Getting 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 talking, and…we clicked. Next thing I know we’re a couple, and she’s moved in with me. Neither of us said anything to you because we knew you’d blow your stack.”
      “I am lost for words,” I said.
      “Bet that doesn’t last,” said Cathy.
      I glared at her. “I did not rescue you from a house that tried to eat you, take you in, and make you my secretary, just so you could get involved with a disreputable character like Alex Morrisey!”
      “I thought Alex was your friend?” said Bettie, who I felt was enjoying the situation entirely too much.
      “He is. Mostly. It’s because I know him so well that I’m worried! Alex has even worse luck with women than I do.”
      “I resent that!” said Alex.
      “I notice you’re not denying it,” I said.
      Cathy stood close beside Alex, holding his arm protectively. It reminded me of the way Bettie had been holding my arm recently. Cathy looked me square in the eye, her jaw set in a familiar and very determined manner.
      “I am eighteen now, going on nineteen. I’m not the frightened little girl you rescued any more. Hell, I’ve been running your office for the last few years and kept all the paper-work in order, which is more than you ever did. I am old enough to run my own life and to be responsible for my own actions. Just like you always taught me. Go after what really matters to you, you said. And I did. Alex and I might not be the most…orthodox of couples; but then, neither are you and Suzie.”
      I smiled briefly. “Well. My little girl is all grown-up. All right, Cathy. You’re clearly off your head and displaying quite appalling taste, but you have the right to make your own mistakes.” I looked at Alex. “We will talk about this later.”
      “Oh, joy,” said Alex.
      “Quite,” I said. “Now, show me how that fiendishly complicated-looking remote control works.”
      Alex picked up something big enough to land the space shuttle from a distance, turned on his television, dimmed the lights, and showed me how to work the DVD player.
      “That button is for the surround sound, the toggle is for the volume. Don’t touch that one; it turns on the sprinkler system. And stay away from that one because it operates the vibrating bed. Don’t look at me like that.”
      “What’s this big red button for?” said Bettie, sitting beside me on the sofa before the television.
      “Do not touch the big red button,” said Alex. “That is only to be used in the event of alien invasion, or if someone not a million miles from here starts another bloody angel war.”
      “I did not…”
      “Right,” said Alex. “That’s it. You two enjoy the show, Cathy and I will be down in the bar.”
      “Don’t you want to see what’s on the DVD?” said Bettie.
      “I would rather stab myself in the eyes with knives,” said Alex. “Come along, Cathy.”
      “But I want to watch it!” said Cathy.
      “No, you don’t,” Alex said firmly. “Wait until John’s test-driven it; then, if it’s safe, we can have a peep at it.”
      “So I’m your guinea-pig now?” I said, amused despite myself.
      “Hey,” said Alex. “What are friends for?”
      “If you do get Raptured,” said Cathy, “can I have your trench coat?”
      Alex hustled her out, leaving Bettie and me alone with the television and the Afterlife Recording. The disc looked quite remarkably ordinary, almost innocent, as I took it out of its case. I handled it gingerly, half-afraid the thing might try to bite me, or even burst into flames once exposed to the open air; but it was only a DVD. I slipped it into the machine, hit PLAY, and Bettie and I settled back to watch.
      There was no menu, no introduction. It was a recording of an unexpected transmission, with the beginning missing. It just started, and the television screen showed a view into Hell. There were buildings, or more properly structures, great looming things, like impossibly huge cancers. The walls were scarlet meat traced with purple veins, sick and decaying. Suppurating holes that might have been windows showed people trapped inside, plugged into the breathing sweating architecture, sometimes sunk deep in cancerous flesh; and all of them were screaming in agony.
      The structures were packed too close together, their malign presence like a concentration camp of the soul. Through the narrow streets ran an endless stream of naked sinners, burned and bleeding, sobbing and shrieking as horned demons drove them on. The sinners who fell or lagged behind were dragged down and torn apart by the demons. Only to rise again, made whole, so they could be driven on again, forever. Bodies hung from lamp-posts, still kicking and struggling, as demons tugged their intestines from great rips in their bellies.
      The sky was on fire, spreading a blood-red light across the terrible scene. Huge bat-winged shapes circled overhead. And from far off in the distance, vast and terrible, came the laughter of the Devil, savouring the horrors of Hell.
      I hit the PAUSE button, leaned back on the sofa, and looked at Bettie. “It’s a fake. That’s not Hell.”
      “Are you sure?” said Bettie. And then her eyes widened, and she actually leaned back a little from me. “Do you know? Are the stories true, that you’ve really been to Hell, and returned?”
      “Of course not,” I said. “Only one man ever returned from the Houses of Pain, and he was the Son of God. No; you can tell that isn’t the real thing from looking at the sinners. They all have the same face, see? Pen Donavon’s face.”
      Bettie leaned in close for a better look. “You’re right! All the faces are the same! Even the demons, just exaggerated versions of Pen’s features. But what does this mean, John? If this isn’t a recording of the Afterlife, what is it?”
      I hit the STOP button and turned off the television. “It’s psychic imprinting,” I said. “We discussed this, remember? What we were looking at was one man’s personal vision of Hell. All of Pen Donavon’s fears and nightmares appeared on his television set, leaking out of his subconscious, and when he tried to record what he saw, he psychically imprinted his own vision onto the DVD. Poor bastard. He believes he belongs in Hell; though probably only he could tell us why.”
      “So there never was any transmission from Beyond?” said Bettie.
      “No. All that junk Donavon bolted onto his television set was just junk, after all.”
      I removed the DVD from the player and slipped it back into its case. Such a small thing, to have caused so much trouble.
      “It doesn’t matter,” Bettie said cheerfully. “It looks good enough to pass. Fake or no, the paper can still make decent money off it. Actually, it’s even better that it’s not the real thing; now we don’t have to worry about upsetting anyone Upstairs. It looks impressive enough, and that’s all the punters will care about. So what do we do now, John? Take the DVD back to the Unnatural Inquirer offices, along with poor Pen? We can keep him safe there, until the DVD’s appeared, then we can leak the news that it’s not the real thing after all, and everyone will leave him alone.”
      “It’s not going to be that simple,” I said reluctantly. “That might have worked, right up to the point where I killed all Kid Cthulhu’s combat sorcerers over it. No-one will believe I’d go to so much trouble unless there was some truth to the story.”
      “Ah,” said Bettie. “Then, what are we going to do?”
      “Good question,” I said. “I’m not entirely sure. We need to play this exactly right…”
      I thought for a while, pacing up and down, rejecting one idea after another, while Bettie watched, fascinated. And finally, I got it. A very crafty and downright sneaky way out of this mess. I took out my mobile phone and called Kid Cthulhu, on his very private number.
      “Hi, Kid,” I said cheerfully. “This is John Taylor. How are the barnacles?”
      “How did you get this number?” said Kid Cthulhu. As always, he sounded like someone drowning in his own vomit.
      “I find things, remember? I know everyone’s private number. Or at least, everyone who matters. You should be flattered you made the list. Now, I don’t want a war with you. I’ve got the DVD of the Afterlife Recording right here in my hand, and I’m willing to sell it to you for a merely extortionate price.”
      “You killed all my combat sorcerers, didn’t you?”
      “Try not to dwell on the negative aspects, Kid; we can still do business. How about I come over to your place, and we discuss it?”
      “You’re not coming anywhere near my place,” said Kid Cthulhu. “I’ve just had it redecorated. How about The Witch’s Tit? Down on Beltane Street? Lap dancers and the like. Very classy.”
      “Sounds it,” I said. “Okay, meet you there in an hour.”
      “Why the rush?”
      “Because the Removal Man is on my trail, and I want to be rid of the damned DVD before he catches up with me. You know he’s already taken out the Cardinal over this? Once the DVD is yours, he’ll be your problem.”
      “One hour,” said Kid Cthulhu. “And don’t bring Shotgun Suzie with you or the deal’s off.”
      “Such a fuss, over one little tentacle,” I said. “If she’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
      “Have you seen what’s on the DVD?” said Kid Cthulhu.
      “Of course not,” I said. “And yes; I guarantee there are no other copies. You’re buying exclusive rights to the Afterlife Recording.”
      “One hour,” said Kid Cthulhu.
      The line went dead. I put the phone away, smiling. These gang bosses all think they’re so smart.
      “Right,” I said to Bettie. “Let’s go meet Captain Sushi.”
      “It’s bound to be a trap,” said Bettie. She’d had her head right next to mine, so she could listen in on the call.
      “Of course it’s a trap,” I said. “Kid Cthulhu owns The Witch’s Tit. But since we know it’s a trap going in, we can be ready to take advantage of it. What matters is setting things up so everyone will believe Kid Cthulhu has the Afterlife Recording.”
      “Wait a minute,” said Bettie. “You can’t just give it to him, John. My paper…”
      “Relax,” I said. “At exactly the right moment, you will distract him, and I will swap this DVD for one I will happen to have hidden about my person. Something from Alex’s collection; he won’t even know it’s gone till it’s too late. Kid Cthulhu will be bound to make a fuss about getting the DVD from me, and the news will be all over the Nightside by the time he actually works up the nerve to watch what he’s bought. By which time we will have delivered the real thing to your paper’s offices, where it will be safe. Until you give it away with this Sunday’s edition. And Kid Cthulhu…will learn the cost of messing with me and mine.”
      “He’ll kill you,” said Bettie.
      “He can join the queue.”
      I took an unlabelled disc from Alex’s private collection of elf porn, slipped it into an inside pocket, and smiled again. The day I couldn’t work a simple bait and switch like this, I’d retire.
      There’s a lot more to being a private eye than most people realise.
      We went back down into the bar. I didn’t need Alex’s help to leave his apartment though I could still feel his defences, like so many spider’s webs, trailing lightly against my face as I went down the stairs. Pen Donavon was still sitting slumped on his bar-stool, staring into his brandy glass. Alex was behind the bar, scowling at Donavon as he opened yet another bottle of the good brandy. For a tired, scared, and totally out-of-his-mind man on the run, Donavon could really put it away. I suppose when you believe you’re going to Hell anyway, little things like hangovers and liver failure don’t bother you any more.
      Cathy was behind the bar with Alex, poking the meat pies with a stick to see if they needed replacing yet. Lucy and Betty Coltrane were still clearing up the general mess. Everyone turned to look as Bettie and I appeared from the back stairs.
      “Well?” said Alex. “How was it? What was it? I’ve got a first-rate exorcist on speed dial, if you need him.”
      “Everyone relax,” I said. “It’s a fake.”
      Pen Donavon’s head came up. “What?”
      I started to explain, as kindly as I could, about psychic imprinting and guilt, but I could tell he wasn’t listening. And I stopped as I realised the bar was getting darker. The light became suffused with red, as though stained with fresh blood, sinking into a deep crimson glow. Tables and chairs suddenly exploded into flames and burned fiercely, unconsumed. The Coltranes backed quickly away, and joined the rest of us at the bar. The walls slumped slowly inwards, swollen and inflamed, their fleshy texture studded with sweating tumours. A huge eye opened in the ceiling, staring down at us in cold judgement. The floor became soft and uncertain beneath my feet, heaving like the slow swell of the sea. Deep dark shadows were forming all around us, slowly closing in.
      “It’s him, isn’t it?” said Bettie, gripping my arm with both hands. “It’s Pen. He’s imprinting his vision of Hell right here, with us.”
      “Looks like it,” I said. “Only this doesn’t look or feel like any illusion. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s real, as such, but it could be real enough to kill us.”
      “How is he doing this?” said Alex. “This bar has defences and protections laid down by Merlin himself!”
      “Yes,” I said. “Where is the power coming from to let him do something like this?”
      I fired up my gift, and looked at Pen Donavon through my third eye, my private eye. And I found the hidden source of his unnatural power. I could See the thing, inside his body, tucked away under the sternum and over the heart. It must have come to his little shop as just another piece of interdimensional flotsam and jetsam; and he probably hadn’t realised how powerful it was until he accidentally activated it. Probably hadn’t even realised it was alive until it forced its way inside him. Now it was attached to him, a part of him, with long tendrils reaching into his heart and gut and brain. A mystical parasite, living off him while feeding him power in return.
      I couldn’t tear it out of him without killing him in the process. And I didn’t want to kill Pen Donavon, even after all the trouble he’d caused. None of this was really his fault. I doubt he’d had a free and uninfluenced thought of his own since the parasite took up residence inside him.
      Demons emerged from the shadows around us. Hunched and horned, with scarlet skin; medieval devils all with distorted versions of Donavon’s face. They smiled to show their jagged teeth and flexed their clawed hands hungrily. Alex had his cricket bat out again. Cathy had the shotgun. Betty and Lucy Coltrane stood back-to-back, ready to take on all comers. Bettie looked at me. I looked at Pen Donavon.
      “Why Hell?” I said bluntly. “Why are you so convinced of your own damnation? What could a small and insignificant little man like you have possibly done that could be so bad that all you ever think about is Hell?”
      For a long moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. The demons were getting very close. And then he sighed deeply, staring into his glass.
      “I had a dog,” he said. “Called him Prince. He was a good dog. Had him for years. Then I got married. She never took to Prince. Just wasn’t a dog person. We all got along well enough…until the marriage hit problems. We started arguing over small things and worked our way up. She said she was going to leave me. I still loved her. Begged her to stay; said I’d do anything. She said I had to prove my love for her. Get rid of the dog. I loved my dog, but she was my wife. So I said I’d give Prince up. Find him a good home somewhere else. But no, that wasn’t good enough. She said I had to prove she was more important to me than the dog, by killing him.
      “Have Prince put down. Or she’d leave me. My choice, she said.
      “I killed my dog. Took him to the vet’s, said good-bye, held his paw while the vet gave him the injection. Took my dog home. Buried him.
      “And she left me anyway. Prince was my dog. He was the best dog in the world. And I killed him.” He looked slowly round the bar, at the Hell he’d made. Slow tears were running down his cheeks. “I deserve this. All of it.”
      The fires blazed up all around us. My bare skin smarted painfully from the heat. The air was thick with the stench of blood and brimstone. The demons were almost within reach. In his need to be punished, to make atonement for his sin, Pen Donavon had brought Hell to Earth; or something close enough to do the job. He could burn up the whole bar and everyone in it…but the parasite inside him would make sure he survived. To go on suffering. Suddenly I knew what the parasite fed on.