Nightside 11 - A Hard Days Knight

walking.
    I looked carefully about me, but the whole place was deserted. Thankfully, someone had shut down the piped Muzak, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard anywhere apart from the gentle humming of the fierce fluorescent lighting and the distant rumble of the air-conditioning. It could still be a trap. Either for me, specifically, or for whoever took over as the new Walker. Certainly, I’d made enough enemies in my time, and in the Past and Future, too.
    Why had the soulbomber demanded to speak to me, and only me? Julien had shown me a photo of the guy before I left; but I didn’t recognise him. There was nothing special or striking about him. If anything, he’d looked almost defiantly average. Did he want to lure me in, to be sure of getting me? Did he need to look me in the face, to tell me something important to him, before he could destroy himself? Or had he heard of my ability to work miracles on a budget and drop-kick victory from the jaws of defeat, and was hoping to be talked out of it? Or possibly even rescued if this hadn’t been his idea in the first place ... It’s amazing the things a man will do—for money or fame or if his loved ones are threatened.
    My footsteps echoed loudly on the quiet, I could actually hear my own breathing, and my heart was hammering in my chest. Malls aren’t supposed to be quiet or empty. It felt unnatural. And then I stopped abruptly as I heard footsteps up ahead, coming my way. I slipped my left hand into my coat-pocket and let my fingers drift over certain useful items ... and then took my hand out again. It was the Nightside CSI—first in, last out, as always. He came round the corner, stopped when he saw me, then smiled and nodded amiably enough. The Nightside CSI is only one man, pleasant enough, calm and easy-going, and very professional. It probably helps that he has multiple personality disorder, with a sub-personality for every speciality and discipline in his profession. (One to handle fingerprints, another to examine blood spatter, or look for magical residues ...) He’s really quite good at his job though he does tend to argue with himself.
    Between himself, he knows everything he needs to know.
    Each sub-personality has a different voice. Some of them are women. I’ve never asked.
    “Alistair Hoob,” I said. “As I live and breathe heavily. No-one told me you were still in here. How are we doing today?”
    “As well as can be expected, Mr. Taylor. Not much in the way of evidence to offer you, I’m afraid. (You didn’t check for fingerprints!) (What was the point?) (Hush, we’re talking.) All the soulbomber brought in was himself, and he wouldn’t allow me to get anywhere near him. (Has anyone seen my wetwipes?)”
    Alistair Hoob is a big blocky type with a shock of bushy red hair, one green eye and one blue, and a reasonably sane smile that comes and goes according to who’s talking. He always wears the same baggy white sweater with holes in it, grubby cream slacks, and cheap knock-off trainers. He carries a battered old briefcase that unfolds and unfolds, to contain all his (very) specialised equipment. I once saw him open it wide enough to pull out a chemical lab, an X-ray machine, and a rather surprised-looking rabbit.
    “Have you spoken to our soulbomb, Alistair?” I said.
    “Oh, of course. (Seems sane enough, if a bit gloomy.) Bit frustrating, really, as he didn’t want to talk to me. (Smells funny.) He was quite insistent that he would only talk to John Taylor; but he wouldn’t say why. And he wouldn’t let me get close enough to run any useful tests. (Elephant!) (Shut up!)”
    “But you are certain he’s a soulbomber?”
    “Unfortunately, yes. You wouldn’t believe the state of his aura. Even sitting still, he’s giving off so many negative vibrations he’s contaminating his surroundings. It’ll take weeks to scour the psychic stain out of the area. Assuming you can talk him down, of course. (Oh, well done, Mr. Tact.) I’ve run all the usual tests on the Emporium, and I can tell you that no-one else is in here with us. (No life signs anywhere.) (Except for the exotic pet shops on the thirteenth floor, and they’re all securely locked down.) (Spiders shouldn’t get that big. There ought to be a law. It’s unnatural, and it might give them ideas.) So once I’m gone, you’re on your own, Mr. Taylor. Best of luck. (Bye-bye.)”
    “Are all the dimensional doors and gateways properly shut down and closed off?” I