Nightside 08 - The Unnatural Inquirer

sort of thing that would attract the Removal Man’s attention. Rumour has it he only ever reveals his identity 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 damn 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 pass,” 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?”
    “Damn 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 brasses 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 albumen! 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