Nightside 01 - Something From the Nightside

tell me. Before I kill her."
    He smiled briefly, touched his fingertips to the
    brim of his bowler hat, and left the cafe. No-one actually watched him go, but the general murmur of voices rose significantly once the door was safely shut behind him.
    "Just what is it with you and him?" Joanna said finally. "Why did you let him talk to you like that?"
    "Walker? Hell, I'd let him shit on my shoes if he wanted to."
    "I haven't seen you back down to anyone since we got here," said Joanna. "What makes him so special?"
    "Walker's different," I said. "Everyone gives Walker plenty of space. Not for who he is, but for what he represents."
    "The Authorities?"
    "Got it in one. Some questions are all the scarier for having no answer."
    "But who watches the watchmen?" said Joanna. "Who keeps the Authorities honest?"
    "We are drifting into decidedly murky philosophical waters," I said. "And we really don't have the time. Finish your nice Coke, and we'll go pay Blais-ton Street a visit."
    "About time!" said Joanna. And she gulped down the last of her icy Coke so fast it must have given her a headache.

Nine
    A House on Blaiston Street

    B laiston Street butts onto the back end of nowhere. Shabby houses on a shabby street, where all the street-lights have been smashed, because the inhabitants feel more at home in the dark. Perhaps so they won't have to see how far they've fallen. I could practically feel the rats running for cover as I led Joanna down the street, but otherwise it was almost unnaturally still and quiet. Litter was piled everywhere in great festering heaps, and every inch of the dirty stone walls was covered in obscene graffiti. The whole place stank of decay—material, emotional and spiritual. All down the street, windows were missing, patched up with cardboard or paper or nothing at all.
    Filth everywhere, from animals marking their territory, or from people who just didn't care any more. The houses were two rows of ancient tenements, neglected and despised, that would probably have fallen down if they hadn't been propping each other up.
    Maybe Walker was right. A good bomb here could do millions of pounds of civic improvements.
    And yet... something was wrong here. More than usually wrong. The street was strangely empty deserted, abandoned. There were no homeless hud died in doorways, or under sagging fire-escapes. No beggars or muggers, no desperate souls looking to buy or sell; not even a single pale face peering from a window. Blaiston Street usually seethed with life like maggots in an open wound. I could hear the sounds of traffic and people from adjoining streets, but the sound was muted, strangely far away, as though from another world.
    "Where the hell is everybody?" said Joanna quietly.
    "Good question," I said. "And I don't think we're going to like the answer, when we find it. I'd like to think everyone just ran away, but... I'm beginning to suspect they weren't that lucky. I don't think anyone here got out alive. Something bad happened here. And it's still happening."
    Joanna looked around her, and shuddered. "What in sweet Jesus' name could have summoned Cathy to a place like this?"
    "Let's find out," I said, and calling up my gift I opened my private eye again. My gift was getting weaker, and so was I, but I was so close now it was just strong enough to show me Cathy's ghost prancing down the street, lit up from within by her own blazing emotions. I'd never seen anyone look so happy. She came to one particular house, that looked no different from any of the others, and stopped before it, studying it with solemn, child-wide eyes. The door opened slowly before her, and she ran up the stone steps and disappeared into the darkness beyond the door, smiling widely all the time, as though she was going to the best party in all the world. The door closed behind her, and that was that. I'd come to the end of the trail. For whatever reason, she'd never left that house again. I took Joanna by the hand and replayed the ghost so she could see it too.
    "We've found her!" said Joanna, her hand clamping down on mine so hard it hurt. "She's here!"
    "She was here," I said, pulling my hand free. "Let me check the house out before we go any further, see what my gift can tell us about the house's past and present occupants."
    We walked right up to the house, and stopped at the foot of the dirty stone steps that led up to the paint-peeling door. Old bricks and mortar, smeared windows, and no signs of life anywhere. The