13 page)

But whereas his old collection up on the Moon had all been stored away in rows and rows of wooden crates, here they were all set out in the open, presented carefully on rows and rows of glass shelving. Jewels and weapons, books and documents, machines and artifacts from all of recorded history. I recognised a few of the bigger items, like the wooden horse of Troy, and a half-burned giant Wicker Man with a dead policeman inside it, under carefully arranged spotlights; but I didn’t have to know what the rest were to know they were important. They all but radiated glamour.

I looked round sharply as the Collector’s security staff arrived, pattering across the bright blue floor towards us. Gleaming humanoid robots from some future Chinese civilisation, graceful and deadly with steel-clawed hands, and stylised cat faces complete with jutting metal whiskers. Their slit-pupilled eyes glowed green. A dozen of the robots moved swiftly to surround us, and I gestured quickly for Bettie to stand still. The robots hadn’t been sent to kill us, or I’d never have heard them coming. Bettie stood firm, glaring about her.

“Call them off, Collector,” I said, in a loud and carrying voice. “Or I’ll turn them into scrap metal.”

“You never did have any respect for other people’s property, Taylor.”

The cat robots fell back silently, to allow the Collector to approach. A pudgy, middle-aged man with a flushed face and beady little eyes, wearing a wraparound Roman toga, white with purple trimmings. There were knife holes and old blood stains on the toga’s front. Lots of them.

“Do you like it?” he said, stopping a respectful distance away. “A new acquisition. The robe the Emperor Caligula was wearing when he was assassinated by his own security people. Partly because he was a monster, but mostly because he embarrassed the hell out of them.” He looked at me, then at Bettie, who I now noticed was wearing a deep burgundy evening gown, with her long dark hair tumbling in ringlets to her shoulders. Her curved horns gleamed dully under the bright lights. The Collector smiled suddenly. “They’ve been feeding that T. rex too much; he’s getting slow and sloppy. I shall have to have words with that little snot Percival. What do you want here, Taylor?”

I looked around, evading the subject for the moment. Some things you need to sneak up on, and ease into. Especially when you’ve known the Collector as long as I have.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said. “Up on the Moon, you had everything packed away in boxes. You thinking of opening up to the public?”

“They wish,” said the Collector. “What’s mine is mine, and not for other eyes. But I had something of an epiphany during the Lilith War; it reminded me of how short life can be, and the necessity for enjoying things while you still can. It’s not enough just to own things, any more; I need to be able to walk amongst them, enjoy them, savour them. And I do. What do you want, Taylor?”

“I need a favour,” I said. “And you do owe me, Mark.”

He looked at me for a long moment, but in the end he looked away first. He seemed suddenly older, and tired.

“How much am I expected to pay for my sins against you?”

I could sense Bettie’s ears pricking up, as she realised we were talking about secret, important things, but I didn’t feel like enlightening her.

“Only you can answer that,” I said. “Just tell me what I need to know, and I’ll leave.”

“I should kill you,” he said, almost casually.

“You could try,” I said, easily.

“This is about the Afterlife Recording, isn’t it? I haven’t got it. Heard about it, of course. The whole damned Nightside is buzzing with news of it, mostly inaccurate, and all the little collectors and speculators are driving themselves crazy running in circles, chasing down every rumour…”

“But not you?” I said.

“I want it. And when I’m good and ready, I’ll go and get it. But right now I’m busy with something…something important. I have yet to be convinced that the Recording is the genuine article. But whether it’s the real deal or not, I will have it, because it’s a unique item, and it belongs here with me, as someone who will appreciate it…What is that woman doing?”

I looked around. Bettie had a small camera in her hands. I reached out and took it away from her.

“Give that back!” she said hotly. “It belongs to the paper! I had to sign for it!”

“Restrain yourself,” I said. “We’re guests here.”

“Oh, but look at all the lovely things he’s got,” said Bettie, pouting in a very winning way. “The world deserves to know what’s here!”

“No they don’t,” said the Collector. He gave me a thoughtful look. “Is she your latest?”

“No,” I said. “I’m still with Suzie.”

“Oh. Nice horns.” He gave me a hard look. “You always were more trouble than you were worth, Taylor. You know how long it took me to regrow my leg after those insects gnawed it off? All because of you? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have my lovely cat robots kill you, stuff you, and put you on display?”

“Because I’m my father’s son.”

“You always did fight dirty, John.” He smiled briefly. “The sins of the father…”

“And the mother,” I said. “And the man who put them together.”

“Walker had sons,” said the Collector. “Charles had you. And I…have my collection. Funny how things turn out. Get out of here, Taylor. I don’t have the Afterlife Recording, and I don’t know who has. Leave. And don’t come looking for me again. I won’t be here.”

He turned and walked away, followed by his cat robots. Bettie looked at me.

“What was that all about?”

“The past,” I said. “And how it always ends up haunting the present. Let’s go.”

“You’re sure he doesn’t have it, hidden away somewhere?”

“He wouldn’t lie to me,” I said.

We headed back to the door. Bettie was still frowning thoughtfully.

“Once we’re back in the artificial jungle, we’ve still got to face one very pissed-off Tyrannosaurus rex. How are we going to get past it this time?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll think of something.”

And I did.

FIVE

The Devil’s in the Details

B
ack out on the Nightside streets again, we still carried the smell of the jungle with us. A harsh and murky mixture of sweat, rotting vegetation, and T. rex musk. It could have been my imagination, but people on the street seemed to be giving me even more room than usual. I felt like buying half a dozen air fresheners and hanging them round my neck. I did my best to rise above the situation, while debating what to do next with the delightful Bettie Divine.

“I still don’t get it,” she said, a bit pettishly. She was holding my arm again. “Why isn’t the Collector out chasing round the Nightside, trying to grab the Afterlife Recording for himself? He said he wanted it.”

“He also said he was busy with something,” I said. “Odd, that; he didn’t say what with. He’s never been bashful with me before; usually can’t wait to boast about what he’s up to…Still, he’s the Collector. Which means he’s always busy with something.”

“Unless…he’s scared of someone else who’s after the Recording,” said Bettie. “You, perhaps?”

“I’d like to think so, but no. It would have to be someone really bad, and really powerful. The Collector is a Major Player in his own right, and he doesn’t scare easily.”

“Walker?”

“You have a point there,” I admitted. I was getting used to walking arm in arm with Bettie. It felt good, natural. “Could Walker have been lying to us, to hide the fact he already had the DVD? No, I don’t think so. He would have told me if he’d had it, if only to put me in my place. And his reasons for wanting me to find it before anyone else sounded pretty good to me.”

“You mean the angels?” said Bettie.

“Please,” I said. “Let us not use the a-word in public.”

“All right, if it isn’t Walker, then who? Razor Eddie?”

I shook my head. “He might be the Punk God of the Straight Razor, but Eddie’s never been very interested in religion. In fact, he’s pretty much the only god all the other Beings on the Street of the Gods are afraid of.”

“How about the Lord of Thorns, then?”

“You have been doing your homework, haven’t you? No, he’s still recovering from the Lilith War and the trauma of finding out he’s not who he thought he was.”

“You know everyone, don’t you?” Bettie said admiringly. “Who did he think he was?”

“Overseer of the Nightside.”

Bettie thought about that. “If the Lord of Thorns isn’t watching over us, who is?”

“Good question,” I said. “Lot of people are still arguing about that.”

She gave me a sly, sideways look. “Lot of people say you could have been King of the Nightside, if you’d wanted.”

I smiled. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

“Don’t be silly, darling! That’s my job!”

“Damn,” I said, as a thought occurred to me.

“You’re frowning, John, and I do wish you wouldn’t. It usually means you’ve suddenly thought of something unpleasant, spooky, and probably downright dangerous.”

“Right on all three counts,” I said. “There is one man the Collector is afraid of, and quite rightly, too. Anyone with any sense is afraid of the Removal Man.”

Bettie pulled her arm out of mine and stopped dead in the street. I stopped with her. She gave me a hard look.

“Hold everything, reverse gear, go previous. Are you having fun with me, John? Thinking I’ll believe anything simply because it’s you saying it? The Removal Man is just an urban legend. Isn’t he?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I said.

“But…I don’t know anyone who’s seen him, or even claimed to have seen him! The Unnatural Inquirer’s been offering really quite serious money for a photo…No-one’s ever come forward.”

“Because they’re too scared,” I said. “You don’t mess with the Removal Man; not if you like existing.”

“Have you ever met him?” said Bettie, her voice carefully casual.

“No,” I said. “And I was hoping to keep it that way. I don’t think he approves of me. And people and things the Removal Man disapproves of have this unfortunate tendency to disappear without a trace. The Removal Man has made it his personal crusade to wander the Nightside anonymously, removing all the things and people that offend him. Removing, as in making them vanish so completely that even really Major Players have been unable to confirm exactly what it is he’s done with them.”

“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.