And when you’ve finished reading the Unnatural Inquirer, just throw it away. It automatically disappears, returning to the printing presses to be recycled for the next edition. Even the Night Times can’t match that. No-one has ever wrapped fish and chips in the Unnatural Inquirer.

On the other hand, the Night Times’s reporters and staff are on the whole well-known, respected, and admired. The Unnatural Inquirer’s people are often shot at on sight (especially the paparazzi), though if you survive long enough, you can end up as a (minor) celebrity. There’s a high burn-out rate amongst the staff, but surprisingly there are always more, waiting in the wings to take their place. If you don’t have it in you to be someone important or significant, or a celebrity, the next best thing is being someone who knows all about them and can crash all their parties.

“Hello, hello, John Taylor! Good to see you again, old thing! Still busy being infamous and enigmatic?”

I winced internally even as I turned to face the man who’d hailed me so cheerfully. I should have known who they’d send. Harry Fabulous was a fence and a fixer, and the best Go To man in the Nightside—for all those little and very expensive things that make life worth living. You want to smoke some prime Martian red weed, mainline some Hyde, or score someone else’s childhood (innocence always goes down big in the Nightside), then Harry Fabulous is your man, always ready to take your last penny with a big smile and a hearty handshake.

Or at least he used to be. Apparently he’d had one of those life-changing experiences in the back room of a members-only club, and now he was more interested in doing Good Deeds. Before it was too late. There’s nothing like a glimpse of Hell to jump-start a man’s conscience.

Harry was dressed to kill, as always, looking slick and polished. He wore a long coat whose inside pockets were practically crammed with all sorts of things you might or might not want to spend too much money on. He had a long, thin face, a lean and hungry look, and dark, somewhat haunted, eyes. He smiled easily at me, a very practised smile, and I gave him something very similar in return.

We were both, after all, professionals.

“Didn’t know you worked for the Unnatural Inquirer, Harry,” I said.

“Oh, I’m just a stringer,” he said vaguely. “I do get around, and I have been known to hear things, so…I’ve been sent to bring you to their main offices, old thing. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I had to be sure you hadn’t been followed.”

“Harry,” I said. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

“Oh, quite! Yes, indeed! Just a formality, really.”

He fished inside his long coat and produced a very ordinary-looking key. He glanced round briefly, turned to face me to cover his movements, and pushed the key into an invisible lock, apparently floating in mid air between us. The key disappeared even as Harry turned it, and just like that the world seemed to drop away under my feet. There was a brief sensation of falling, and we left the Nightside behind us.

We reappeared in a Reception office that looked just like any other Reception office. Luxurious enough to impress on you how important the operation was, but not comfortable enough to encourage you to stick around any longer than was absolutely necessary. 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.