A cool blonde Receptionist sat behind a desk behind a layer of bulletproof glass. Manning the phones, doing maintenance on her fingernails, and dealing with visitors when she absolutely had to. Harry went to take my arm to usher me into the waiting area. I looked at him, and he quickly withdrew the hand. You can’t let people like Harry Fabulous get too chummy; they take advantage. I strolled forward, looking curiously about me, and all the bells in the world went off at once.
      “It’s all right! It’s all right!” yelled Harry, waving his arms and practically jumping up and down on the spot. “It’s just John Taylor! He’s expected!”
      The bells shut off, and the Receptionist reappeared from underneath her desk, glaring venomously at Harry. I looked at him.
      “Security scan,” he said quickly. “Purely routine. Nothing to worry about. It’s supposed to detect dangerous objects, and people, and you…set off every alarm they have. I did warn them to dial down the settings while you were here…Would you like me to take your coat?”
      “Wouldn’t be wise,” I said. “I haven’t fed it recently.”
      Harry looked at me for some clue as to whether he was supposed to laugh, but I just looked right back at him. Harry swallowed hard, took a step back, and looked at the Receptionist.
      “Contact Security, there’s a dear, and tell them to make an exception for John Taylor.”
      “Make lots of them,” I said. “I’m a very complicated person.”
      “I won’t hang around,” Harry decided. “I’m almost sure I’m urgently needed somewhere else.”
      He did the business with the key again and disappeared. That’s Harry Fabulous for you. Always on the go.
      The Receptionist and I looked at each other. Somehow I just knew we weren’t going to get along. She was a small petite platinum blonde with sultry eyes, a mouth made for sin, and a general air of barely suppressed rage and violence. I didn’t know whether that was a result of working here, or why they hired her in the first place. She was the first line of defence against anyone who turned up, and I had no doubt she had all kinds of interesting weapons and devices somewhere close at hand…I decided to be polite, for the moment, and gave her my best professional smile.
      “My name is John Taylor. The Editor wants to see me.”
      She sniffed loudly and gave me a pitying smile. Her voice came clearly through the narrow grille in the bulletproof glass. “No-one ever sees the Editor. In fact, no-one’s seen Mr. du Rois in the flesh for years. Safer that way. Your appointment will be with the Sub-Editor, Scoop Malloy.”
      “Scoop?” I said. “Was he one of your best reporters?”
      “No; he used to work with animals. Take a seat.”
      I took a seat. I know when I’m outclassed. The long red leather couch was hard and unyielding. There was no-one else waiting in Reception. An assortment of old magazines were laid out on a low table. I leafed through them, but there was nothing particularly interesting. Which Religion’s cover boasted the start of a new series: We road test ten new gods! The Nightside edition of Guns & Ammo had Suzie Shooter on the cover again. They think she adds a touch of glamour. What’s on in the Nightside was the size of a telephone directory. It’s cover boasted 101 Things You Need to Know About Members Only Clubs! Including How to Get In, and How to Get Out Alive Again. I quite like What’s On; it’s constantly updating itself as people and places change and disappear. Sometimes the page will rewrite itself even as you’re reading it. They stopped having an index because it kept whimpering.
      I gave up on the magazines, leaned back on the rock-hard sofa, and thought some more about what I knew about the Unnatural Inquirer’s legendary Editor, Owner, and Publisher, Gaylord du Rois. Everyone was pretty sure that wasn’t his real name, but it had been right there at the top of the masthead of every issue for years now, right from the days when the photos were grainy black and white, the type-face was tiny, and they printed the whole thing on toilet paper. Gaylord might be a man, or a woman, or a committee. Might even have been several people in a row. No-one knew for sure, and it wasn’t for want of trying to find out. Certainly the aggressive tone of the paper hadn’t changed in over a hundred years; it was just as blunt and brash and obnoxious now as it had always been.
      I sat more or less patiently on the couch, idly considering the possibilities of redecorating the Reception area with a couple of incendiaries, while a handful of people drifted in and out. Reporters and office functionaries wandered past, caught up in their own business and paying no attention at all to me. Paparazzi teleported in just long enough to drop off their latest snatched photos of celebrities doing things they shouldn’t, and then disappeared again. There are cannibal demons on the Street of the Gods less hated and despised than the Unnatural Inquirer’s paparazzi. Suzie shoots at them on sight, but so far she’s only managed to wing a couple. We stopped them hanging about our house by planting disguised man-traps. Nothing like the occasional scream of a wounded paparazzi in the early hours of the morning to help you sleep peacefully.
      A few of the paparazzi looked at me thoughtfully but were careful not even to point their cameras in my direction. It’s all in the reputation.
      “You’re sure the Sub-Editor knows I’m waiting?” I said to the Receptionist. “I was told this was urgent.”
      “He knows,” she said. “Or maybe he doesn’t. Embrace the possibilities!”
      I walked over to her and gave her one of my best hard looks. “I’ll bet this place would burn up nicely if I put my mind to it.”
      “Go ahead. See if I care. The only time this place gets a makeover is after a good fire. Sometimes they just scrub down the walls.”
      I gave up. “Distract me. Talk to me. Tell me things.”
      “What sort of things?”
      “Well, how big is the paper’s circulation these days?”
      She shrugged. “Don’t think anyone knows for sure. The print run’s been rising steadily for thirty years now, and it was huge before that. Sales aren’t limited to the Nightside, you know. It goes out to all kinds of other worlds and dimensions. Because everyone’s interested in what’s happening in the Nightside. We get letters from all over. We got one from Mars.”
      “Really? What did it say?”
      “No-one knows. It was in Martian.”
      I decided I didn’t want to talk to her any more. I sat down on the couch again and looked at the framed front pages on the walls, showcasing the paper’s long history.
      Elvis Really Is Dead! We Have Proof! Honeymoon Over; Giant Ape Admits Size Isn’t Everything! Hitler Burns in Hell! Official! Orson Welles Was Really a Martian! We Have X-Rays! Our Greatest Ever Psychic Channels New Songs from Elvis, John Lennon, Marc Bolan, and Buddy Holly! All Available on a CD You Can Buy Exclusively from the Unnatural Inquirer!
      Proof, if proof were needed, that not only is there one born every second, but that they grow up to read the tabloids.
      Still, if nothing else, the Unnatural Inquirer had style. It got your attention. For want of anything better to do, I picked up a copy of the latest edition from the low table. The front-page headline was Tribute Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to Tour Nightside! Over Their Dead Bodies, Says Walker! I leafed through the paper, grimacing as the cheap print came off on my fingers.
      Apparently the Holy Order of Saint Strontium had been forcibly evicted from the Street of the Gods after it was discovered that their Church had a radioactive half-life of two million years. “Bunch of pussies,” said Saint Strontium. He had a lot more to say, but none of the reporters present wanted to hang around long enough to find out what…There were some intriguing Before and After photos of Jacqueline Hyde, poor soul. Jacqueline and Hyde were in love, but doomed never to meet save for the most fleeting of moments…Another story insisted that the Moon really was made of green cheese, and that the big black monoliths were just oversized alien crackers…And right at the bottom of an inner page, in very small type: Old Ones Fail to Rise Yet Again.
      Most of the rest of the pages were filled with excited puff pieces about various Nightside celebrities I either hadn’t heard of, or didn’t give a damn about, including two whole pages given over to photos of young women getting out of limousines and taxis, just so the paparazzi could get a quick photo of their underwear, or lack of it. As far as the Unnatural Inquirer is concerned, taste is something you find in the restaurant guides.
      I skipped through to the personal ads and announcements in the back pages; all human life is there, and a whole lot more besides.
      Soul-swapping parties; just show up and throw your karma keys into the circle. Bodies for rent. Sex change while you wait. Go deep-sea diving in sunken R’lyeh; no noise-makers allowed. A whole bunch of pyramid schemes, some involving real pyramids. Remote viewing into the bedrooms and bathrooms of the rich and famous; highlights available on VHS or DVD. Time-share schemes, involving real time travel. (Though those tended to be stamped on pretty quick by Old Father Time, especially if they weren’t cons.) And, of course, a million different drugs from thousands of dimensions; buyer very much beware. The paper felt obliged to add its own warning here; apparently some intelligent plant civilisations had been attempting to stealthily invade our world by selling their seeds and cuttings as drugs. Sort of a Trojan horse invasion…
      And then, of course, there were the personal messages…Lassie come home, or the kid gets it. Boopsie loves Moopsie; Moopsie loves Boopsie? (Oh, I could see tears before bedtime in the offing there…) Dagon shall rise again! All donations welcome. Desperately Seeking Elvira…Mad scientist who digs up graves, steals the bodies, and sews the bits together to create a new living supercreature seeks similar…GSOH essential.
      The Unnatural Inquirer has the only crossword puzzles that insult you if you take too long at guessing the clues—very cross word puzzles. And they had to cancel the kakuro because the numbers kept adding up to 666.
      I dropped the paper back onto the table, went to wipe my inky fingers on my coat, and then realised that’s not a good idea when you’re wearing a white trench coat. I took out a handkerchief and rubbed briskly at my fingers. I hadn’t realised how much I knew about the paper. The tabloid had insinuated itself into the Nightside so thoroughly that pretty much anything you saw or thought of reminded you of something that had appeared in the Unnatural Inquirer. For a while there was even a rumour going around that the Editor had a precog on staff, who could see just far enough into the future to view the next day’s edition of the Night Times, so that the Unnatural Inquirer could run all their best stories in advance. I had trouble believing that. First, I knew the Editor of the Night Times, and he wouldn’t sit still for something like that for one moment, and second, the Unnatural Inquirer had never been that interested in news stories anyway. Not when there’s important gossip and tittle-tattle to spread.
      Not that the Unnatural Inquirer gets everything its own way. The Editor once sent a reporter into Rats’ Alley, where the homeless and down-and-outs gather, to dig up some juicy stories on rich and famous people who’d been brought low by misfortune and disaster. Razor Eddie, Punk God of the Straight Razor, and defenders of street people everywhere, rather took exception to such hard-heartedness. He sent the reporter back to the Editor in forty-seven separate parcels. With postage owing.
      “The Sub-Editor is ready to see you now,” said the Receptionist. “He’s sending a copy-boy to escort you in.”
      “Does he think I’ll get lost?” I said.
      She smiled coldly. “We don’t like people wandering around. Personally, I think all visitors should be electronically tagged and stamped with time codes so they’d know exactly when their welcome was wearing out.”
      The door to the inner offices opened, and out shambled a hunched and scowling adolescent in a grubby T-shirt and jeans. His T-shirt bore the legend FUCK THEM ALL AND LET THE DOCTORS SORT THEM OUT. He flicked his long, lank hair back out of his sullen face, looked me over, grunted once, and gestured for me to follow him inside. I felt like giving him a good slap, on general principles.
      “Let me guess,” I said. “Everything’s rotten and nothing’s fair.”
      “I’m nineteen!” he said, glaring at me dangerously. “Nineteen, and still a copy-boy! And I’ve got qualifications…I’m being held back. You just wait; there’ll be some changes made around here once they finally see sense and put me in charge…”
      “What’s your name?” I said.
      “I’m beginning to think it’s Hey you! That’s all I ever hear in this place. Like it would kill the old farts that work here to remember my name. Which is Jimmy, if you really care, which you probably don’t.”
      “And what do you want to be when you grow up?” I said kindly.
      His glare actually intensified, and veins stood out in his neck. “To be a reporter, of course! So I can dig up the secrets of the rich and powerful, and then blackmail them.” He looked at me slyly. “I could always start with you. Get a good story on the infamous and mysterious John Taylor, and they’d have to give me my own by-line. Go on; tell me something really shocking and sordid about you and Shotgun Suzie. Does she really take the gun to bed with her? Do you sometimes swap clothes? You’d better give me something, or I’ll just make up something really juicy and extra nasty anyway. I’ll say you said it, and it’ll be just your word against mine.”
      I looked at him thoughtfully, and he fell back a step. “Jimmy,” I said, “if I see one word about Suzie or me in this rag with your name on it, I will use my gift to find you. And then I’ll send Suzie to you, who will no doubt wish to demonstrate her extreme displeasure. Suddenly and violently and all over the place.”
      He sniffed dismally. “Worth a try. Follow me. Sir.”
      He led me into the inner offices of the Unnatural Inquirer. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, incense, sweat, and tension. People bustled importantly back and forth around the various reporters, who were all working with furious concentration at their desks, hammering their computer keys like their lives depended on it. They kept calling out to each other, mostly without looking up from what they were doing, demanding information, opinions, and the very latest gossip, like so many ravenous baby birds in a nest. They all sounded cheerful enough, but there was a definite undercurrent of malice and cut-throat competition. The general noise level was appalling, the air was almost unbreathable, and the whole place seethed with talent and ambition.
      It was everything I’d hoped it would be.
      The copy-boy slouched down the main central aisle with me in tow, and everyone ostentatiously ignored me. There was a definite bunker atmosphere to the inner offices; probably because most people really were out to get them, for one reason or another. The industrious men and women of the Unnatural Inquirer drank and smoked like it was their last day on Earth, because it just might be. Their readers might love them, but nobody else did. For the staff here it was always going to be Us versus Them, with everything and everyone fair game. There were always lawsuits, but the Editor & Publisher could afford the very best lawyers and took pride in keeping cases in court forever and a day. The paper might never have won a case, but it had never lost one either, mostly because the paper outspent or outlived the litigants. The Unnatural Inquirer had never once apologised, never printed a retraction, and never paid a penny in compensation. And was proud of it. Which was why the staff had to hide away in a bunker and take out special insurance against assassination attempts.
      There was a prominent sign on one wall. YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE VICIOUS, PETTY-MINDED, AND MEAN-SPIRITED TO WORK HERE; BUT IT HELPS. Anywhere else, this would have been a joke.
      Jimmy the copy-boy finally brought me to the Sub-Editor’s office, knocked on the door like he was announcing the imminent arrival of the barbarian hordes, and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. I followed him in, shutting the door carefully behind me, and Scoop Malloy himself stood up from behind his paper-scattered desk to greet me. He was a short, dumpy figure, with a sad face and a prematurely bald head, wearing a pullover with the phrase SMILE WHEN YOU CALL ME THAT embroidered over his chest. He popped a handful of little purple pills from a handy bottle, dry-swallowed them in one, and came out from behind his desk to give me a limp, almost apologetic handshake. I shook his hand gingerly. Partly because I was remembering where his nickname came from, and partly because his hand felt like it might come off in mine.
      He glared at the copy-boy. “What are you still doing here? Isn’t there some important tea you should be making?”
      “Fascist!” Jimmy hissed, slamming the door behind him on his way out. Then he opened it again, shouted, “I’m nineteen! Nineteen!” and disappeared again.
      Scoop Malloy sighed deeply, sat down behind his desk, and gestured for me to take the visitor’s chair. Which was, of course, hard and uncomfortable, as visitor’s chairs always are. I think it’s supposed to imply you’re only there on sufferance.
      “Puberty’s a terrible thing,” said Scoop. “Particularly for other people. I’d fire him if he wasn’t someone’s nephew…Wish I knew whose…Welcome to the salt mines, Mr. Taylor. Sorry to drag you all the way in here, but you see how it is. The price of freedom of the Press is eternal vigilance and constant access to heavy-duty armaments.”
      “I was given to understand that the matter was urgent,” I said. “And that the pay would be quite staggeringly good.”
      “Oh, quite,” said Scoop. “Quite.” He looked at me searchingly. “I understand you’ve done some work for Julien Advent, at the Night Times.”
      “On occasion,” I said. “I approve of Julien.”
      Scoop smirked unpleasantly. “I could tell you some things about him…”
      “Don’t,” I said firmly. “First, I wouldn’t believe them; and second, if you were to insult my good friend Julien Advent, I would then find it necessary to beat you severely about the head and shoulders. Quite probably until your head came off, after which I would play football with it up and down the inner offices.”
      “I never believed those stories anyway,” Scoop said firmly. He leaned forward across his desk, trying hard to look business-like. “Mr. Taylor, here at the Unnatural Inquirer we are not in the news business, as such. No. We print stories, entertainment, a moment’s diversion. We employ a manic depressive to write the Horoscopes; to keep our readers on their toes, we run competitions with really big prizes, like Guess where the next Timeslip’s going to appear; and we’re always first with news about what the rich and famous are up to. Even if that news isn’t exactly accurate. We print the stories people want to read.”
      “And to Hell with whether they’re true?” I said.
      Scoop shrugged, smiling his unpleasant smile again. “Oh, you’d be surprised how close to the truth we get, even if it is by accident.”
      There was a knock at the door. Scoop looked up with a certain amount of relief that he wouldn’t have to face me alone any more. He called for the new arrival to enter, the door opened, and both Scoop and I stood up to greet the newcomer. She was tall and athletic-looking, and drop-dead gorgeous. Long jet-black hair framed a heart-shaped face, with high cheek-bones, sparkling eyes, and one of those old-fashioned pouting rosebud mouths. She wore a smart polka-dot dress, carefully cut to show off as much of her excellent body and magnificent bosom as possible.
      She also had two cute little horns curling up from her forehead, poking out of her Bettie-Page-style bangs.
      “This is one of our most promising young journalists,” Scoop said proudly. “John Taylor, may I present to you Bettie Divine. And vice versa, of course. She’ll be partnering you on this case.”
      I’d been reaching out to shake Bettie’s hand, but immediately withdrew it. I glared at Scoop.
      “I don’t think so. I choose my own partners on cases, people I know can keep up with me and look after themselves. I can’t guarantee you results if I have to drag a passenger around with me. No offence, Bettie.”
      “None taken,” she said cheerfully in a rich husky voice. “But I work for the Unnatural Inquirer. Let’s see if you can keep up with me.”
      She sat on the edge of the Sub-Editor’s desk, crossing her legs to show off an awful lot of thigh, and leaning back so she could arch her back and point her breasts at me. Good tactics. Good legs. Really good breasts.
      “Hey,” she said, amused. “My face is up here.”
      “So it is,” I said. “What exactly is it you do here, Bettie?”
      “I am a demon girl reporter, darling. And I do mean demon. Daddy was a Rolling Stone, on one of their Nightside tours, Mummy was a slut lust demon groupie. Somebody ought to have known better, but here I am. Large as life, and twice as talented. I really am a first-class journalist, and you’re going to need me on this case, darling. So, just lie back and enjoy it.”
      “She’s right,” Scoop said heavily. He sat down behind his desk again, and I lowered myself back onto the unwelcoming visitor’s chair. Scoop laced his fingers together and looked at me steadily. “Bettie’s accompanying you is part of the deal, Mr. Taylor. If we’ve got to spend the kind of money it’s going to take to get you to do this for us, we are determined to get our money’s worth. And the best way to recoup some of the expense is by running our very own exclusive story of how you did it.”
      “On the case with John Taylor!” said Bettie. “An intimate account of our time together, traversing the darkest depths of the Nightside! Honestly, sweetie, we won’t be able to print copies fast enough. The bouncer might as well be outside throwing them in. No-one’s ever had a story like this.”
      “No,” I said.
      She slid forward off the desk and leaned over me, so close I could feel her breath on my face. “You’re going to need me on this case, darling. Really you are. And I can be very helpful.”
      I stood up, and she retreated a little. “Put the brakes on, darling,” I said. “I’m spoken for.”
      “Ah, yes!” said Bettie, clapping her dainty little hands together and giving me a knowing look. “We know all about that! The infamous John Taylor and the sexy psycho killer Shotgun Suzie! We’re already taking odds as to which of you will end up killing the other. Do tell us all about her, John; what’s Suzie really like? Is she still sexy when the bedroom door is shut? What do you talk about in those special little moments? Inquiring minds are positively panting to know all the sordid little details!”
      “Let them pant,” I said, and something in my voice made her fall back a step. “Suzie is a very private, very dangerous person.”
      “Why don’t I explain exactly what the case entails,” Scoop said quickly. I sat down in my chair again, and Bettie leaned against the side of the desk, facing me, her arms folded under her impressive bosom. I concentrated on Scoop.
      “There has been a broadcast from the Afterlife,” Scoop said bluntly. “And the broadcast has been intercepted. It turned up on someone’s television set, quite out of the blue with no warning; and the possessor of that television set, one Pen Donavon, was sharp enough to record it, and burn it onto a DVD. He then approached us, offering the Afterlife Recording for sale; and we bought exclusive rights to it for one hell of a lot of money.”
      “An intercepted broadcast?” I said. “From Heaven, or Hell?”
      “Who knows?” said Scoop. “For that matter, who cares? This is actual information, from the Great Beyond! Our readers will eat this up with spoons.”
      “Am I to understand you haven’t actually seen what’s on this DVD yet?” I said.
      “Not a glimpse,” Scoop said cheerfully.
      “It could be a fake,” I said. “Or it could be a broadcast from some other world or dimension.”
      “Doesn’t matter,” said Scoop. “We own it. We want it. But unfortunately, Donavon has disappeared. He was on his way to us, with the DVD, in return for the very generous cheque we had waiting, but he never got here. We want you to find it, and him, for us. We have to have that Recording! We’ve been trailing it all week, for its appearance in the Sunday edition! If someone else gets their hands on it, and pips us to the post…And it’s not just the story; do you have any idea how much we could make selling copies of the DVD?”
      I was still unconvinced, despite his enthusiasm. “This isn’t going to be like that transmission from the future that someone taped off their television back in the nineties, is it? Suzie bought a copy of the tape off eBay, and when we played it, it was only a guy in a futuristic outfit, showing his bare arse to the camera and giggling a lot.”
      Scoop leaned forward over his desk, doing his best to fix me with his watery eyes. “The Unnatural Inquirer authorises you to find and recover this Afterlife Recording, and its owner, by any and all means you deem necessary. Bring the DVD to us, preferably with the owner but not necessarily, and the Unnatural Inquirer will pay you one million pounds. In cash, gold, diamonds, or postage stamps; whatever you prefer. We’ll also pay you a bonus of another fifty thousand pounds, if you will agree to watch the Recording and give us your expert opinion as to whether or not it’s the real thing. The word is, you are qualified to know.”
      I nodded, neither confirming nor denying. “And if I say it’s a fake?”
      Scoop shrugged. “We’ll put it out anyway. We can always spice it up with some specially shot extra footage. We can use the same people we’ve got working on Lilith’s diaries.”
      “Wait just a minute!” I said. “I know for a fact that my mother never left any diaries!”
      “We know!” said Scoop. “That’s why we’ve got three of our best people writing them now, in the next room. They’re going to be big, I can tell you! Not as big as the Afterlife Recording, of course, which will be a license to print money…Not that we’d do that, of course. Not after the last time…You have to find this DVD for us!”
      “And I go along with you to tell the story of how you tracked it down!” said Bettie.
      I thought about it. A million pounds was an awful lot of money…“All right,” I said. “Partner.”
      Bettie Divine jumped up and down, and did a little dance of joy, which did very interesting things to her breasts. I looked back at Scoop.
      “If this Afterlife Recording should turn out to be the real thing,” I said, “I’m not sure anyone should be allowed to see it. Real proof of Heaven or Hell? I don’t think we’re ready for that.”
      “It’s the headline that’s important,” said Scoop. “That’s what will sell lots and lots of papers. The DVD…can be fixed, one way or the other. It’s the concept we’re selling.”
      “But if it is real,” I said. “If it is hard evidence of what happens after we die…the whole Nightside could go crazy.”
      “I know!” said Bettie Divine. “A real story at last! Who would have thought it! Isn’t it simply too wonderful, darling!”

THREE - Faith, Hope, and Merchandising