Nightside 10 - The Good the Bad and the Uncanny

times. He was my uncle Mark. Of course I’ll miss him.”

    Larry and I emerged from the Underground again at Cheyne Walk Station, just in case we’d missed anything the last time. And once again, the Nightside managed a pleasant surprise. No fog, no rain, no showers of frogs; rather a pleasant night under a starry sky. The air was heavy with the scents of a dozen different cuisines, drifting out of restaurant doorways, open invitations for meals so ethnic they didn’t even have names outside the Nightside. Forgotten food, from countries and cultures that don’t exist any more. Kodo and Burundi drums held long, rolling conversations in the distance, and the barkers outside the members-only clubs chanted their harsh come-ons. People came and went and didn’t even look around; but that’s the Nightside for you. My mobile phone rang, and I answered it cautiously. The ad mail had been getting pretty aggressive recently, even with the best bullshit filters money can buy.
    “Hello, John,” said a calm, familiar voice. “This is Walker.”
    I paused. You had to admire the sheer nerve of the man. “What makes you think I want to hear anything you have to say?” I said finally.
    “Hadleigh Oblivion has been sighted at the Church of St. Jude.”
    “And I should believe you because ... ?”
    “Oh, don’t take my word for it, dear boy,” said Walker. “Ask anyone. If you can get them to stop screaming long enough. The Detective Inspectre has never been one to hide his appalling light under a bushel.”
    The phone went dead. I thought for a moment, then called my secretary, Cathy. She knew everything. Especially if it involved celebrity gossip.
    “Oh hell yes,” she said, as soon as I mentioned Hadleigh Oblivion. “Word’s coming in from all over the Nightside, according to these gossip sites on the computer that I just happened to be glancing at when you called. The Detective Inspectre is out and about, punishing the wicked with vim and vigour. Hadleigh’s blown up a dozen dubious establishments, made twenty-three notorious scumbags vanish simply by looking at them, and no-one can even find Blaiston Street any more. It’s gone, as though it was never there in the first place. Not a great loss there, admittedly, but ... People haven’t been this scared since the Walking Man was here last month, mowing down the bad guys and giggling while he did it. Everyone I know is at home, locked in their bathrooms, waiting for the storm to pass. And, I might add, if Hadleigh Oblivion even looks as though he’s heading in my direction, I am taking the day off. Possibly the whole year.”
    “You really must learn to breathe occasionally while you’re talking,” I said, when she finally paused long enough for me to jam a word in edgeways. “Are there any sightings of Hadleigh near the Church of St. Jude?”
    “Let me check.” There was a long pause. No doubt she was doing things with the extremely complicated office computers that I paid for but have never been able to understand. “Right, yes, word just in—definite sighting of Hadleigh exploding a fat guy two streets down from the church. Ooh, messy. Ick. That one’s going to end up on YouTube.”
    “Listen to me, Cathy,” I said. “This is important. Walker’s lost it. He’s killed the Collector. Get the word out; warn people. Walker ... doesn’t give a damn any more.”
    She sniffed loudly. “News to me he ever did. Always said he was mad, bad, and dangerous to be within a hundred miles of, behind all that polite public school façade. You watch yourself, boss. I know you like to think you and Walker have a connection, an understanding; but I’ve always known he’d cut you down in a minute if he thought it served his purposes.”
    She shut down the connection before I could argue with her, but I wasn’t sure I would have. When a man knows he’s going to die, his thoughts can turn in strange directions. Walker had surprised me when he called me son, and again when he asked me to take over his position. And yet again when he murdered the Collector. Who knew how many other surprises he had in store?
    I filled Larry in on Hadleigh and St. Jude‘s, and he scowled. “That’s a long way off. Too long by the Underground ...”
    “We could try a taxi,” I said. “They can’t all be psychopaths, mind robbers, and licensed thieves. You could put it on expenses.”
    “I think we can do better than that,” said Larry, not quite condescending. “I run