Nightside 01 - Something From the Nightside

common as freckles among the sons and daughters of the Nightside."
    Joanna frowned suddenly. "On the tube train,
    coining here, the Brittle Sisters of the Hive recognised your name. They backed off, rather than upset you. And they asked to be remembered, when you finally came into your kingdom."
    I had to smile. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything. In the Nightside, you can never be sure which ugly duckling might grow up to be a beautiful swan, or even a phoenix. So if you're sensible you hedge your bets and back as many horses as possible. And never make an enemy you don't have to."
    Joanna leaned forward across the plastic table, pushing her Coke bottle aside so she could stare at me the more fiercely. "And do you still intend to go on looking for your mother, now you know what might happen to the world if you find her?"
    "It's a hell of a wake-up call, isn't it? It's certainly given me a lot of food for thought."
    "That isn't answering the question."
    "I know. Look, I hadn't even intended to stay here, in the Nightside, once this case was over and done with. I left this madhouse five years ago for good reasons, and none of them have changed. But.. . more and more, this dangerous and appalling place feels like home to me. Like I belong here. Your safe and sane everyday world didn't seem to have any place for me. At least here I get the feeling I could do some real good for my clients. That I could ... make a difference."
    "Oh yes," said Joanna. "You could make a hell of a difference here."
    I met Joanna's gaze as calmly as I could. "All I can honestly say is this—I really don't care enough about my mother to risk bringing about the future we both saw."
    "But that could change."
    "Yes. It could. Anything can happen, in the Night-side. Drink your nice Coke, Joanna, and try not to worry about it."
    The Crazy World of Arthur Brown was belting out "Fire," by the time Joanna had calmed down enough to ask another question.
    "I need you to be straight with me, John. Do you think Cathy is still alive?"
    "I have no reason to believe she's not," I said honestly. "We know she was alive very recently. The last image my gift picked up was only a few days old. We know Someone or Something called her into the Nightside, but there's no direct evidence that individual means Cathy any harm. There's no evidence that he doesn't, either, but when you're groping in the dark it's best to be optimistic. As yet, no clear threat or danger has manifested. We have to proceed on the assumption that she's still alive. We have ... to have hope."
    "Hope? Even here?" said Joanna. "In the Night-side?"
    "Especially here," I said. This time I put my hand
    on hers. Our hands felt good together, natural. "I'll do everything I can for you, Joanna. I won't give up, as long as there's a shred of hope left."
    "I know," said Joanna. "You're a good man at heart, John Taylor."
    We looked into each other's eyes for a long time, and both of us were smiling. We believed in each other, even if we weren't too sure about ourselves. I knew this wasn't a good idea. Never get personally involved with a client. It's written in large capital letters on page one of How to Be a Private Detective. Right next to Get as much cash as you can up front, just in case the cheque bounces, and Don't go looking for the Maltese Falcon because it'll all end in tears. I'm not stupid. I've read Raymond Chandler. But right then, I just didn't care. I did make one last effort, for the good of my soul.
    "It's not too late for you to back out," I said. "You've been through enough. Stay here, and let me handle Blaiston Street. You'll be safe here."
    "No," Joanna said immediately, pulling her hands away from mine. "I have to do this. I have to be there, when you find... what's happened to my daughter. I have to know the truth, and she has to know . .. that I cared enough to come myself. Dammit, John, I've earned the right to be there."
    "Yes," I said, quietly proud of her. "You have."
    "John Taylor, as I live and breathe," said a cold, cheerful voice. "I really couldn't believe it when they
    told me you'd showed up again. I thought you had more sense, Taylor."
    I knew the voice, and took my time turning around. There aren't many people who can sneak up on me. Sure enough, standing behind me was Walker, large as life and twice as official. Every inch the City Gent, sharp and stylish and sophisticated. Handsome, if a little on the heavy side, with cold eyes and smile and an even colder