Nightside 08 - The Unnatural Inquirer

without knowing exactly what it is I’m risking life and limb for.”
    “Do you really think we should?” said Bettie. “I mean, look what watching it did to poor Pen.”
    We all looked at Pen Donavon, back on his stool again, drinking brandy like mother’s milk. He felt our gaze on him and looked round. He sighed and handed me an unlabelled DVD in a jewel case.
    “Watch it, if you must,” he said. “I think…it’s supposed to be seen. But I couldn’t bear to see it again.”
    “You don’t have to,” I said. “Stay here. The Coltranes will look after you.”
    But even as Alex and Bettie and I headed for the back stairs that led up to Alex’s private apartment, I had to wonder what seeing the Afterlife Recording would do to us. And whether I really wanted to know the truth.

EIGHT
    One Man’s Hell

    G etting into Alex Morrisey’s private apartment is never easy. He guards his privacy like a dragon with his hoard, and there are many pitfalls waiting for the unwary. I think a very specialised burglar got in once; and something ate him. First, you have to go up a set of back stairs that aren’t even there unless Alex wants them to be. Then you have to pass through a series of major league protections and defences, not unlike air-locks; you can feel them opening ahead of you, then closing behind you. Any one of these traps-in-waiting would quite cheerfully kill you if given the chance, in swift, nasty, and often downright appalling ways, if Alex happened to change his mind about you at any point. I have known gang lords’ crime dens that were easier to get into; and they often have their own pet demons under contract. I wouldn’t even try getting into Alex’s apartment without his permission unless I was armed with a tactical nuke wrapped in rabbit’s feet.
    But it wasn’t until Alex let us into his apartment that I was really shocked. The living-room was so clean and tidy I barely recognised it. All his old junk was gone, including the charity shop furniture and his collection of frankly disturbing porcelain statuettes in pornographic poses. Replaced by comfortable furnishings and pleasant decorative touches. His books, CDs, and DVDs no longer lay scattered across all available surfaces or stacked in tottering piles against the walls; now they were all set out neatly on brand-new designer shelving. Probably in alphabetical order, too. It was actually possible now to walk across Alex’s living-room without having to kick things out of the way, and his carpet didn’t crunch when you trod on it.
    In the end, it was the cushions on the sofa that gave it away. Men who live on their own don’t have cushions. They just don’t. It’s a guy thing.
    I looked accusingly at Alex. “You’ve let a woman move in with you, haven’t you? Don’t you ever learn?”
    “I didn’t say anything,” Alex said haughtily, “because I knew you wouldn’t approve. Besides, you’re in no position to throw stones. You live with a psychopathic gun nut.”
    There was a noise from the next room. A small tic appeared briefly in Alex’s face. I looked at him sternly. “What was that?”
    “Just the vulture,” Alex said quickly. “Morning sickness.”
    A sudden horrible thought struck me. “You haven’t let your ex-wife move back in, have you?”
    “I would rather projectile vomit my own intestines,” said Alex, with great dignity.
    “Sorry,” I said.
    “I should think so, too.”
    “Wait a minute. Downstairs in the bar, you said your new girl-friend was up here. So where is she? Why is she hiding from me? And why do I just know that I’m really not going to like the answers to any of these questions?”
    “Oh, hell,” said Alex. He looked back at the other room. “You’d better come in, Cathy.”
    And while I was standing there, struck dumb with shock, my teenage secretary, Cathy, came in from the next room. She smiled at me brightly, but I was still too stunned to respond. She was wearing a smart and sophisticated little outfit, and surprisingly understated make-up. I barely recognised her. Normally she favoured colours so fashionable they made your eye-balls bleed.
    “This is your new girl-friend?” I said finally. “Cathy? My Cathy? My teenage secretary? She’s almost half your age!”
    “I know!” said Alex. “She took one look at my music collection and turned up her nose! Called it dad rock…But; she came into the bar one night with a message from you, and, well, we happened to get