The Bride Wore Black Leather

far-away, lost in the past. I’d never heard him say so much, or speak so eloquently. Or talk about someone else the way most people talked about him. The Great Victorian Adventurer; the crusading editor of the
Night Times
; the man even his enemies admired.
    “What happened?” I said. “What went wrong?”
    “He went back to the park,” said Julien Advent. “And he raised up a huge and wonderful White Tower, with nothing more than a wave of his hand. It appeared before us, huge and magical, all complete in a moment, a Tower with no doors or windows. He walked through the wall and disappeared inside the Tower, shutting himself off from the clamour of the world, and his followers, so that he could meditate on what to do next, and commune with the Entities from Beyond. All the people came from far around, in their psychedelic clothes and pretty painted faces, with flowers in their hair and in their hands, and they sat around the Tower in endless ranks, closely packed circles spreading out for as far as the eye could see. All the beautiful people, the flower people, the good and groovy people. And there they sat, talking and singing, waiting patiently. Until the light went out of the day, and night fell over the park, and the White Tower blazed like a beacon. And still they stayed, eating and drinking, laughing and loving, dancing and singing in celebration of what they’d seen and the hope of new wonders to come. For twenty-four hours they waited for the Sun King to come out and lead them to glory.
    “And exactly twenty-four hours after he disappeared into the White Tower, the Tower with no doors and no windows . . . after they’d all exhausted themselves and there was no more singing or dancing . . . the Tower disappeared. No-one saw it go. No sound or fury, no great explosions of colour; people looked up, and it wasn’t there any more. No trace to show it had ever been there. Strangely enough, there weren’t any tears or protests, no demands for explanations. Slowly, a few at a time, the people went away. And within a few days, most of them had forgotten about the Sun King, and everyone got on with their lives. The Sun King became another marvellous story from that magical time.”
    “You were there,” I said. “You sat and watched, outside the Tower in the park. Didn’t you?”
    “Yes. I was there. I knew him, walked with him, saw what he could do. I walked beside him, as he entered the White Tower. It wouldn’t let me in. I can still remember how the white wall felt, under my fingertips. Like cold coral, from the bottom of the sea. I waited, because I believed in him and wanted to see what he would do; but when the Tower vanished and took him with it, I knew it was over.
    “Hardly anyone talks about the Sun King now. Perhaps because he promised so much and disappointed so many. So that they wanted, needed, to forget him. There are conspiracy sites that dismiss the whole story as CIA black propaganda. Disinformation, to discredit the counter-culture. But he was real. I was there. And they were right; he was dangerous because he was the best drug ever. A transforming presence, a way to break out of the Reality Trip, and lead a better life. He was the revolution. Or, he could have been.”
    “Do you think . . . the authorities of that time were responsible for his disappearance?” I said.
    “I don’t know. I always thought he’d be back someday . . . but not like this.”
    “I never knew you could speak fluent sixties,” I said.
    He smiled, slightly. “I’ve been around a long time, John, and lived more lives than most people realise. A man plays many roles in his time, and I’ve had more time than most . . . You used to be a private investigator; now you’re Walker. Who and what will you be, in ten, twenty, thirty years?”
    “Dead, probably,” I said. “I seem to keep picking life-styles and vocations that contain far more threat and danger than is good for me.” I looked at him steadily. “You’re sure he’s back? The Sun King?”
    “Oh yes, John. He’s finally returned to us, and he really doesn’t like what we’ve done with the world in his absence. His love and devotion and benevolence are things of the past now, replaced by a righteous rage and fury. Because we, the people, have betrayed the Big Dream of the sixties; sold our hopes and our principles for a mess of pottage. And most of all, we never lived up to the potential he showed us.
We can all shine