The Unnatural Inquirer Part 8

"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 p.i.s.sed-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

Back 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 G.o.d of the Straight Razor, but Eddie's never been very interested in religion. In fact, he's pretty much the only G.o.d all the other Beings on the Street of the G.o.ds 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!"

"d.a.m.n," 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 ident.i.ty 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 d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.s," 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?"

"d.a.m.n 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.

Bettie breezed through the door like a visiting princess, and I wandered in after her. The interior turned out to be equally old-fashioned, with sawdust on the floor, horse bra.s.ses over the bar, and a low ceiling with exposed beams. A dozen different beers on tap, with distressingly twee olde-worlde names, like Langford's Exceedingly Old Speckled Hen. Taste that alb.u.men! A chalked sign offered traditional pub grub-chips with everything. And not a modern appliance anywhere in sight, including, thankfully, a juke-box. There was a deafening roar of chatter from the mob of shabby and shifty characters crowded round the tables and filling the booths, and the atmosphere was hot, sweaty, and smoky. There was so much nicotine in the air you could practically chew it. A great clamour of greeting went up as Bettie was recognised, only to die quickly away to a strained silence as they recognised me. Bettie smiled sweetly around her.

"It's all right," she said. "He's with me."

The reporters immediately turned their backs on us and resumed their conversations as though nothing had happened. One of their own had vouched for me, and that was all it took. Bettie headed for the crowded bar, and I moved quickly after her. She smiled and waved and shouted the odd cheery greeting at those around her, and everyone smiled and waved and shouted back. Clearly, Bettie was a very popular girl. At the bar, I asked her what she was drinking, and she batted her heavy eye-lashes and asked for a h.o.r.n.y Red Devil. Which turned out to be gin, vodka, and Worcester sauce, with a wormwood-and-brimstone chaser. To each their own. At least it didn't come with a little umbrella in it. I ordered a c.o.ke. A real c.o.ke, and none of that diet nonsense. Bettie looked at me.

"Never when I'm working," I said solemnly.

"Really? It's the other way round with me, darling. I couldn't face this job sober." She smiled happily. "I notice the bartender didn't ask you to pay for these drinks. Don't you ever pay for anything?"

"I pay my way at Strangefellows," I said. "The owner is a friend."

"Ooh; Strangefellows, sweetie! Yes, I've heard about that place! There are all kinds of stories about what goes on in Strangefellows!"

"And most of them are true. It is the oldest pub in the world, after all."

"Will you take me there after we've finished with this a.s.signment? I'd love to go dancing at Strangefellows. We could relax and get squiffy together. I might even show you my tail."

"We'll probably end up there, at some point," I said. "Most of my cases take me there, eventually."

The bartender slammed our drinks down on the highly polished wooden bar top, then backed away quickly. I didn't care for the man, and I think he could tell. He was one of those stout jolly types, with a red face and a ready smile, always there to make cheerful conversation when all you want is to drink in peace. Probably referred to himself as Mine Host. I gave him a meaningful look, and he retreated to the other end of the bar to polish some gla.s.ses that didn't need polishing.

"Can't take you anywhere," said Bettie.

Behind the bar hung a giveaway calendar supplied by the Unnatural Inquirer, with a large photo featuring the charms of a very well-developed young lady whose clothes had apparently fallen off. At the bottom of the page was the paper's current slogan: ARE YOU GETTING IT REGULARLY? Some rather shrunken-looking meat pies were on display in a gla.s.s case, but one look was all it took to convince me I would rather tear my tongue out. A stuffed-and-mounted fox head winked at me, and I snarled back. Animals should know their place. Not a lot further down the bar, an old-fashioned manual typewriter was being operated by the invisible hands of a real ghost writer. I'd met it once before, at the Night Times offices, and was tempted to make a remark about spirits not being served here, but rose above it. I leaned over towards the typewriter, and the clacking keys paused.

"Any recent news on the whereabouts of the Afterlife Recording?"

Words quickly formed on the page, reading Future's cloudy. Ask again later.

I persuaded Bettie to hurry her drink, politely evaded her attempts to chat, bond, or get personal, and finally we moved away from the bar to mingle with the a.s.sembled reporters. With Bettie as my native guide, we pa.s.sed easily from group to group, with me doing my best to be courteous and charming. I needn't have bothered. The reporters only had eyes for Bettie, who was in full flirt mode-all squeaky voice, fluttering lashes, and a bit of laying on of hands where necessary. Bettie was currently wearing a smart white blouse with half the b.u.t.tons undone, over a simple black skirt, fish-net stockings, and high heels. Her horns showed clearly on her forehead, perhaps because she felt safe and at home here.

All the journalists seemed quite willing to talk about the Afterlife Recording; they'd all heard something, or swore they had. No-one wanted to appear out of the loop or left behind in company like this. Unfortunately, most of what they had to tell us turned out to be vague, misleading, or contradictory. Pen Donavon had been seen here, there, and everywhere, and already all sorts of people were offering copies of the DVD for sale. Only to be expected in the Nightside, where people have been known to rip off a new idea while it was still forming in the originator's mind. Rumours were already circulating that some people had managed to view what was on the DVD and had immediately Raptured right out of their clothes. Though whether Up or Down remained unconfirmed.

Bettie stopped at a table, and greeted one particular reporter with particular cold venom, along with a stare that would have poisoned a rattlesnake at forty paces. He seemed bright and cheerful enough, in an irredeemably seedy sort of way. He wore a good suit badly, and had a diamond tie-pin big enough to be cla.s.sed as an offensive weapon.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" I said innocently to Bettie.

She sniffed loudly. "John, darling, this particular gusset stain is Rick Aday, reporter for the Night Times."

"Investigative reporter," he corrected her easily, flashing perfect but somewhat yellow teeth in a big smile. He put out a hand for me to shake. I looked at it, and he took it back again. "You must have seen my by-line, Mr. Taylor, I've written lots of stories about you: Rick Aday; Trouble Is My Middle Name."

"No it isn't," Bettie said briskly. "It's Cedric."

Aday shot her a venomous glare. "Better than yours, Delilah."

"Lick my scabs!"

"They used to date," another of the reporters confided quietly to me. I nodded. I'd already guessed that.

"I've been hot on the trail of the Afterlife Recording for some time now," Aday said loftily. "Pursuing several quite credible leads, actually. Just waiting for a phone call from one of my extremely clued-in informants, then I'll be off to make Mr. Donavon a generous offer for his DVD."

"You can't!" Bettie snapped immediately. "My paper has a legitimate contract with Pen Donavon, granting us exclusive rights to his material!"

Aday just grinned at her. "Finders keepers, losers read about it in the Night Times."

"I suppose all's fair in love and publishing," I said, and Bettie actually hissed at me.

I moved away, to allow Bettie and her old flame to exchange harsh words in private. I'd noticed that the nearby wall boasted a whole series of framed cartoons and caricatures of noted Nightside personalities. Good likenesses, if often harsh, exaggerated, and downright cruel. They were all signed with a name I recognised. Bozie's work was well-known in the Nightside, appearing in all the best papers and magazines. He excelled at bringing out a subject's worst attributes and qualities, making them seem monstrous and laughable at the same time. Those depicted usually gritted their teeth and smiled as best they could, because you weren't anybody in the Nightside unless you'd been caricatured by Bozie.

There were rumours that Bozie had been known to accept quite large sums of money to kill a particular creation of his before the public got to see it. No-one mentioned blackmail, of course. Thus are reputations made in the Nightside.

I've never approved of needless cruelty. You should save it for when it's really necessary.

I moved slowly along the wall, checking out the various pen-and-ink creations in their softwood frames. All the usual suspects were there. Walker, of course, looking very sinister with more than a hint of in-breeding. Julien Advent, impossibly n.o.ble, complete with halo and stigmata. The Sonic a.s.sa.s.sin, in his sixties greatcoat, gnawing on a human thigh-bone while making a rude gesture at the viewer. And...Shotgun Suzie. My Suzie. I stopped before the caricature and studied it impa.s.sively. Bozie had made her look like a monster. All fetishy black leathers and unfeasibly big b.r.e.a.s.t.s, with a face like an axe murderer. He'd exaggerated every detail of her looks to make her seem ugly and crazy. This wasn't just a caricature; it was an a.s.sault on her character. It was an insult.

"Like it?" said a lazy voice at my side. I looked round, and there was the artist himself-the famous or more properly infamous Bozie. A tall, gangling sort, in scruffy blue jeans and a T-shirt bearing an idealised image of his own face. He had long, floppy hair, dark, intense eyes, and an openly mocking smile. He gestured languidly at Suzie's caricature. "It is for sale, you know. If you want it?"

I had a feeling I knew how this was going to play out, but I went along with it. "All right," I said. "How much?"

"Oh, for you...Let's say a round hundred thousand pounds." He giggled suddenly. "A bargain at the price. Or you can leave it here, for all the world to see. Who knows how many papers and magazines might want to run it?"