“But…if a Major Player is involved, doesn’t that mean the Afterlife Recording must be the real deal?” said Bettie. “Or else, why would they get involved?”
      “They’re involved for the same reason we are,” I said. “Because they want to discover whether the Recording is the real deal, or not. Or…because Someone wants us to think it’s real…Nothing’s ever simple in the Nightside.”
      And then I stopped and looked thoughtfully at Bettie Divine. There was something subtly different about her. Some small but definite change in her appearance since we’d left the Unnatural Inquirer offices. It took me a moment to realise she was now wearing a large floppy hat.
      “Ah,” said Bettie. “You’ve noticed. The details of my appearance are always changing. Part of my natural glamour, as the daughter of a succubus. Don’t let it throw you, dear; I’m always the same underneath.”
      “How very reassuring,” I said. “We need somewhere quiet, to think and talk this through…somewhere no-one will bother us. Got it. The Hawk’s Wind Bar and Grille isn’t far from here.”
      “I know it!” said Bettie, clapping her little hands together delightedly. “The spirit of the sixties! Groovy, baby!”
      “You’re like this all the time, aren’t you?” I said.
      “Of course!”
      “I will make your Editor pay for this…”
      “Lot of people say that,” said Bettie Divine.
      The Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille started out as a swinging cafй and social watering hole for all the brightest lights of the 1960s. Everyone who was anyone made the scene at the Hawk’s Wind, to plot and deal and spread the latest gossip. It was wild and fabulous, and almost too influential for its own good. It burned down in 1970, possibly self-immolation in protest at the splitting up of the Beatles, but it was too loved and revered to stay dead for long. It came back as a ghost, the spirit of a building haunting its own location. People’s belief keeps it real and solid, and these days it serves as a repository for all that was best of the sixties.
      You can get brands of drink and food and music that haven’t existed for forty years in the rest of the world at the Hawk’s Wind Bar & Grille, and famous people from the sixties are always dropping in, through various forms of Time travel, and other less straightforward means. It’s not for everyone, but then, what is?
      I pushed open the Hindu latticed front door and led the way in. Bettie gasped and oohed at the psychedelic patterns on the walls, the rococo Day-Glo neon signs, and the Pop Art posters of Jimi, Che, and Timothy Leary. The air was thick with the scents of jasmine, joss sticks, and what used to be called jazz cigarettes. A complicated steel contraption hissed loudly in one corner as it pumped out several different colours of steam and dispensed brands of coffee with enough caffeine to blow the top of your head clean off. Hawk’s Wind coffee could wake the dead, or at least keep them dancing for hours. I sat Bettie down at one of the Formica-covered tables and lowered myself cautiously onto the rickety plastic chair.
      Revolving coloured lights made pretty patterns across walls daubed in swirls of primary colours, while a juke-box the size of a Tardis pumped out one groovy hit after another, currently the Four Tops’ “Reach Out, I’ll Be There.” Which has always sounded just a bit sinister to me, for a love song. All around us sat famous faces from the Past, Present, and Futures, most there to just dig the scene. Bettie swivelled back and forth in her chair, trying to take it all in at once.
      “Don’t stare,” I said. “People will think you’re a reporter.”
      “But this is so amazing!” said Bettie, all but bouncing up and down in her chair. “I’ve never been here before. Heard about it, of course, but…people like me never get to come to places like this. We only get to write about them. Didn’t I hear this place had been destroyed?”
      “Oh, yes,” I said. “Several times. But it always comes back. You can’t keep a good ghost down, not when so many people believe in it.”
      The juke-box’s music changed to Manfred Mann’s “Ha! Ha! Said the Clown.” Go-Go girls, wearing only handfuls of glued-on sequins, danced wildly in golden cages suspended from the ceiling. At a nearby table, a collection of secret agents exchanged passwords and cheerful tall tales, while playing ostentatiously casual one-upmanship with their latest gadgets—pens and shoes that were communication devices, watches that held strangling wires and lasers, umbrellas that were also sword-sticks. One agent actually blinked on and off as he demonstrated his invisibility bracelet. Not far away, the Travelling Doctor, the Strange Doctor, and the Druid Doctor were deep in conference. Presumably some Cosmic Maguffin had gone missing again. And there were the King and Queen of America, smiling and waving, as they passed through.
      A tall and splendid waitress dressed in a collection of pink plastic straps and thigh-high white plastic boots strode over to our table to take our order. Her impressive bust bore a name badge with the initials EV. She leaned forward over the table, the better to show off her amazing cleavage.
      “Save it for the tourists, Phred,” I said kindly. “What are you doing working here? The monster-hunting business gone slack?”
      She shrugged prettily. “You know how it is, John. My work is always seasonal, and a girl has to eat. You wait till the trolls start swarming again in the Underground and see how fast they remember my phone number. Now, what can I do you for? We’ve got this amazing green tea in from Tibet, though it’s a bit greasy; or we’ve got some freshly baked fudge brownies that will not only open your doors of perception, but blow the bloody things right off their hinges.”
      “Just two Cokes,” I said firmly.
      “You want curly-wurly straws with that?”
      “Of course,” I said. “It’s all part of the experience.”
      “Excuse me,” said Bettie, “but why does he call you Phred, when your initials are EV? What does the EV stand for?”
      “Ex-Virgin,” said Phred. “And I stand for pretty much anything.”
      And off she went to get our order, swaying her hips through the packed tables perhaps just a little more than was strictly necessary.
      “You know the most interesting people, John,” said Bettie.
      I grinned. “Let us concentrate on the matter at hand. What can you tell me about the guy who originally offered to sell you the Afterlife Recording?”
      “All anyone knows is the name, Pen Donavon,” said Bettie, frowning prettily as she concentrated. “No-one in the offices has ever met him; our only contact has been by phone. He called out of the blue and almost got turned away. We get a lot of crank calls. But he was very insistent, and once we realised he was serious, he got bumped up to Scoop, who in turn passed him on to the Editor, who made the deal for exclusive rights.”
      “For a whole lot of money,” I said. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd, given that no-one ever met Donavon, or even glimpsed what was on the DVD?”
      “We had to pin the rights down before he went somewhere else! Trust me, the paper will make more money out of this story than Donavon will ever see.”
      “Do you at least have his address?”
      “Of course!” Bettie said indignantly. “We’ve already checked; he isn’t there. Skipped yesterday, owing two weeks’ rent.”
      “We need to go there anyway,” I said patiently. “There may be clues.”
      “Ooh, clues!” Bettie said delightedly. “Goody! I’ve never seen a clue.”
      She opened up a large leather purse, which I would have sworn she wasn’t carrying before, and rummaged around in it for her address book. The purse seemed to be very full and packed with all kinds of interesting things. Bettie caught me looking, and grinned.
      “Mace spray, with added holy water. Skeleton keys, including some made from real bones. And a couple of smoke grenades, to cover a quick exit. A demon girl reporter has to be prepared for all kinds of things, sweetie.”
      We went to Pen Donavon’s place. It wasn’t far. Bettie stuck close beside me. She wasn’t too keen on appearing in public, given some of the stories she’d written. Apparently while celebrities tended to take such things in their stride, their fans could be downright dangerous.
      “Relax,” I said. “No-one’s going to look at you while I’m here.”
      “You do seem to attract a lot of attention,” Bettie agreed, peering out from under her large floppy hat, which was now a completely different colour. “It’s really fascinating, the way people react to your presence. I mean, there’s fear, obviously, and even an element of panic; but some people look at you in awe, as though you were a king, or a god. You really have done most of the things people say, haven’t you?”
      “I shall neither confirm nor deny,” I said. “Let’s just say I get around, and leave it at that.”
      “And you and Shotgun Suzie…?”
      “Are off-limits. Don’t go there.”
      She smiled at me dazzlingly. “Can’t blame a girl for trying, darling.”
      It turned out Pen Donavon had a small apartment over a pokey little junk shop, one more in a row of shabby, grubby establishments offering the usual dreams and damnations at knocked-down prices. The kind of area where the potential customers scurry along with their heads bowed, so they won’t have to make eye contact with anyone. Pen Donavon’s establishment boasted the grandiose name Objets du Temps Perdu, a literary allusion that was no doubt wasted on most of his clientele. I wasn’t entirely sure I got it myself.
      Bettie and I peered through the streaky, fly-specked window. It appeared that Donavon specialised in the kind of weird shit that turns up in the Nightside, through the various Timeslips that are always opening and closing. Lost objects and strange artifacts, from other times and dimensions. All the obviously useful, valuable, or powerful things are snapped up the moment they appear; in fact, there are those who make a good living scavenging the Timeslips. (Though they have to be quick on their feet; there’s never any telling how long a Timeslip will last, and you don’t want to be caught inside it when it disappears.) But a lot of what appears often defies easy description, or analysis, and such things tend to trickle down through the mercantile community, the price dropping at every stage, until it ends up in shops like these. Things too intricate, too futuristic, or just too damned weird to be categorised, even by all the many learned authorities that the Nightside attracts like a dog gets fleas. Great discoveries, and fortunes, have been made in places like this. But not many.
      I rubbed the sleeve of my trench coat against the window. It didn’t help.
      “Well,” I said. “Nothing here to give the Collector any sleepless nights. Only the usual junk and debris from the various time-lines. I wouldn’t give you tuppence for any of it.”
      “Wait a minute,” said Bettie. “You know the Collector? Personally? Wow…I keep forgetting, you know all the legends of the Nightside. What’s he like?”
      “Vain, obsessive, and very dangerous,” I said.
      “Oh, that is so cool. I never get to meet any legends. I just write about them.”
      “Best way,” I said. “They’d only disappoint you in person.”
      “Like you?” said Bettie.
      “Exactly.”
      The window display did its best to show off odd bits of future technology, most of which might or might not have been entirely complete, along with oddly shaped things that might have been Objects of Power, alien artifacts or relics of lost histories. Carpets that might fly, eggs that might hatch, puzzle-boxes that might open if only you could find the right operating Words. No price tags on anything, of course. Bargaining was everything, in a place like this.
      The sign on the door said CLOSED. I tried the door, and it opened easily. No bell rang as we entered. There was no sign of any shop assistant, or customers, and the state of the place suggested there hadn’t been any for some time. The gloomy interior was so still and silent you could practically hear the dust falling. I called out, in case anyone might still be skulking somewhere, but no-one answered. My voice sounded flat in the quiet, as though the nature of the place discouraged loud noises. Bettie dubiously studied some of the things set out on glass shelves, wrinkling her perfect nose at some of the more organic specimens, while I went behind the counter to check out the till. It was the old-fashioned type, with heavy brass push keys, and pop-up prices. It opened easily, revealing drawers empty save for a handful of change. Beside the till was a letter spike with piled-up bills. I checked through them quickly; they weren’t so much bills as final demands, complete with threats and menaces. Clearly the shop had not been doing well.
      A man with this kind of economic pressure hanging over him might well see a way out through fabricating an Afterlife Recording, and then lose his nerve when the time came to actually present it to the Unnatural Inquirer.
      I found a set of stairs at the back, leading up to the overhead apartment. I insisted on going first, just in case, and Bettie crowded my back all the way up. The bare wooden steps creaked loudly, giving plenty of advance warning, but when we got to the apartment the door was already slightly ajar. I made Bettie stand back and pushed the door open with one hand. The room beyond was silent and empty of life. I stepped inside and stood by the door, looking around thoughtfully. Bettie pushed straight past me and darted round the place, checking all the rooms. No-one was home. Pen Donavon’s apartment was a dump, with the various sad pieces of his life scattered everywhere. There were no obvious signs that the place had already been searched. It would have been hard to tell.
      The furniture was cheap and nasty, the carpet was threadbare, and the single electric light bulb didn’t even have a shade. And yet the main room was dominated by a huge wide-screen television, to which had been bolted a whole bunch of assorted unfamiliar technology. The additions stood out awkwardly, with trailing wires and spiky antennae. Some of it looked like future tech, some of it alien. Lights glowed here and there, to no apparent purpose or function. Presumably it had all been brought up from the shop downstairs. I approached the television and knelt before it, careful to maintain a safe distance. Metal and mirrors, crystal and glass, and a few oily shapes that looked disturbingly organic. Up close, the stuff smelled…bad. Corrupt.
      Bettie produced a camera from her embroidered purse and took a whole bunch of photos. She wanted to photograph me, too, and I let her. I was busy thinking. She finally ended up bending down beside me, sniffing disparagingly.
      “Isn’t this an absolutely awful place? There’s underwear soaking in the bath, and no-one’s cleaned up in here for months. Some men shouldn’t be allowed to live on their own. You don’t even want to know what I found in the toilet. This television is very impressive, though. Have you ever seen anything like it?”
      “No,” I said. “But then future and alien technology isn’t my speciality. This could be genius, or it could be junk.”
      “Could it have enabled the television to look in on a broadcast from the Afterlife?”
      “Who knows? But I wouldn’t touch any of it, if I were you. It looks…unhealthy.”
      “Trust me, darling. I wouldn’t touch that if it offered to buy me champagne.”
      I straightened up, and she straightened up with me. Her knees didn’t creak. I looked round the apartment again. For all the clutter, the room was still basically characterless. No paintings or posters on the walls, no personal touches like photos or prized possessions, nothing to show Donavon had ever thought of this place as home. No; it was more like a place to stay while he was passing through on his way to better things. Once he got his lucky break…I was beginning to get an idea of who Pen Donavon might be, one of those desperate dreamers, always chasing that big break, that lucky find that would make him rich and famous and change his life forever. And maybe, this time he had…
      I tried my gift again, hoping to pick up a ghost image of Pen Donavon’s past, so I could follow it as he left…but once again the force from Outside slammed my inner eye shut the moment it started to open. I grimaced and shook my head slowly, waiting for the pain to settle. I was going to find out who was behind this, then do something about it. Something really nasty and violent.
      “So, what do we do now?” said Bettie, who, despite everything I’d said, persisted on looking at me like I had all the answers.
      “When faced with serious questions of a religious nature, there’s only one place to go,” I said. “And that is the Street of the Gods. If only because they always have the best gossip.”
      We took the Underground train. There are other ways of getting to the Street of the Gods, but the train is by far the safest. Bettie and I descended into the Underground system and strode through the cream-tiled tunnels covered in the usual graffiti, not all of it in human languages. CTHULHU DOES IT IN HIS SLEEP, was a new addition, along with THE EYES OF WALKER ARE UPON YOU. Bettie went to pay for our tickets, and I stopped her.
      “It’s all right, darling!” she said. “When you work for the Unnatural Inquirer, we pay for everything!”
      “I don’t pay,” I said. I gestured at the ticket machine, and it opened obediently to let us pass. I smiled just a little smugly at Bettie. “Payment for an old case. One of the trains had gone rogue; people got on and then it wouldn’t let them get off again. You could hear the trapped passengers beating helplessly on the walls, screaming for help.”
      “What happened?” said Bettie, her eyes wide. “What did you do?”
      “I frightened the train,” I said. “And it let everyone go.”
      “I shall never look at a train in the same way again,” said Bettie.
      We went down to the platform, giving the various buskers a wide berth. Especially the one singing four part harmonies with himself. It’s one thing to drop a few coins in a hat, because the wheel turns for all of us, but it isn’t always wise to listen to the music they play. Music really can have charms in the Nightside.
      The platform was crowded, as usual. Half a dozen members of the Tribe of Gay Barbarians, standing around looking tough with their leathers and long swords, complete with shaved legs, pierced nipples, and heavy face make-up. A silverback gorilla wore an exquisitely cut formal suit, complete with top hat, cane, and a monocle screwed firmly into one eye. A Grey alien wearing fishnet stockings and suspenders, passing out tracts. And a very polite Chinese demon, sipping hot steaming blood from a thermos. The usual crowd.
      The destination board offered the usual possibilities: SHADOWS FALL, HACELDAMA, STREET OF THE GODS. There are other destinations, other possibilities, but you have to go down into the deeper tunnels for those; and not everyone who goes down that far comes back up again.
      A train roared in, right on time. A long, silvery bullet, preceded by a blast of approaching air that smelled of other places. The carriages were solid steel tubes, with only the heavily reinforced doors standing out. No windows. To get to its various destinations, the train had to travel through certain intervening dimensions; and none of them were the kinds of places where you’d want to see what was outside. The door hissed open, and Bettie and I stepped into the nearest carriage. The seats were green leather, and the steel walls were reassuringly thick and heavy. No-one else wanted to get into our carriage, despite the crowd on the platform.
      The trip to the Street of the Gods was mostly uneventful. The few things that attacked us couldn’t get in, and the dents in the steel walls had mostly smoothed themselves out again by the time the train pulled into the station. Bettie was still laughing and chattering as we made our way up the elevators to the Street of the Gods. You learn to take such things in your stride in the Nightside.
      On the Street of the Gods, you can find a Church to pretty much anything that anyone has ever believed in. They stretched away forever, two long rows of organised worship, where the gods are always at home to callers. Prayers are heard here, and answered, so it pays to be careful what you say. You never know who might be listening. The most important Beings get the best spots, while everyone else fights it out for location in a Darwinian struggle for survival. Sometimes I think the whole Nightside runs on irony.
      Most of the Beings on the Street of the Gods didn’t want to talk to me. In fact, most of them hid inside their churches behind locked and bolted doors and refused to come out until I’d gone. Understandable; they were still rebuilding parts of the Street from the last time I’d been here. But there are always some determined to show those watching that they aren’t afraid of anyone, so a few of the more up-and-coming Beings sauntered casually over to chat with me. A fairly ordinary-looking priest who said he was the newly risen Dagon. Stack! The Magnificient; a more or less humanoid alien who claimed to be slumming it from a higher dimension. And the Elegant Profundity, a guitar-carrying avatar from the Church of Clapton, who was so laid-back he was practically horizontal. The small and shifty God of Lost Things hung around, evasive as always. None of them professed to know anything about a broadcast from the Afterlife, let alone a DVD recording. Most of them were quite intrigued by the thought.
      “It can’t be authentic,” said Dagon. “I mean, we’re in the business of faith, not hard evidence. And if there had ever been a broadcast from the Hereafter, we’d have heard about it long before this.”
      “And just the idea of recording one is so…tacky,” Stack! said, folding his four green arms across his sunken chest.
      “But it could be very good for business,” said the Elegant Profundity, strumming a minor chord on his Rickenbacker.
      The group went very thoughtful.
      “There’s money to be made here,” said Dagon. “Serious money. And there’s nothing like business success to bring in bigger congregations. Everyone loves a winner.”
      “But…if this recording should prove real, and accurate, it would provide proof of What Comes After,” Stack! said. “And the last thing anyone here wants is hard evidence of that. We derive our power from faith and worship. A true and actual Afterlife Recording could drive a lot of us out of business. Besides, most of Humanity isn’t ready for the truth.”
      I regarded him thoughtfully. “Are you saying you know What Comes Next?”
      Stack! squirmed uncomfortably, which given his rather fluid shape was a somewhat disturbing sight. “Well, no, not as such. I may be from a higher dimension, but not that high.”
      “You have to have faith,” said the Elegant Profundity. “Solid evidence of the true nature of Heaven or Hell would only screw up everyone’s life. It’s one thing to suppose, quite another to know.”
      “This whole situation raises more questions than I’m comfortable with,” I said. “What exactly is the DVD a recording of? Have there always been broadcasts from Heaven and Hell, and we never knew? And who were the broadcasts aimed at?”
      “Each other?” said Bettie. “Maybe they just like to…keep in touch.”
      “But then why has no-one ever intercepted one of these broadcasts before?” I said. “Why should it suddenly turn up on someone’s television set, no matter how much work’s been done to it? And if anyone here so much as mentions moving in a mysterious way, I shall get cranky. Quite seriously and violently cranky.”
      “If there were such communications, on a regular basis, we would know about it,” Dagon said firmly. “It’s our job to provide mysteries and wonder, not grubby little facts.”
      “But what if it is true,” Stack! said wistfully. “Was this interception of the broadcast a mistake, or deliberate? Are we supposed to know, at last? And who or what is behind it; and what could they hope to gain?”
      “Money, probably,” said the Elegant Profundity, and everyone nodded solemnly.
      “Maybe we should all do our own DVDs,” Stack! said. “Can’t risk falling behind…Let’s face it, you can’t have too much publicity.”
      “Sure,” said the Elegant Profundity. “I’ve been releasing CDs on a regular basis ever since I got here. Rock and Roll Heaven won’t build itself, you know.”
      “Yes, yes!” said Bettie Divine. “The Unnatural Inquirer could give away a new DVD every week, with the Sunday edition! Build your own collection!”
      “We don’t want the faithful sitting at home in front of their televisions,” Dagon said firmly. “We want them here, in our Churches.”
      “We already sell religious statues, and reliquaries, and blessed artifacts,” Stack! said reasonably. “DVDs are the future. For now. Does anyone here know about this Extra Definition thing?”
      “New formats are the invention of the Devil,” said the Elegant Profundity. “He’s always been big on temptation. But people would pay through the nose for teachings direct from their God! And even second-hand faith is better than none.”
      “Royalty cheques outweigh collection plates any day,” Stack! said. “I want you all to concentrate on one word: franchise…”
      “Oh, come on!” said Dagon. “Where’s that going to lead, the McChurch? You’ll be talking about bringing in image consultants and focus groups next.”
      “Why not?” Stack! replied. “We have to move with the times. Faith is fine, but wealth lasts longer.”
      “Heretic!” said Dagon, and punched Stack! out with a very unpriestly left hook.
      I took Bettie firmly by the arm, and we hurried away. Believers were coming running from all directions, eager to join the fray, and you really don’t want to get caught in the middle of a religious war on the Street of the Gods. Especially not when the smiting starts. Someone always ends up throwing lightning bolts, and then it’s bound to escalate. We headed back to the Underground station, discussing what we knew about previous attempts to communicate with the Other Side, so we wouldn’t have to listen to the rising sounds of conflict and unpleasantness behind us.
      It was already raining frogs.
      “Surprisingly, Marconi is supposed to be the first man to use technology to try and make contact with the Hereafter,” I said. “Some sources claim he only invented radio because he was trying to find a way to talk to his dead brother. There are even those who say he succeeded; though reports of what he heard are…disturbing.”
      “Then there are people who approach dying people in hospitals,” said Bettie. “And persuade them to memorise messages from a bereaved family, to pass on to people already dead. There’s usually money involved—to pay hospital bills or look after the dying person’s family. The Unnatural Inquirer paid good money for a dozen messages to Elvis, but we never got a reply. What was that?”
      “Don’t look back,” I said. “Then there are the Death-walkers. A disturbing bunch of action philosophers with a very hands-on approach to the Near Death Experience. They kill themselves, a necromancer holds them on the very brink for a while, and then he brings them back to life. The briefly departed are then questioned on what they saw, and who they spoke to, while they were dead. I’ve read some of the transcripts.”
      “And?”
      “Either the dead lie a lot, or they have a really nasty sense of humour.”
      “I once did a piece on people who hear messages on radios trained to dead stations, or tape recorders left running in empty rooms,” said Bettie. “I listened to a whole bunch of recordings, but I can’t say I was convinced. It’s all hiss and static, and something that might be voices, if you wanted it badly enough. It’s like Rorschach ink-blots, where people see shapes that aren’t really there. You hear what you want to hear. Was that a Church blowing up?”
      “It’s the pillars of salt that worry me,” I said. “Just keep walking and talking.”
      “Then there’s psychic imprinting,” said Bettie, staring determinedly straight ahead. “You know, when a person stares at a blank piece of film and makes images appear. I did this marvellous piece on a man who could make naughty pictures appear on bathroom tiles, from two rooms away! The paper did a full colour supplement on most of them. You could only get the full set by mail order, under plain cover.”
      “Psychic imprinting is more common than most people like to think,” I said. “That’s where most ghost images come from. And genius loci, where bad things happening poisons the surroundings, to produce Bad Places. Like Fun Faire.”
      “Wait just a minute, darling,” said Bettie. “I heard about what just happened there! Was that you?”
      I simply smiled.
      “Oh, poo! You’re no fun at all sometimes.”
      “That augmented television set bothers me,” I said. “Could Pen Donavon have accidentally invented something that allowed him to Listen In, however briefly, on something Humanity was never supposed to know about? Stranger things have happened, and most of them right here in the Nightside. This place has always attracted rogue scientists and very free thinkers, come here in pursuit of the kinds of knowledge and practices that are banned everywhere else, and quite properly, too. Walker has a whole group of his people dedicated to tracking these idiots, then shutting them down, with extreme prejudice if necessary. Unless what they’re doing looks to be unusually interesting, or profitable, in which case their work gets confiscated for the greater good. Which means the scientists get to work exclusively for the Authorities, somewhere very secure, for the rest of their lives.”
      “Except there aren’t any Authorities, any more,” said Bettie. “So who do these scientists work for now?”