Hex And The City Part 11

Walker sighed and put down his cup. It was delicate bone china, with a willow tree pattern. Armed men and women came running forward from every direction to surround the table, their guns trained unwaveringly on Pretty Poison. Some of them brandished amulets and crucifixes, and at least one had an aboriginal pointing-bone. Pretty Poison just looked at Walker and raised an eyebrow. Walker gestured tiredly to the armed men and women.

"Everyone stand down. It's all right. This person is known to me. Resume your positions. Good reaction times, everyone. Except you, Lovett. See me later."

The security people reluctantly lowered their weapons and retreated. People sitting at nearby tables began to relax again. Walker looked at the musicians, who consulted hastily among themselves, and began a piece by Bach. Walker looked at Pretty Poison. He wasn't smiling.

"h.e.l.lo, Sophia."

"h.e.l.lo, Henry. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"May I ask how you got in here, past all the Willow Tree's defences and my own personal protections?"

"Because of our past history, darling. We're linked together, now and forever."

"The past haunts us all," Walker said dryly. "Especially in the Nightside. I won't say it's a pleasure to see you again, because it isn't."

Pretty Poison pouted fetchingly. "How very ungallant. Aren't you at least going to ask me to sit down?"

Walker sighed again and indicated the empty chair opposite him with a non-committal hand. His face was calm and composed as always, but I knew that behind his usual world-weary facade he had to be thinking furiously. Walker was never caught off guard for long. Pretty Poison sat down gracefully, put her hands on the table so Walker could keep an eye on them, and beamed at him.

"I'd absolutely adore a cup of tea, darling."

Walker checked the ornate china teapot before him, found it was practically empty, and gestured for a waitress. The waitresses looked at each other, there was a brief but silent communication of raised eyebrows and shaken heads, then the most recently employed was forced forward by peer pressure. She tottered up to the table, smiling gamely, and Walker ordered a fresh pot of tea and another cup.

"Anything else?" quavered the waitress. "Fairy cakes? Fresh cream? Can I take your coat?"

"Go away," said Pretty Poison. "Or I'll burn you alive from the inside out."

The waitress departed, running, to have hysterics at a safe distance. Walker looked reproachfully at Pretty Poison.

"You haven't changed a bit, Sophia. It'll take more than a generous gratuity to smooth that over. I'll be lucky if I'm not banned."

"But I thought you ran things in the Nightside these days, Henry."

"There are limits. Do try and behave in a civilised manner. I have my reputation to consider."

A different waitress arrived and set out a new tea service. She pushed the second cup in Pretty Poison's general direction, without looking at her, then fled. Walker poured Pretty Poison a cup of hot, steaming tea, adding a dash of milk and one sugar without having to be asked. Pretty Poison clapped her hands together delightedly.

"You remembered! You always were good about the little things, Henry." She looked at him critically. "You look older, dear. Distinguished."

"You look just like I remember you," said Walker. "But then you would, wouldn't you? Being what you are."

"What do you see, when you look at me?" said Pretty Poison, sipping carefully at her tea with her little finger carefully extended. "I look different to everyone, so I never know."

"Let's just say I was perhaps a little too fond of Marianne Faithful in my younger days, and leave it at that." Walker gave her a hard look. "What did you mean, when you said we were still linked? Our ... arrangement was over years ago. And I'm supposed to be protected from ... unexpected visitors."

Pretty Poison shrugged. "When I was given to you, all those years ago, it created a connection between us, so that you could summon me at will. That connection cannot be broken by anything except your death or my destruction. That's the rule. A succubus isn't just for Christmas, she's for life. Dallying with such as me is a mortal sin, after all. Still, it is nice to see you again, Henry. I must say you're taking this very well. I half expected you to shout and throw things. Or call for an exorcist."

"I don't get excited any more," said Walker. "It's bad for the image. What are you doing here, Sophia?"

She looked away from him, leaning back in her chair to contemplate the tea room. The musicians played, the waitresses came and went, and people at other tables enjoyed their tea and exchanged polite conversation. Absolutely no-one was showing any interest in Walker's table. Pretty Poison looked back at Walker, nodding happily.

"I always liked this place. So calm and civilised, and everyone minding their own business. I'm glad it's still here. It hasn't changed at all, but then I suppose the charm of such places is that they don't. And the tea is very good. Maybe I should have asked for some fairy cakes after all."

"The Willow Tree has never really been fas.h.i.+onable," said Walker. "But I like it."

"Because it used to be one of our special places?"

"In spite of that."

Pretty Poison gave him a hard look. "Now don't spoil it, Henry. We're having a perfectly nice conversation. I shall change the subject." She indicated the crystal ball sitting on the table at Walker's left hand. Mists curled inside it. "Keeping touch with all your people in the field, I see. I didn't know people still used those any more: but then, you always were a traditionalist."

"I do tend to prefer things that have stood the test of time," said Walker. "The new is never to be trusted, until it has proven itself."

"You weren't always so stuffy," said Pretty Poison. "Remember our other special place?"

"Oh please," said Walker. "Not that opium den ..."

"The Purple Haze," Pretty Poison said gleefully. "The in place for way out people, back in the sixties. Best dope in the Nightside, with free scatter cus.h.i.+ons and psychedelic light shows thrown in. The very best place to listen to the latest sounds and get stoned on imaginary drugs like taduki and tanna leaves. Oh, we spent many a lost weekend there, didn't we darling; spiralling out into the infinite ... You really were a lot looser in those days, Henry. Is the Purple Haze still around?"

"Fortunately, no. It's currently a health spa and gymnasium, called Health Freaks. The sort of place where corporate young men go to crunch their abs on their lunch-hour, going for the burn and flexing their way towards their first heart attack."

"Such a pity," said Pretty Poison. "I wonder if a trace of the old place still lingers in the air-ducts? In the old days you could get a contact high just from saying the name of the place aloud."

"I haven't thought about the Purple Haze in years," said Walker. "But then, there's a lot of things in my past I prefer not to remember."

"Don't look at me like that, Henry. Aren't you glad to see me again?"

"No."

"But we had such good times together!"

"You were a succubus. Can you honestly say it meant anything to you? I look at you now, and I have ... conflicting emotions."

"I made you happy."

"You were given to me, as a bribe."

"As a gift," said Pretty Poison. "A succubus, to indulge your every pleasure, your every fantasy. A reward from the Authorities, for work well-done on their behalf. I made you laugh, and cry out in the night, and you never slept as peacefully as you did in my arms."

"Beware the Authorities, bearing gifts," said Walker. His face was still calm, but there was a sharpness in his voice. "You were bait, to draw me in and tie me closer to them. Their usual practice--to ensure their people became used to, even addicted to, the kinds of extreme pleasures only the Authorities and the Nightside could provide. I should have known, even then, that such attractive bait was bound to have a hook concealed in it somewhere."

"If I seemed to adore you, in our time together, then I was just doing my job," said Pretty Poison. "It wasn't supposed to be real, or taken for real; any more than any other transaction with a s.e.x professional. I thought you understood that. I was yours, to do whatever you wished with, yes; but only for the duration of the contract. You can't say I wasn't entirely truthful, when I was first presented to you."

"I know," said Walker. "But I was still devastated when you left. I thought I'd come to matter to you, but you walked out on me without a single backward glance."

"Well of course, darling. That was my job. Corrupting mortals and tempting them into sin. I couldn't take your soul, that was forbidden me by the Authorities: but I was supposed to reduce you to such a state that you'd do anything to have me back again."

"I did everything to try and persuade you to stay. I would have done anything for you."

"That's all very flattering, but I had another contract. I was only ever there for s.e.x. You were the one who insisted on bringing love into it."

"I was young," said Walker. "It's a common misunderstanding, at that age. But I shouldn't have threatened you."

"No, dear, you shouldn't. I was forced to show you something of my true nature. What I really am."

Walker nodded slowly. "Just the glimpse of what I saw gave me nightmares for months. That I had been intimate with such a thing... I scrubbed my skin raw, till it bled ... And you cut me a good one with a claw, before you left. I still have the scar."

Pretty Poison grinned suddenly. "Want me to kiss it better?"

"I'd rather you didn't." Walker leaned back in his chair and studied her thoughtfully. "I was shocked, horrified, at what I'd actually been sleeping with. I let you go, and did my best never to think about you again. I suppose ... you were what first turned me against the attractions and seductions of the Nightside. The bright neon lies and the dirty little secret pleasures. You opened my eyes to what a moral cesspit this place is, and the duplicity of those in charge. The Authorities don't care about anything except the money, power, and influence the Nightside provides them. And to h.e.l.l with the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds that get ground underfoot here every day. I decided I had to be ... better than that."

"And now you run things here?"

"Only to keep anyone else from doing it. I can't trust anyone else not to be seduced by the temptations on offer. Someone has to keep a clear head and see this place for what it really is. Someone has to keep the animals in their cages. You made me understand just how ... corrupting the Nightside is."

"And that's why you, and the others, performed the Ba-balon Working?"

"Yes." Walker sipped at his tea, taking his time to make it clear he was changing the subject. "Once again-what are you doing here, Sophia? I wasn't aware demons from h.e.l.l got nostalgic over their old victims. Or have the Authorities given you to someone else, someone I should know about?"

"No," said Pretty Poison. "I'm with Sinner now."

Walker put down his cup and raised an eyebrow. "You're that succubus? Well... I'm impressed. Really. So you're the demon currently working with John Taylor. You do have a taste for powerful men, don't you?"

"I'm with Sinner now," Pretty Poison said patiently. "And only Sinner. Officially, I was sent up out of h.e.l.l to corrupt him, break his heart, and blacken his soul, so that the Pit can claim him again. Actually, I volunteered for this mission, to try and understand a love that could survive even in h.e.l.l. How anyone could honestly love a Fallen thing like me."

"You expect me to believe that?" said Walker. "I know better than anyone that love means nothing to you."

"That was then," said Pretty Poison. "Much has changed since then. After all this time with my Sidney, I'm still just starting to understand how he feels about me. And just possibly, I'm starting to understand what you felt for me, back then. And how badly I hurt you."

"I'm married," said Walker. "Very happily married. Almost twenty-three years now."

"I'm glad. What's her name?"

"Sheila. We have two boys. Keith is at Oxford, Robert is in the military. Good boys, both of them. I had them raised outside the Nightside. They know nothing about what I really do for a living."

"I'm glad, Henry. Really."

"So, this Sinner." Walker's voice was entirely casual. It would have fooled anyone else. "He really loves you?"

"Yes. A legendary love, even in h.e.l.l."

"I loved you."

"He loved me even after he saw my true nature. What I really am. My dear Sidney.. .I'm sorry I hurt you, Henry."

Walker drank his tea. "Demons lie. That's their true nature."

"Even demons can change."

Walker looked at her coldly. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I believe it," said Pretty Poison. "I have to."

They sat together for a while, drinking their tea, saying nothing, surrounded by civilised sounds.

"I know you've got people blocking the Gate to the Lord of Thorns' domain," Pretty Poison said abruptly. "And more people blocking other entrances. Under orders from the Authorities, I take it?"

"Of course," said Walker. "But if you can get out to visit me here, I have to a.s.sume the others can, too. I'd better talk to my security people, arrange to have the containing wards strengthened. Maybe call in some more specialists. Is that why you've come here to see me? To beg for my help?"

"All the wards and specialists in the Nightside won't stop us, darling," Pretty Poison said calmly. "The Lord of Thorns is on our side."

Walker actually blinked a few times. "How the h.e.l.l did you manage that? I didn't think anyone escaped his judgement."

"He believes in us," said Pretty Poison. "And most especially, he believes in John Taylor. Talk to me about the Authorities, Henry."

"Why?"

"Because. Indulge me."

Walker shrugged. "If it'll get you out of here any quicker... There's no big mystery about the Authorities, really. They're just who everyone thinks they are; the city Names, the old, established business families who've gained so much wealth, power, and influence from centuries of investment in the Nightside. The people in and behind the Londinium Club, who avoid celebrity and open displays of wealth and power, but pull the strings of those who do. The men behind the scenes, who will do or authorise anything at all, to maintain the status quo that has always benefited them. And I work for them because all the other alternatives are worse. I have investigated other options, down the years, but most people just didn't want to know. The thought of so much responsibility scared the s.h.i.+t out of them. And the few who were interested turned out to want it for all the wrong reasons. So I turned them in to the Authorities. I'm in charge, inasmuch as anyone is, because I alone have no interest in the temptations and seductions of the Nightside. I know better. I know this place for what it really is."

"And what is that?" said Pretty Poison.

"A freak show. A city of ill repute. All of Humanity's bad ideas in one place. Which is why the Authorities are the best people to run it. Because they only care about the money it brings them. They might play here, on occasion, indulge pa.s.sions that would not be allowed in the world outside, but at the end of the day they all go home and leave the Nightside behind them. Just like me."

"And you don't play at all. The only honest man in the Nightside. Or at least, the only moral man. And ... perhaps the most scared. Why are you so afraid of the Nightside, Henry?"

Walker did her the courtesy of considering the question for a moment. "Because ... there's always the chance that someday all the evils and temptations and corruption will break through the Nightside's boundaries and rush out to seduce the whole world."

"Would that really be such a bad thing?" said Pretty Poison. "If everyone knew the truth about how things really operate? If they could all finally see the big picture? If they could see and talk with Powers and Dominations, the Beings and Forces that move behind the scenes of the world ... if they knew the score, it might change things for the better."

"No," said Walker. "Things are bad enough in the seemingly sane, cause and-effect world. If all the fanatics and terrorists, or even the simply ambitious and well-meaning, knew what their options really were, they'd tear the world apart fighting over it."

"You weren't always like this," said Pretty Poison. "So . .. cynical."

And as she and Walker continued to talk in the Willow Tree tea room, she worked a change in the vision the rest of us were watching, to show us the Past.

Information came subtly to us, along with the new sights, seeping painlessly into our thoughts. We all knew at once that the year was 1967, and that the three young men walking down the Nightside street together, talking and laughing and shoving at each other in sheer good spirits, were Henry Walker and Charles Taylor and Mark Robinson. I recognised Walker first, because his face hadn't changed that much, but his clothes actually startled me. It seemed that back in his younger days, Henry Walker had been a h.e.l.l of a dandy and a dedicated follower of fas.h.i.+on. He strode along like a slender peac.o.c.k, outfitted in dazzlingly bright colours, the best the King's Road had to offer, complete with narrow oblong sungla.s.ses and a great mane of wavy dark hair. He looked like a young G.o.d, too perfect for this material world.

Mark Robinson, who would one day know both fame and infamy as the Collector, was also easy to spot, if only because he was clearly an Elvis fanatic even then. He had that whole young Elvis thing down pat, even to the greasy black quiff and the practised curl of the upper lip. His black leather jacket had far too many zips and chains, and rattled loudly as he walked. He was never still, packed full of nervous energy, and was always that little bit ahead or behind the other two, talking sixteen to the dozen and bouncing up and down on his feet. His laughter came free and easy, from sheer joi de vivre. He had plans and ambitions, and thought he had his whole future mapped out.

It took me rather longer to recognise Charles Taylor. My father. I had no photos of him. He threw everything out, or burned it, after my mother left. In the vision, he was younger than I was, and he didn't look much like me. He didn't look at all like I expected. Unlike his colourful friends, he wore a smart dark three-piece suit and a tie, short-haired and clean-shaven. He could have been just another anonymous executive, toiling in the big city. But what surprised me most of all was how free and easy he looked, how happy in the company of his friends. That was why I had so much trouble recognising him. Because I'd never seen my father happy before.

It was 1967, a time of change in the Nightside, just like everywhere else. They were three young men on the way up, men with great futures before them. They were going to change the world.

They finally entered that most fas.h.i.+onable meeting place, the Hawk's Wind Bar & Grill. I'd never seen the original place. It burned down (some said self-immolation) in 1970, and now existed as a ghost of itself. A haunted building, with real people as its customers. In the vision it looked much the same, though. A glorious monument to the psychedelic glories of the sixties, complete with rococo Day-Glo neon and Pop-Art posters with colours so bright they practically mugged the eyeb.a.l.l.s. Even at a distance, I thought I could still smell the usual aroma of coffee, joss sticks, dodgy cigarettes, and patchouli oil. The Go-Go checked jukebox played all the latest sounds, and the Formica-covered tables were surrounded by all the familiar faces of the period, from the enigmatic Orlando to the Travelling Doctor and his latest companions. Walker and Robinson and Taylor smiled and waved easily to one and all as they entered, but no-one paid them much attention. They weren't important people, then, these three. The man who would run the Nightside, the man who would collect it, and the man who would d.a.m.n it.

Henry, Mark, and Charles commandeered the last remaining table in the far corner, ordered various kinds of coffee from the gum-chewing, white-plastic-clad waitress, then poured over the latest issue of OZ magazine, the special Nightside issue. Charles had just picked up his copy, and Mark grabbed it from him, to check if they'd printed his letter about Elvis being the real shooter of JFK. Walker had already read the issue, of course. He was always the first at everything.