Waiting for Godalming (18 page)

“Icarus used to shuffle up his delivery schedules.”

“I never did. Will you switch on the spectremeter?
Please
?”

“And our dad couldn’t read very well, so he used to deliver all the furniture and stuff to the wrong locations.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“Perhaps I
did
have this switched on all the time,” said Johnny Boy. “Is this
off
or
on
?”

“I don’t know,” said the grinner, suddenly ceasing to grin. “But I seem to have double vision. I can see two of you now.”

“And I can see two of you.”

“There!” shouted one of the demons. “They’re coming straight at us. Smash into them.”

“It’s two cabs,” said the chauffeur. “Driving side by side.”

“Well smash into both of them.”

“Get out of the way!” shouted Icarus. There was a taxi in front of him now.

“Is that
us
?” asked Johnny Boy, climbing up. “That looks like the back of Mr Woodbine’s head.”

“What,
the
Mr Woodbine?” asked the erstwhile grinner. “Lazlo Woodbine, private eye? The world famous detective? Is that
really
him, do you think?”

“I’m backing up,” said Icarus. “I’m going to go another way.”

“There’s a taxi coming behind us now, really fast.”

Smash went something into something.

No it didn’t.

“They went right through us,” said the chauffeur. “Like ghosts.”

Cormerant made tighter fists. “They’re using the bloody spectremeter. Just smash into every taxi you see, we’ll get the right one sooner or later.”

“Whoa!” went Johnny Boy. “We just went right through ourselves. Or rather, ourselves just went right through us. Or was it …”

“Far out,” said the grinner, grinning again. “I’m tripping out here, man. So, like I was saying. Our dad got into real trouble with the company he worked for, because he kept delivering stuff to the wrong locations. And eventually they sacked him. And then he was on the dole and we couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments on the house and we had a nice house and he had to sell it and get a tiny one instead. And it was all the fault of Icarus and I was going to tell Mum, but Icarus said he’d lock me in the suitcase if I did and never let me out.”

“He’s making this up,” said Icarus, desperately swerving to avoid an oncoming taxi which turned out to be driven by himself.

“I never told Mum, but Icarus used to have nightmares. He’d wake up screaming that he could put everything back in the right places.”

“Shut up!” shouted Icarus. “Shut up, or I’ll throw you out of the taxi. You’re no good to us like this. Pull yourself together. Be Lazlo Woodbine again.”

“You want
me
to be Lazlo Woodbine? How could I be Lazlo Woodbine? That was him in the other taxi, wasn’t it?”

“That was
you
in the other taxi.”

“Johnny Boy said it was Lazlo Woodbine. When are we going to have lunch?”

Icarus Smith glared over his shoulder. “You’ve
got
to help us,” he growled. “You
are
Woodbine. The greatest detective of them all. You tell him, Johnny Boy.”

“Stop being horrid to your brother,” said Johnny Boy.

“Oh no!” shouted Icarus. “Look out.”

Something smashed into something else.

No it didn’t.

Yes it did.

The long dark automobile ploughed head on into the taxi, mashing up its bonnet to oblivion and bringing the ‘Oh no’ing driver through the windscreen in slow motion amidst the shattering glass.

The driver crashed down onto the bonnet of the long dark automobile.

“That’s him,” shouted Cormerant. “Get out and shoot him dead.”

The demons hastened to oblige.

One took hold of the crash victim’s bloody head and twisted it around.

“Kill him!” shouted Cormerant. “I’ve suffered enough of this young man.”

The demon did as he was told.

And shot the young man dead.

It really was true.

About your whole life flashing right in front of your eyes at that terrible final moment. As the taxi struck the long dark automobile and Icarus Smith shouted “Oh no!” his whole life flashed before him, right in front of his eyes.

And it really hadn’t been the best of lives.

Icarus could see himself as a child, locking his brother in the suitcase and pushing it under his mother’s bed. Tormenting his brother, hiding his teddy, making him play the manic detective in order to find it again. Shuffling up his father’s delivery sheets and dreaming the guilt-ridden nightmares, where only he, Icarus Smith, could put the world to rights.

Icarus saw all this as the taxi’s brakes failed and the cab ran into the long dark automobile.

Into the
rear
of the long dark automobile.

It was a considerable smash-up, but as the long dark automobile was already ground into the front of another taxi, the long dark automobile didn’t move very much at all.

The demon who had despatched the driver of the other cab looked up from his murderous business and wiped away at the spatterings of blood that sprinkled his terrible visage.

“I think I just shot the wrong bloke, sir,” he said.

And of course it was true.

An innocent man lay dead on the long dark bonnet of the long dark automobile. An innocent man who did bear an uncanny resemblance to Icarus Smith. Could almost, in fact, have been taken for his twin. What are the chances of that happening?

Eh?

“Kill the right one then,” shouted Cormerant. “Hurry up. Do it now.”

“Right one, yes sir.” The demon hastened once more to oblige.

“Out of the taxi.” Icarus was out and dragging the rear door open.

“I’m all shook up,” said Johnny Boy.

“I’m hungry,” said the other. “Are we going to have lunch now?”

Icarus bundled them out of the taxi. “Run,” said he. “It’s the only hope we have.”

“Brother,” said the other, “I’m really not in the mood to run.”

A gun went bang and a bullet parted a Ramón Navarro hairstyle.

“I’ll race you, brother Icarus, come on.”

Icarus ran, and Johnny Boy ran and the man with the parted hairstyle ran as well.

The demons marched behind, quills high and quivering, evil reptiloid faces thrusting forward, nasty nasty mouthparts sucking in the air.

Oh, and guns held high and firing all the way.

The three men ran across the Ealing Road, towards the tower blocks on the other side. They ran across a forecourt area which seemed strangely deserted, considering the time of day, and then they ran between the first two mighty buildings.

Why do they call buildings buildings? Have you ever wondered about that? I mean a building is only a building when you’re actually building it. When it’s built, it’s built. So they really shouldn’t call them buildings, should they? They should be called builts.

“These builts are really high, aren’t they?” said Johnny Boy, as he ran.

“These whats?” Icarus answered him.

“Oh nothing, just a thought.”

“In here,” said Icarus, “quickly.” And he pushed upon a door.

The door was locked.

Icarus fumbled out his little roll of tools.

A bullet ricocheted off the doorpost.

“We’re gonna die,” cried Johnny Boy. “Hurry, Icarus, hurry.”

Icarus hurried.

The lock clicked and the door came open.

Icarus pushed the two men through the doorway. The little one with the terrified expression. The big one with the stupid look on his face.

Icarus slammed shut the door and locked it.

“There,” he said. “We’re safe.”

“There
what
?” said Johnny Boy. “We’re not safe. Those buggers will shoot the lock off.”

Icarus turned. They were in a corridor,
another corridor
! It seemed to be all corridors these days. And underground or overground, a corridor looks like a corridor. Except, of course, when it’s a passage, or a hall. But then they’re all pretty much the same when you get right down to it, except for the carpets. And perhaps the lighting; you can do a lot with a corridor if you light it tastefully. Not that you could have done much with this particular corridor. It looked really ill kept. Uncared for. This was an unloved corridor. It did have some stairs leading up from it, which was something, although not really something worth cheering about.

“Up the stairs,” shouted Icarus.

“Up?” said Johnny Boy. “Since when did escape ever lie
up
?”

“It did the last time.”

“We were
underground
the last time.”

The sounds of gunfire echoed from without.

“
Up
it is,” said Johnny Boy, taking a very big breath.

“Brother,” said the other, “you won’t let those beastly things get me, will you? You will protect me?”

“Where’s the gun?” said Icarus.

“Here,” said Johnny Boy.

“Then I’ll hold them off. You run upstairs with my useless brother here and knock on someone’s door. Call the police, or something.”

“And which police would that be? The good police, or the wrong’un police? Should I ask them to send cops without quills? Do you think they’ll understand what I mean?”

“Are you trying to be difficult?”

“No, it’s just …”

The sounds of close-quarters gunfire and the lock exploding from the door put paid to further conversation.

“
Up
?” said Johnny Boy. “
Up
it certainly is.”

And so they ran up. First up one staircase. Then another. And they ran along further corridors, knocking on doors and shouting for help. But do you know what? Not a single door opened to them. Not one. And why was that? Was it because the good people of Brentford turn deaf ears to callings for help? No, it wasn’t that. Was it, then, that they were afraid to answer their doors, what with all the shooting going on, and everything? No, it wasn’t even that. If it was anything at all, and it was, it was because, but for the three men running and the demons firing shots, the entire flat block was deserted.

There wasn’t another living soul in that flat block.

And why was that?

Had all the occupants gone out shopping? No. Had they gone on holiday then, a coach outing, or something?

No, not even that.

They had all, in fact, moved. Every last one of them.

Because the tower block had been declared an unsafe structure. It was scheduled for demolition.

Today, actually.

In about fifteen minutes.

Now normally, when a local council decides to blow up one of its flat blocks, this gets on to the news and thousands of people turn up to watch the detonation and cheer as the block comes tumbling down. And the streets get sealed off for half a mile around and policemen stand in their shirt sleeves and smile at everybody and some cherub-faced kiddie who’s won the “Why I’d like to blow up the flat block” competition gets to light the blue touch-paper or press down a plunger of whatever and it’s all a right old carry-on and how-do-you-do.

But not
here
.

Not in Brentford.

Brentford doesn’t go in for all that hullabaloo.

Brentford does things in a quiet and sedate manner.

In Brentford, the council simply rehouses the flat block’s occupants, in new and finer homes, then calls in the SAS to demolish the tower block with SHITE. So the flat block simply ceases to exist. In silence. In the twinkling of an eye.

Down on the ground level, the SAS were even now setting up the charges and unrolling metres of fuse.

Up on level twenty-three Icarus banged on more doors.

“Perhaps they’ve all gone to the shops,” puffed Johnny Boy.

“Or on holiday, on a coach outing. What do you think, brother Icarus?”

“I think we’re in trouble here.”

“Oh, you’ll get us out of it. You always get me out of every sticky situation.”

Sounds of marching feet came up the stairwell. Sounds of handguns being reloaded. Ugly sounds of sucking breath and grunting.

“Onward, ever upward,” said Icarus.

“I’m all done,” said Johnny Boy. “Leave me here to die.”

“Icarus will save us, Johnny Boy, don’t fear.”

Icarus gestured with the trusty Smith and Where’s-the-sense-in-going-up-any-higher-why-not-simply-make-a-fight-of-it-here?

“Up,” urged Icarus. “Up.”

But of course, going up has to stop eventually. Eventually you
are
up and you can’t go up any more. Eventually, you hit the top and when you’ve hit it, you know, just know, exactly where your going up has got you.

They crashed out through a door and onto the tower block roof.

An acre of blank tarmac, relieved only by four of those whirly-whirly-air-conditioning-sucky-out-extractor-fan jobbies that you always find on tower block roofs, along with all the pigeon poo.

Johnny Boy crawled onto the rooftop. “Seventy-two floors,” he wheezed. “But at least we got here at last.”

Icarus staggered onto the rooftop. He whirled around like one of the whirly-whirly things, the gun in his hand and a rather horrified look on his face. “Where is it?” he managed to say. “Where is it?”

“Where’s
what
, brother? Ooh, the view’s lovely from here. You can see Kew Gardens; look at the sunlight on the glasshouses.”

“Where’s the cradle? The window-cleaning cradle. I thought we could abseil down on the ropes.”

“Now that would have been exciting,” said Johnny Boy, clutching at his heart. “I’d have been right up for a bit of abseiling.”

“We’re trapped.” And Icarus whirled around again.

And got himself dizzy. And fell right over.

Johnny Boy sat on his little bum and laughed. Laughed, that’s what he did. “There’s no way down,” he laughed. It was what they call
hysterical laughter
. “You’ve got us up here and there’s no way down.”

“Shut up!” shouted Icarus. “I’m thinking.”

“Better think fast, then.” Johnny Boy laughed some more.

“I could soar down,” said the other, making wings with his arms. “I could soar down, like a swan, or a mighty condor, spread my wings and …”

Icarus dragged him back. “Sober up,” he shouted. “Pull yourself together. Be Woodbine. You
are
Woodbine. He’d get us out of this. He would.”

“You’ll get us out of this, brother. I trust you. You’re my hero.”

“No. I’m nobody.
You’re
the hero. You’re
my
hero. Really.”

“You’re not
my
hero.” A gun-toting demon stepped out onto the rooftop.

“Nor mine,” said his hideous companion. “I only like Carol Vorderman.”

“I don’t like anybody,” said Cormerant, pushing the demons aside.

Icarus raised the gun to fire. But guns have safety catches. Click went the gun. And click again. Icarus fumbled to drop the safety catch, but there is a knack to these things.

Cormerant strode over the rooftop and tore the gun from the hand of Icarus Smith. “Here,” said he. “Why don’t you let your companion here have a go at it?” And he thrust the gun into the limp-looking hand of the man who had once been Woodbine.

“Oh no,” said that man. “I can’t be having with guns. Nasty things, guns. They go off and shoot people.”

Cormerant laughed. “He’s sort of lost his edge, hasn’t he?” he said, and he offered the gun to Johnny Boy.

“I’ll have a go,” said the midget. “But I might need a hand pulling the trigger.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Cormerant. “But not for that.”

And he reached down to Johnny Boy, took hold of his head and snapped the little man’s neck.

“No!” Icarus screamed and sank to his knees beside the body. “No, Johnny Boy, no.”

Cormerant turned to his two evil henchmen. “Go back to the car,” he said. “I can handle everything here. Take the car back to the Ministry. I’ll join you later for a nice cup of tea.”

The demons departed, laughing all the way.

“You killed him.” Tears flowed down the face of Icarus Smith. “You callous monstrous bastard. There was no need to kill him.”

“I’m cleaning up,” said Cormerant. “Cleaning up all the mess you’ve made with your interfering. He’s dead because of you. Because you stole my briefcase. You’re the one who has to live with his death on your conscience. But don’t worry yourself, you won’t have to live with it for long.”

“I’ve posted the cassette tape.” Icarus looked up through his tears. “I’ve posted the cassette tape of you torturing Professor Partington. To a newspaper. Along with a signed testimony and one of the Red Head tablets. And I’ve had a chemist analyse the drug and produce gallons of it in liquid form. A friend of mine has it and if I don’t phone him at a specified time today, he’ll pour it into the local water supply. People will see you and your kind for what you really are.”

“I don’t think so,” said Cormerant. “Your friend. Would that be your best friend? Friend Bob?”

“How—”

“I’ve been keeping a careful eye on you. Your best Friend Bob is now sadly deceased.”

“No,” wept Icarus. “No.”

“You should never have messed with me,” said Cormerant. “You don’t know who I really am.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” said Icarus.

“Language,” said Cormerant. “You shouldn’t talk like that to me. You should call me by my official title. You should call me Your Satanic Majesty.”

Icarus stared up at Cormerant. And the face of evil stared back down at him.

“You have seriously fucked with me,” declared the Evil One. “You’ve fucked with my plans. I had that moron Colin right in the palm of my hand. He was mine. And with his father dead and the Earth passed on to him, I would have had it. He would have sold the Earth to me, just to spite his mother. But then you come along. Stupid petty criminal and you fuck everything up. There’s no Hell for you to go to now. But I will make your final moments more hellish than your puny little mind could ever comprehend.”

And the spawn of the pit took hold of Icarus and lifted him from his feet.

“Eyes first,” said His Satanic Majesty. “Eyes plucked out and pushed down your throat, then other bits too, one slowly after another.”