"I will go with you," said Chandra Singh. "I need to talk to this Walking Man. What kind of a man is he? What kind of man can go into places like this and kill everyone he finds? What must that do to a man, to his state of mind? To his soul?"

"He wants us to know," I said. "That's why he showed us everything. He's teaching us to see the world as he does. Black and white, right and wrong, and no shades of grey. A world where the guilty will be punished."

"He still has to be stopped," said Walker. "All cats are grey in the Nightside. And not all of them deserve to be judged so harshly."

"Are there other places like this, in the Nightside?" I asked him. "Did you know about this place?"

"No," said Walker. "But I can't say it surprises me. The Nightside exists to serve sinners. All kinds of sin. There are places worse than this, and if you keep following the Walking Man . . . I've no doubt he'll show you just how dark the night can get."

FIVE.

Bad Boys and Wayward Girls

Walker's Portable Timeslip delivered Chandra Singh and me right into the middle of Clubland, and we took a moment to lean on each other while our heads and stomachs settled. Pa.s.sing through that unnatural darkness was getting worse. The latest one had felt like being trapped in a plummeting lift, while it was on fire, and something really bad was gnawing its way through the lift floor to get at me. Only more so.

"That . . . was most unpleasant," Chandra said finally.

"Yeah," I said. "And Walker's been doing that every day for years. Explains a lot about the man."

I led the way through the relatively sophisticated streets of Clubland (where you could still get mugged but at least the fellow would have the decency to wear a dinner jacket) and headed for the Boys Club. Chandra was inexperienced in the ways of the Nightside, so it fell to me to explain to him just what kind of a place the Boys Club was. Basically, it was a particularly nasty and wholly corrupt establishment where all the Nightside's most pre-eminent gangsters, crime lords, Mr. Bigs, and general sc.u.mbags went to be with their own kind. To spend their money ostentatiously, practise very basic one-upmanship, usually involving guns, and boast of their latest successes and ill-gotten gains. Taste, restraint, and charm are notable by their absence, at the Boys Club.

"The law knows of this place, and does nothing?" said Chandra.

"This is the Nightside," I said patiently. "There is no law here, and less justice, unless you make some for yourself. Walker and his people only ever step in when things are really getting out of hand, and then only to restore the status quo. This is a place where people come to do the things they're not supposed to, and pursue the pleasures they're not supposed to want. Forbidden knowledge, forsaken G.o.ds, and all the fouler kinds of s.e.x. And where there's business, you can be sure there's always someone taking a cut. By force if need be."

"And these...people belong to the Boys Club," said Chandra.

"The nastiest, vilest, and most unpleasant representatives of their kind," I said.

Chandra Singh considered this. "Why not just kick in the door and toss in half a dozen incendiaries?" He smiled briefly. "Being a monster hunter teaches you to be practical, above all else."

"You could kill everyone in there," I said. "And most of us have thought about it, at one time or another, but they'd all be replaced within the hour. There's never any shortage of people on the way up, eager for a chance to prove they can be even nastier and more unpleasant than the sc.u.mbags they're replacing."

Chandra looked at me seriously. "Why do you stay in this terrible place, John Taylor? I have heard stories about you . . . but you do not seem such a bad man. What keeps you in the Nightside?"

"Because I belong here," I said. "With all the other monsters."

I increased my pace. Part of me was worried that we'd get there too late and find another ma.s.sacre. And part of me wondered if that might be such a bad thing . . . But not everyone in the Boys Club deserved to die. Just most of them.

The Club finally loomed up before us, flashy, gaudy, and weighed down with a really over-the-top Technicolor neon sign. Nothing to indicate what the Club was for, of course; either you already knew, or you had no business being there. Membership was strictly by invitation only, an acknowledgment by your peers that you'd made it, that you were finally big enough and important enough to be one of the Boys.

And there, waiting outside the front door for us, was the Walking Man. He was leaning casually against a lamp-post in his long duster, with his hands in his pockets, smiling easily, one foot planted on the neck of the Club's unconscious Doorman. Chandra and I came to a halt, maintaining a respectful distance. The Doorman was big enough to be part troll, but there he was lying facedown in the gutter, without an obvious wound on him. The Walking Man nodded to us, then we all stood there for a while, taking the measure of each other.

The Walking Man looked just as I remembered him to, but in person there was so much . . . more to him. He had an air, a presence, an almost overwhelming intensity to him, as though he was the only real man in a world of fakes and posers. His eyes were bright and merry, his smile was full of mischief and bravado, and everything about him exuded an almost spiritual insolence. I am here to do absolutely appalling things in the name of the Good, his stance positively shouted. And what are you going to do about it? And what are you going to do about it? He had the look of a man who would do anything he felt like doing, and do it with a laugh on his lips and a song in his heart. This was no sombre driven warrior of G.o.d come to do his duty, no cold and dour executioner. This man enjoyed what he did. He had the look of a man who would do anything he felt like doing, and do it with a laugh on his lips and a song in his heart. This was no sombre driven warrior of G.o.d come to do his duty, no cold and dour executioner. This man enjoyed what he did.

Dead men and women, and dogs. And children in cages.

"John Taylor," the Walking Man said finally, in a happy, cheerful voice. "Thought you'd be taller."

"I get that a lot," I said.

"Who's your friend?"

"I am Chandra Singh, monster hunter!" Chandra said proudly.

"Good for you," said the Walking Man.

Chandra bristled just a bit, as he realised his name and cherished reputation meant nothing to the Walking Man. He drew himself up to his full height, the better to show off his magnificent Raj silks and the diamond flashing in his turban.

"I, too, am a holy warrior," he said hotly. "I also do G.o.d's work, striking down those who would threaten the innocent!"

"How nice," said the Walking Man. "Try not to get in the way."

Chandra suddenly realised he was being teased and gave a great bark of laughter.

I was concentrating on the Walking Man's face. There was something of the impish, the almost devilish, about his mocking gaze and easy smile. He wasn't at all what I'd expected. He was far more complicated, and therefore far more dangerous.

"I can't just let you walk in there and kill everyone," I said bluntly. "This isn't like Precious Memories, where everyone was guilty. There are bad people in the Boys Club, but not everyone is bad enough to be worth killing."

"That's my decision to make, not yours," said the Walking Man. "This is what I do. You're just along for the ride."

"I know the Nightside better than you ever will," I said.

"You're too close," the Walking Man said kindly. "You can't see it clearly any more. You need me, to do what you've never been able to do."

"I'll stop you if I have to," I said.

He flashed me a bright smile and shot me a merry look, one professional to another. "You're welcome to try. Now, let the fun begin!"

We just walked in. The Doorman was currently making low, sad moaning sounds in the gutter, clearly in no shape to ask to see our Membership cards. The door swung open by itself. (At least the Walking Man hadn't killed the Doorman outright. I told myself there was hope in that.) There were, however, a number of large and very competent-looking security guards waiting for us in the lobby, their muscular forms all but spilling out of their expensive suits. The Walking Man sauntered in like he owned the place, nodding briskly to the security guards. They nodded back, responding instinctively to his arrogant authority, before catching themselves and moving quickly forward to block our way. The Walking Man stopped, and looked them over, his smile openly mocking.

I looked around the lobby. They'd redecorated the place since I was last there, but it was still big and flashy and overstated, like most of the Club Members. Chandra and I moved in on either side of the Walking Man, and several of the security men got a bit twitchy when they recognised me. It was because of my last visit that they'd had to redecorate the lobby. But still, they were just thugs with guns, for all their nice suits, and I'd spent my whole life running rings round goons like them.

The most senior thug took a step forward, fixing me with his best intimidating stare. "You know you're not allowed in here, Mr. Taylor. You upset the nice gentlemen and their ladies. You are banned. And that goes for your friends as well, whoever they are."

"I am Chandra Singh, holy warrior and mighty monster hunter!" said Chandra, getting a little peeved at his lack of fame in the Nightside. "I have got to get myself a better agent . . ."

"And I am the Walking Man," said the Walking Man cheerfully. "Come to judge your souls."

The security men went very pale. Several started perspiring, several more began shaking, and one actually whimpered. All their attention was on the Walking Man. Chandra and I might as well have not been there. It would seem what had happened at Precious Memories had already reached the Boys Club. Nothing travels faster than bad news, especially in the Nightside. The thug in charge swallowed audibly.

"I think we'd all like to run away now, sir, if that's all right with you."

"Go," said the Walking Man, gesturing grandly. "I can always find you later if I need you."

The body-guards departed, but they didn't just leave-they ran as if Death herself was on their trail, actually fighting each other to get through the door first. I'd never had that effect on people, on the best night I ever had. I felt distinctly jealous.

"Doesn't the lobby seem so much bigger, without them in it?" said the Walking Man. "Shall we go in?"

"Why not?" I said. "I think you've done all the damage you can here."

He laughed.

I opened the doors into the main Club area, and the Walking Man swaggered through with his hands still stuffed deep in his coat pockets. He couldn't have looked more at ease if he'd been walking into his own front room. Chandra and I took up our positions on each side of him again. Though whether to support or restrain him, I hadn't actually decided.

Entering the Club's huge recreation area was like walking into the world's sleaziest circus, all bright lights and glaring primary colours, with all kinds of beasts on display. People sat at tables, or milled around in the open central area, or propped up the ma.s.sive bar. Music blasted out of concealed speakers, almost drowned out by the sheer din of so many people shouting and laughing at once, doing their best to convince themselves and everyone around them that they were having a great time. There was a lot of looking around, to see what everyone else was doing, in case it looked like more fun, and a constant checking of who was with whom.

There were gambling tables-cards, c.r.a.ps, roulette-as well as display boards giving the odds for every kind of bet, on anyone and anything. And there were other games, not so nice. Like the great pit in one corner, for bare-knuckle fights, knife fights, or drunks who thought they could take on creatures of varying size and nastiness. The betting action was really hot around the pit, whose sides were dark with layers of dried blood. Expensively dressed women clutched at men's arms, and oohed and aahed and squealed delightedly at the sight of blood. Men struck poses in expensive suits, and women stalked back and forth in the very latest fashions, all of it for show. To say Look at me. I've arrived. I belong here. Look at me. I've arrived. I belong here. Except they wouldn't have needed to try so hard if they'd really believed it. Except they wouldn't have needed to try so hard if they'd really believed it.

Sitting at their tables, the Boys watched the circus go by with the blank, expressionless faces of those who'd seen it all before. The Boys: Big Man, Mr. Big, the Big Guy . . . the men who ran everything, owned everything, and cared for nothing but themselves. You could all but smell the testosterone in the air. They were all big, fat, ugly men, crammed sloppily into exquisitely cut suits. Men who didn't care about their appearance any more because they didn't have to. Women were drawn to them by money, power, status, and even the harsh glamour of what they were. There have always been such women, sometimes coming completely cold-bloodedly, sometimes drawn like moths to a flame.

The women came and went, but the Boys remained. Accompanied by women in wine-stained blouses and smeared makeup, laughing at everything they thought might be funny, clinging to their meal ticket's arm, snuggling up against them, kidding themselves they were important because their men were important.

And, of course, every Boy had his own little court, his circle of sycophants and admirers, business partners and advisors, and whole armies of stone-faced body-guards. Men to carry out commands, or run errands, to listen while their lord and master spoke, and never ever do or say anything other than what was expected of them. And if no-one in that circle was ever entirely comfortable or at ease, because they knew they could be replaced at any minute, or dragged off and shot on a moment's whim. Well, that was the price they paid for being so close to the Boys. For believing, hoping, that power might trickle down, just like money.

The Boys Club-the only place to be if you were a part of every sick and dirty business in the Nightside.

The din was deafening, people laughing and shrieking and shouting above each other, all trying to convince themselves of what a great time they were having. Drinking and gambling and indulging themselves . . . but always keeping one eye on the Boys, who might or might not deign to notice them, do business with them, raise them up out of their empty little lives and into the Inner Circle . . . All the fun of the fair in the Boys Club, for nasty desperate little men and women.

Spangled girls swung on trapezes overhead, or danced long-leggedly on the raised stage. Waiters bustled back and forth, bearing the very best food and drink in the world to people the waiters knew didn't appreciate it. There was even a heated indoor swimming pool, steam rising gently around young men and women showing off their perfect bodies in the briefest of costumes, for the enjoyment of the Boys. They, too, hoped to be noticed and made use of, in one way or another.

The scene was unrelentingly tacky and tasteless, but no expense had been spared, with every imaginable luxury laid on. The best of everything, or what these people thought of as the best. These large men, with their large appet.i.tes, indulging themselves to their limits, just because they could. And all around them, men on the way up and men on the way down, always ready to do anything that might be required of them. No matter how degrading. You left your pride behind when you went calling on the Boys.

Surprisingly, many of the body-guards were women. Beautiful women in beautiful clothes, with cold faces and colder eyes, all of them armed to the teeth. Presumably the latest fad or fashion. The Boys liked to keep up with such things. I even spotted a few combat sorceresses, with their Clan affiliations tattooed above their right eyes. Which meant they were professionally trained, and guaranteed incredibly dangerous.

The Walking Man strode right into the midst of everything, and people on every side fell back to give him room. They might not know who he was yet, but one predator can always recognise another. The Walking Man headed straight for the Boys themselves, and all the body-guards tensed, their hands suddenly full of many guns. The combat sorceresses eased gracefully into attack position. Chandra Singh and I strolled casually along beside the Walking Man, not deigning to notice any of it.

And then I stopped abruptly, as I recognised one of the body-guards. Tall and lithe, dark-skinned and elegant, Penny Dreadful dressed like a flapper from the 1920s, in a tight scarlet dress, long, swinging beads, and neat little hat. She nodded easily to me, and I nodded back. Penny and I had been friends and enemies, and about everything in between, at one time or another. Just two hard-working professionals, getting by in the Nightside. Penny Dreadful was an old-school enchantress. She could make you do anything. She could make you do awful things, to yourself, or to your friends or loved ones. She never killed anyone. Mostly, after she'd finished with them, they killed themselves.

Penny was the most amoral woman I have ever met, and I've met a few. She would work for anyone, good or bad, as long as she was paid in advance. Penny genuinely did not care. She was only ever in it for the money. The complete professional. She worked with me on a case once. After I paid her to do it. We got along okay.

"h.e.l.lo, Penny," I said. "Keeping busy?"

"You know how it is, John darling. A girl has to eat."

She had a little girl's voice, with a charming French accent. Word had it she'd danced at the Crazy Horse, in her younger days. She twirled her beads at me artlessly.

"Still," I said. "The Boys Club? As a body-guard? A bit below you, isn't it, Penny? You used to work for a much better cla.s.s of sc.u.mbag."

She shrugged. "The money's good. Needs must, when your creditors bay at your heels. Please don't start anything, John. I'd hate to have to stop you. Really I would."

"If you've quite finished chatting up the staff," said the Walking Man. "I have death and destruction to be about."

"John Taylor," said a slow, growling voice, and we all looked round. We'd ended up in front of Big Jake Rackham's table. He sat sprawling in a vast overstuffed chair as though it were a throne, surrounded by the pinched, unfriendly faces of his court. He was large, rather than fat, with brute, powerful features and eyes that didn't give a d.a.m.n about anything. Big Jake Rackham ran the s.e.x trade in the Nightside, taking his cut from every business that operated. No-one indulged in the sins of the flesh in the Nightside without putting money in Rackham's pocket. He was middle-aged but looked older, the awful experiences of his life etched deep into his face. His hair was receding, so he wore it in a long, greasy ponytail down his back. It had been a long time since he'd beaten enemies and rivals to death with his bare hands, but no-one doubted he was still capable of it.

I knew him. He knew me. He leaned forward abruptly, fixing me with eyes as cold and dark as any shark's.

"How did you get in here, Taylor? You're banned. You killed Kid Cthulhu, and handed Max Maxwell over to Walker. You have interfered in my business and cost me money. You must be mad to force your way in here. You must know I'll have you killed for such an affront."

I looked at him, holding his gaze, and he couldn't look away. He stiffened as he realised he wasn't in control any more. I looked at him, and his whole body began to tremble. He cried out, as b.l.o.o.d.y tears trickled down his cheeks from his bulging eyes, and still he couldn't move a muscle. When he started to whimper, his body-guards trained their guns on me, but didn't dare open fire without a direct order from Rackham. In the end, Penny Dreadful stepped forward and put herself between Rackham and me, blocking my gaze. I smiled at her, and nodded slightly. Behind her, Big Jake Rackham had collapsed in his chair, struggling for breath.

"What did you just do, John?" murmured Chandra.

"I stared him down," I said, not bothering to lower my voice. "Sc.u.mbags should know their place."

I looked around, and several people winced, or tried to hide behind each other. A few actually made warding signs against the evil eye. The whole of the Club had gone quiet, like animals around a watering hole sensing the arrival of a lion. Someone had shut off the music, all the games had been stopped, and everyone's attention was fixed on me. I don't think I've ever seen so many unhappy faces, or had so many guns trained on me at one time. It made me feel rather better, after being ignored by the lobby's security men. I smiled condescendingly on one and all, ostentatiously taking all the ill will and threats in my stride. Never let them see you sweat. It helped that I really had done many of the awful things they thought I'd done. n.o.body wanted to be the first to start anything, because none of them were entirely sure of what I might do . . .

More of the body-guards were moving forward, putting their bodies between us and their masters. The Boys paid extremely well to be protected. I looked thoughtfully about me, and many of the heavily armed men and women actually flinched, but none of them fell back. That's the trouble with real professionals; it takes more than a bad reputation to hold them off. Chandra moved round to protect our rear, his long, curved sword ready in his hand.

"What am I to do, John Taylor?" he murmured in my ear. "I can't fight women! It would be . . . unseemly!"

"Then you're going to be at a serious disadvantage in the coming unpleasantness," I said. "Because these women will quite definitely kill you, given half a chance."

"Really?" said Chandra, tugging at his long black beard and beginning to smile. "How very . . . exotic."

The Walking Man stepped forward and struck a dramatic pose, and it was as though a great spotlight had fallen upon him. Everyone forgot all about me and Chandra, and turned their complete attention to the Walking Man. I don't think they could have looked away if they'd wanted to. Suddenly he was the most important, significant, and dangerous man in the room.

"h.e.l.lo boys, h.e.l.lo girls, anyone else see me afterwards," he said, smiling happily about him. His hands weren't anywhere near his guns, but his stance dared anyone to start anything. "Sorry to put such a crimp in your celebrations, but I'm afraid the party's over. No more good times for bad little boys and girls."

He paused, looked at the table beside him, took a firm hold on the edge of the tablecloth and whipped it off the table with a dramatic snap. Everything on the table flew through the air and crashed to the floor. The Walking Man smiled brilliantly, and dropped the table-cloth.

"I meant to do that. Now, where was I?"

He strolled between the tables, and the body-guards fell back despite themselves, giving him plenty of room to go wherever he wanted. His every movement made it clear he'd known they would. The sheer confidence in the man was unsettling, even disturbing. He stopped at every table to talk with every Boy, and he always had something to say about them.

"I am the Walking Man," he said grandly. "Latest in a long line of utter b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, completely dedicated to slapping down villains and sc.u.mbags and brown-trousering the unG.o.dly. I am the wrath of G.o.d in the world of men, walking in straight lines to punish the guilty, wherever they may be found. And there are so many guilty faces here tonight! Let's start with you, Big Jake Rackham."

He stopped right in front of the big man and shook his head sadly, like a teacher disappointed by a determinedly under-achieving student.

"Big Jake. Self-made man and proud of it. Everyone knows you run the s.e.x trade in the Nightside. Everyone knows you take a cut from every sordid little transaction: every blow from every pimp; every disease from every hooker; every mugged and rolled client. Every woman driven to an early grave . . . But, does everyone know what you do to your gorgeous wife, Jezebel, because you can't do anything else with her?"

He moved on to Marty DeVore, also known as Devour, though never to his face, of course. Marty with a thin, weaselly figure with an endless appet.i.te for acquiring new businesses. Whether the original owners wanted to sell or not. The Walking Man clapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and DeVore shrank away from the touch.

"Dear old Marty DeVore," said the Walking Man happily. "Such an unrelenting sinner. Your sheer enthusiasm for awfulness never ceases to impress me. You made your original money in slavery, of course, selling anyone and anything to anyone and anything. Everyone knows that. But do they know what you like to do for a bit of relaxation, Marty? How you bribe mortuary staff to let you lie down with dead bodies, with the prettiest corpses, and have your wicked way with them? Especially if they're the wives and daughters of your friends and enemies?"

He moved on to the h.e.l.lsreich brothers, the twins, Paul and Davey. Big blond blue-eyed Aryan types, young and healthy and rotten to the core. Heading right to the top, through endless alliances and very secret behind-locked-doors deals. Everyone wanted to hang on to their coat-tails.