Nightside 09 - Just Another Judgement Day

find its gag reflex . . .”
    The taxi finally lurched to a halt, and we watched the living bridge melt away into mists. Getting around in the Nightside can be murder sometimes.

* * * *
    The taxi took us deep into the badlands, the roughest, most desperate and desolate part of the Nightside. So rough that even the more adventurous tourists find excuses to avoid it, and only the hardiest sinners venture in, looking for the pleasures and satisfactions they can’t find anywhere else. The techno fetishists, looking to have sex with computers. Volunteers for drug-testing labs, only too willing to take on the latest pharmaceutical heavens and hells, just to be first in line for the latest trip. Innocence for sale on every street corner, only slightly shop-soiled. Sin eaters, soul eaters, sleep eaters. The darkest delights and the deepest damnations, for all those foolish enough to think they’ve already hit bottom. There’s always further to fall, in the Nightside.
    The buildings slouch together for support, with brickwork blackened by decades of traffic, or maybe just the general environment. Broken windows, holes patched with faded newspapers, doors hanging permanently half-open because the locks were broken long ago. Street-lights that sometimes worked, and the burned-out skeleton shapes of dead neon. Heaps of garbage everywhere, that sometimes moved, revealing the homeless. Many of them had missing limbs. You can sell anything in the badlands.
    And, finally, long after we’d had to shut the cab’s windows to keep out the smell, when it seemed we’d reached the sleaziest scummiest depths of the badlands, the taxi eased to a halt outside the Vicarage, the only civilised-looking building in the middle of a row of destitute properties. The streets looked wet and sticky, and something told me that had nothing to do with the recent rain. I’ve walked through alien jungles that looked less dangerous and forbidding. Exactly where a Christian missionary would be most needed . . .
    Chandra and I stepped out of the taxi, which had parked under the only working street-light. I’d barely shut the cab door before the cabbie revved up and roared away, so desperate to get out of the badlands that he hadn’t even paused to ask for his fare. Not that I’d had any intention of paying, of course.
    Various figures stirred in the darkest parts of the shadows, deliberating whether Chandra and I were easy targets. Chandra drew his sword with a dramatic gesture, and the long curved blade burned supernaturally bright in the gloom. The figures shrank back, dim silhouettes disappearing into the concealing night. One predator can always recognise another. Chandra smiled briefly and sheathed his sword. I knocked on the Vicarage door. It was an old-fashioned brass knocker, in the shape of a lion’s head, and the sound it made echoed on and on behind the closed door, as though travelling unguessable distances. There were no lights on anywhere, and I began to wonder if this was really such a good idea after all. But after a worryingly long pause, the door swung abruptly open, and bright, golden light spilled out into the street, like the illumination of Heaven itself. And standing in the doorway was a healthy, happy, young lady in a baggy brown jumper over worn-in riding britches and boots. She had short, tufty red hair and vivid green eyes, and she grinned broadly at Chandra and me as though we were two old chums who’d come to tea.
    “Hello!” she said, in a bright cheerful voice. “I’m Sharon Pilkington-Smythe. Come in, come in! All are welcome here. Even you, John Taylor! No sin too great to be forgiven, that’s our motto!”
    “You know me?” I said, the moment I could get a word in edgeways.
    “Of course, sweetie! Everyone knows you. You’re right at the top of People we intend to save by whatever means necessary before we die. Now in you come, don’t be bashful, all are welcome in the Vicarage! Don’t know your friend.”
    Chandra drew himself up to his full impressive height and stuck out his beard. “I am Chandra Singh, holy warrior, mighty monster hunter, and legend of the Indian subcontinent!”
    He was clearly gearing up to say a lot more, but Sharon butted in before he could get going.
    “Gosh!” she said, with that particular mixture of innocence and ignorance that can be especially galling. “A real live monster hunter! We really could use you round here. If only to keep the local rat population under