The Unnatural Inquirer Part 2

"I love you, Suzie," I said. "If you never believe anything else, believe that."

"I love you, John. As much as I can."

"That's what matters. That's all that matters."

"No it isn't!"

She made herself hug me, holding me tight. Her bandoliers of bracelets pressed against my chest. She was breathing hard, from the effort of what this cost her. Her whole body was stiff and tense. I didn't know whether to put my own arms around her or not, but in the end I held her as gently as I could.

"Love you, John," she said, her chin on my shoulder. I couldn't see her face. "Die for you. Kill for you. Love you till the world ends."

"I know," I said. "It's all right. Really."

But we both knew it wasn't.

TWO.

Demon Girl Reporter

Some days they won't even give you a chance to catch your breath. Suzie and I were just walking out of Fun Faire when my mobile phone rang. (The ring tone is the theme from The Twilight Zone. When I find a joke I like, I tend to stick with it.) An unctuous voice murmured in my ear.

"You have one phone call and one important message. Which would you like to hear first?"

"The call," I said determinedly.

"I'm sorry," said the voice. "I'm afraid I have been paid to insist you listen to the important message first. Have you ever considered the importance of good Afterlife insurance?"

I sighed, hit the exorcism function on the phone, and was gratified to hear the voice howl in pain as it was forced out of my phone. Admail...You'll never convince me it isn't a plot by demons from h.e.l.l to make life not worth living. With the admail banished, my call came through clearly. It was my teenage secretary, Cathy, calling from my office. (I'd rescued her from a house that ate people, and she adopted me. I didn't get a say in the matter. I let her run my office to keep her out of my hair. Worryingly, she's far better at it than I ever was.) "Got a case for you, boss," she said cheerfully.

"I've just completed two in a row," I said plaintively. "I was looking forward to some serious quality time, with a nice hot bath and my rubber ducky. Rubber ducky is my friend."

"Oh, you'll want to take this one," said Cathy. "The offices of the one and only Unnatural Inquirer called. They need your services desperately, not to mention very urgently."

"What on earth does that appalling rag want with me? Or have they finally decided to hire someone to try to find their long-missing ethics and good taste?"

"Rather doubt it, boss. They wouldn't go into details over an open line, but they sounded pretty upset. And the money offered really is very good."

"How good?" I said immediately.

"Really quite staggeringly good," said Cathy. "Which means that not only are they pants-wettingly desperate, but there has to be one h.e.l.l of a catch hidden away in it somewhere. Go on, boss, take the case. I'd love to hear what goes on in that place. They have all the best stories; I never miss an issue."

"The Unnatural Inquirer is a squalid, scabrous, tabloid disgrace," I said sternly. "And the truth is not in it."

"Who cares about truth, as long as they have all the latest gossip and embarra.s.sing celebrity photos? Oh please please please..."

I looked at Suzie. "Do you need me to...?"

"Go," she said. "I have to claim my bounty money."

She strode off, not looking back. Suzie's never been big on good-byes.

"All right," I said into the phone. "Give me the details."

"There aren't many. They want you to visit their editorial offices to discuss the matter."

"Why can't they come to my office?"

"Because you're never here. You have to come in soon, boss; I have a pile of paper-work that needs your signature."

"Go ahead and forge it for me," I said. "Like you did when you acquired those seven extra credit cards in my name."

"I said I was sorry!"

"Where do they want to meet?"

"They'll send someone to bring you to them. Employees of the Unnatural Inquirer don't like to be caught out in public. People throw things."

"Understandable," I said. "Where am I supposed to go, to be met?"

Cathy gave me directions to a particular street corner, in a not-too-sleazy area of the Nightside. I knew it: a busy place, with lots of people always pa.s.sing through. A casual meeting stood a good chance of going unnoticed, lost in the crowd. I said good-bye to Cathy and shut down the phone before she could nag me about the paper-work again. If I'd wanted to shuffle papers for a living, I'd have shot myself in the head repeatedly.

Didn't take me long to get to the corner of Cheyne Walk and Wine Street, and I lurked as un.o.btrusively as possible in front of a trepanation franchise-Let Some Light In, Inc. Personally, I've always felt I needed trepanation like a hole in the head. Still, it made more sense than smart drinks ever did. People and others came and went, carefully minding their own business. Some stood out; a knight in shining armour with a miniature dragon perched on his steel shoulder, hissing at the pa.s.sers-by; a fluorescent Muse, with Catherine-wheel eyes; and a sulky-looking Suicide Girl with a noose round her neck. But most were just people, familiar faces you wouldn't look twice at, come to the Nightside for the forbidden pleasures, secret knowledge, and terrible satisfactions they couldn't find anywhere else. The Nightside has always been something of a tourist trap.

I don't like standing around in the open. It makes me feel vulnerable, an easy target. When I have to do surveillance, I always take pains to do it from somewhere dark and shadowy. People were starting to recognise me. Most gave me plenty of room; some nudged each other and stared curiously. One couple asked if they could take my photo. I gave them a look, and they hurried away.

To keep myself occupied, I went over what I knew about the Unnatural Inquirer. I'd read the odd copy; everyone has. People do like gossip, in the way we always like things that are bad for us. The Nightside has its own newspaper of record; that's the Night Times. The Unnatural Inquirer, on the other hand, has never allowed itself to be inhibited by mere facts. For them, the story is everything.

All the news that can be made to fit.

The Unnatural Inquirer has been around, in various formats, for over a hundred years, despite increasingly violent attempts to shut it down. These days Editorial, Publishing, and Printing all operate out of a separate and very private pocket dimension, hidden away behind layer upon layer of seriously heavy-duty protections. You can get cursed down to the seventh generation just for trying to find it. The paper's defences are constantly being upgraded, because they have very powerful enemies. Partly because they print exaggerations, gossip, and outright lies about very important people, and partly because every now and again they tell the truth when no-one else will dare. The paper has no fear and shows no favour.

Only properly accredited staff can even approach the paper's offices. They're given special dimensional keys, bonded directly to the owner's soul, to prevent theft. The offices still get attacked on a daily basis. The paper prints details of every failed a.s.sault, just to rub it in. Despite everything the Unnatural Inquirer appears every day, full of things the rich and powerful would rather you didn't know about. There are no delivery trucks any more; they kept getting fire-bombed. New editions of the paper just appear out of nowhere, materialising right next to the news-stands all across the Nightside, direct from the printing presses. No-one ever interferes with the news-sellers; for fear of being lynched on the spot by the paper's fanatical audience.

And when you've finished reading the Unnatural Inquirer, just throw it away. It automatically disappears, returning to the printing presses to be recycled for the next edition. Even the Night Times can't match that. No-one has ever wrapped fish and chips in the Unnatural Inquirer.

On the other hand, the Night Times's reporters and staff are on the whole well-known, respected, and admired. The Unnatural Inquirer's people are often shot at on sight (especially the paparazzi), though if you survive long enough, you can end up as a (minor) celebrity. There's a high burn-out rate amongst the staff, but surprisingly there are always more, waiting in the wings to take their place. If you don't have it in you to be someone important or significant, or a celebrity, the next best thing is being someone who knows all about them and can crash all their parties.

"h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, John Taylor! Good to see you again, old thing! Still busy being infamous and enigmatic?"

I winced internally even as I turned to face the man who'd hailed me so cheerfully. I should have known who they'd send. Harry Fabulous was a fence and a fixer, and the best Go To man in the Nightside-for all those little and very expensive things that make life worth living. You want to smoke some prime Martian red weed, mainline some Hyde, or score someone else's childhood (innocence always goes down big in the Nightside), then Harry Fabulous is your man, always ready to take your last penny with a big smile and a hearty handshake.

Or at least he used to be. Apparently he'd had one of those life-changing experiences in the back room of a members-only club, and now he was more interested in doing Good Deeds. Before it was too late. There's nothing like a glimpse of h.e.l.l to jump-start a man's conscience.

Harry was dressed to kill, as always, looking slick and polished. He wore a long coat whose inside pockets were practically crammed with all sorts of things you might or might not want to spend too much money on. He had a long, thin face, a lean and hungry look, and dark, somewhat haunted, eyes. He smiled easily at me, a very practised smile, and I gave him something very similar in return.

We were both, after all, professionals.

"Didn't know you worked for the Unnatural Inquirer, Harry," I said.

"Oh, I'm just a stringer," he said vaguely. "I do get around, and I have been known to hear things, so...I've been sent to bring you to their main offices, old thing. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I had to be sure you hadn't been followed."

"Harry," I said. "Remember who you're talking to."

"Oh, quite! Yes, indeed! Just a formality, really."

He fished inside his long coat and produced a very ordinary-looking key. He glanced round briefly, turned to face me to cover his movements, and pushed the key into an invisible lock, apparently floating in mid air between us. The key disappeared even as Harry turned it, and just like that the world seemed to drop away under my feet. There was a brief sensation of falling, and we left the Nightside behind us.

We reappeared in a Reception office that looked just like any other Reception office. Luxurious enough to impress on you how important the operation was, but not comfortable enough to encourage you to stick around any longer than was absolutely necessary. A cool blonde Receptionist sat behind a desk behind a layer of bulletproof gla.s.s. Manning the phones, doing maintenance on her fingernails, and dealing with visitors when she absolutely had to. Harry went to take my arm to usher me into the waiting area. I looked at him, and he quickly withdrew the hand. You can't let people like Harry Fabulous get too chummy; they take advantage. I strolled forward, looking curiously about me, and all the bells in the world went off at once.

"It's all right! It's all right!" yelled Harry, waving his arms and practically jumping up and down on the spot. "It's just John Taylor! He's expected!"

The bells shut off, and the Receptionist reappeared from underneath her desk, glaring venomously at Harry. I looked at him.

"Security scan," he said quickly. "Purely routine. Nothing to worry about. It's supposed to detect dangerous objects, and people, and you...set off every alarm they have. I did warn them to dial down the settings while you were here...Would you like me to take your coat?"

"Wouldn't be wise," I said. "I haven't fed it recently."

Harry looked at me for some clue as to whether he was supposed to laugh, but I just looked right back at him. Harry swallowed hard, took a step back, and looked at the Receptionist.

"Contact Security, there's a dear, and tell them to make an exception for John Taylor."

"Make lots of them," I said. "I'm a very complicated person."

"I won't hang around," Harry decided. "I'm almost sure I'm urgently needed somewhere else."

He did the business with the key again and disappeared. That's Harry Fabulous for you. Always on the go.

The Receptionist and I looked at each other. Somehow I just knew we weren't going to get along. She was a small pet.i.te platinum blonde with sultry eyes, a mouth made for sin, and a general air of barely suppressed rage and violence. I didn't know whether that was a result of working here, or why they hired her in the first place. She was the first line of defence against anyone who turned up, and I had no doubt she had all kinds of interesting weapons and devices somewhere close at hand...I decided to be polite, for the moment, and gave her my best professional smile.

"My name is John Taylor. The Editor wants to see me."

She sniffed loudly and gave me a pitying smile. Her voice came clearly through the narrow grille in the bulletproof gla.s.s. "No-one ever sees the Editor. In fact, no-one's seen Mr. du Rois in the flesh for years. Safer that way. Your appointment will be with the Sub-Editor, Scoop Malloy."

"Scoop?" I said. "Was he one of your best reporters?"

"No; he used to work with animals. Take a seat."

I took a seat. I know when I'm outcla.s.sed. The long red leather couch was hard and unyielding. There was no-one else waiting in Reception. An a.s.sortment of old magazines were laid out on a low table. I leafed through them, but there was nothing particularly interesting. Which Religion's cover boasted the start of a new series: We road test ten new G.o.ds! The Nightside edition of Guns & Ammo had Suzie Shooter on the cover again. They think she adds a touch of glamour. What's on in the Nightside was the size of a telephone directory. It's cover boasted 101 Things You Need to Know About Members Only Clubs! Including How to Get In, and How to Get Out Alive Again. I quite like What's On; it's constantly updating itself as people and places change and disappear. Sometimes the page will rewrite itself even as you're reading it. They stopped having an index because it kept whimpering.

I gave up on the magazines, leaned back on the rock-hard sofa, and thought some more about what I knew about the Unnatural Inquirer's legendary Editor, Owner, and Publisher, g.a.y.l.o.r.d du Rois. Everyone was pretty sure that wasn't his real name, but it had been right there at the top of the masthead of every issue for years now, right from the days when the photos were grainy black and white, the type-face was tiny, and they printed the whole thing on toilet paper. g.a.y.l.o.r.d might be a man, or a woman, or a committee. Might even have been several people in a row. No-one knew for sure, and it wasn't for want of trying to find out. Certainly the aggressive tone of the paper hadn't changed in over a hundred years; it was just as blunt and brash and obnoxious now as it had always been.

I sat more or less patiently on the couch, idly considering the possibilities of redecorating the Reception area with a couple of incendiaries, while a handful of people drifted in and out. Reporters and office functionaries wandered past, caught up in their own business and paying no attention at all to me. Paparazzi teleported in just long enough to drop off their latest s.n.a.t.c.hed photos of celebrities doing things they shouldn't, and then disappeared again. There are cannibal demons on the Street of the G.o.ds less hated and despised than the Unnatural Inquirer's paparazzi. Suzie shoots at them on sight, but so far she's only managed to wing a couple. We stopped them hanging about our house by planting disguised man-traps. Nothing like the occasional scream of a wounded paparazzi in the early hours of the morning to help you sleep peacefully.

A few of the paparazzi looked at me thoughtfully but were careful not even to point their cameras in my direction. It's all in the reputation.

"You're sure the Sub-Editor knows I'm waiting?" I said to the Receptionist. "I was told this was urgent."

"He knows," she said. "Or maybe he doesn't. Embrace the possibilities!"

I walked over to her and gave her one of my best hard looks. "I'll bet this place would burn up nicely if I put my mind to it."

"Go ahead. See if I care. The only time this place gets a makeover is after a good fire. Sometimes they just scrub down the walls."

I gave up. "Distract me. Talk to me. Tell me things."

"What sort of things?"

"Well, how big is the paper's circulation these days?"

She shrugged. "Don't think anyone knows for sure. The print run's been rising steadily for thirty years now, and it was huge before that. Sales aren't limited to the Nightside, you know. It goes out to all kinds of other worlds and dimensions. Because everyone's interested in what's happening in the Nightside. We get letters from all over. We got one from Mars."

"Really? What did it say?"

"No-one knows. It was in Martian."

I decided I didn't want to talk to her any more. I sat down on the couch again and looked at the framed front pages on the walls, showcasing the paper's long history.

Elvis Really Is Dead! We Have Proof! Honeymoon Over; Giant Ape Admits Size Isn't Everything! Hitler Burns in h.e.l.l! Official! Orson Welles Was Really a Martian! We Have X-Rays! Our Greatest Ever Psychic Channels New Songs from Elvis, John Lennon, Marc Bolan, and Buddy Holly! All Available on a CD You Can Buy Exclusively from the Unnatural Inquirer!

Proof, if proof were needed, that not only is there one born every second, but that they grow up to read the tabloids.

Still, if nothing else, the Unnatural Inquirer had style. It got your attention. For want of anything better to do, I picked up a copy of the latest edition from the low table. The front-page headline was Tribute Four Hors.e.m.e.n of the Apocalypse to Tour Nightside! Over Their Dead Bodies, Says Walker! I leafed through the paper, grimacing as the cheap print came off on my fingers.

Apparently the Holy Order of Saint Strontium had been forcibly evicted from the Street of the G.o.ds after it was discovered that their Church had a radioactive half-life of two million years. "Bunch of p.u.s.s.ies," said Saint Strontium. He had a lot more to say, but none of the reporters present wanted to hang around long enough to find out what...There were some intriguing Before and After photos of Jacqueline Hyde, poor soul. Jacqueline and Hyde were in love, but doomed never to meet save for the most fleeting of moments...Another story insisted that the Moon really was made of green cheese, and that the big black monoliths were just oversized alien crackers...And right at the bottom of an inner page, in very small type: Old Ones Fail to Rise Yet Again.

Most of the rest of the pages were filled with excited puff pieces about various Nightside celebrities I either hadn't heard of, or didn't give a d.a.m.n about, including two whole pages given over to photos of young women getting out of limousines and taxis, just so the paparazzi could get a quick photo of their underwear, or lack of it. As far as the Unnatural Inquirer is concerned, taste is something you find in the restaurant guides.

I skipped through to the personal ads and announcements in the back pages; all human life is there, and a whole lot more besides.

Soul-swapping parties; just show up and throw your karma keys into the circle. Bodies for rent. s.e.x change while you wait. Go deep-sea diving in sunken R'lyeh; no noise-makers allowed. A whole bunch of pyramid schemes, some involving real pyramids. Remote viewing into the bedrooms and bathrooms of the rich and famous; highlights available on VHS or DVD. Time-share schemes, involving real time travel. (Though those tended to be stamped on pretty quick by Old Father Time, especially if they weren't cons.) And, of course, a million different drugs from thousands of dimensions; buyer very much beware. The paper felt obliged to add its own warning here; apparently some intelligent plant civilisations had been attempting to stealthily invade our world by selling their seeds and cuttings as drugs. Sort of a Trojan horse invasion...

And then, of course, there were the personal messages...La.s.sie come home, or the kid gets it. Boopsie loves Moopsie; Moopsie loves Boopsie? (Oh, I could see tears before bedtime in the offing there...) Dagon shall rise again! All donations welcome. Desperately Seeking Elvira...Mad scientist who digs up graves, steals the bodies, and sews the bits together to create a new living supercreature seeks similar...GSOH essential.

The Unnatural Inquirer has the only crossword puzzles that insult you if you take too long at guessing the clues-very cross word puzzles. And they had to cancel the kakuro because the numbers kept adding up to 666.

I dropped the paper back onto the table, went to wipe my inky fingers on my coat, and then realised that's not a good idea when you're wearing a white trench coat. I took out a handkerchief and rubbed briskly at my fingers. I hadn't realised how much I knew about the paper. The tabloid had insinuated itself into the Nightside so thoroughly that pretty much anything you saw or thought of reminded you of something that had appeared in the Unnatural Inquirer. For a while there was even a rumour going around that the Editor had a precog on staff, who could see just far enough into the future to view the next day's edition of the Night Times, so that the Unnatural Inquirer could run all their best stories in advance. I had trouble believing that. First, I knew the Editor of the Night Times, and he wouldn't sit still for something like that for one moment, and second, the Unnatural Inquirer had never been that interested in news stories anyway. Not when there's important gossip and t.i.ttle-tattle to spread.