Presently still, the bottle was uncorked, glasses filled and glasses drained away. Icarus opened one of the boxes of tablets.
He placed a tablet on his palm and rolled it all about. It didn’t look all that much. Just a little white pill. There was nothing about it that said BEWARE.
‘What will I see, when I take it?’ he asked Johnny Boy.
‘The truth,’ said the small man. ‘And you won’t like it one little bit.’
‘And are you seeing the truth? Now, at this moment?’
Johnny Boy glanced all around and about. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And it’s all pretty safe in here. There’s nothing that should rattle you too much. But out there,’ Johnny Boy gestured to out there in general, ‘out there is a whole different matter. What you’ll see out there will shake you up. You’ll never be the same man again once you’ve taken the drug. The effects don’t wear off.’
Icarus lifted the tablet to his mouth.
But then he paused. Did he really truly want to know this truth, whatever it was? Did he really want to take some strange drug, whose unknown effects would be with him for ever? Did he, Icarus Smith, really really truly truly want to change the world? Yes, he’d had the dream. Yes, he was the relocator. Yes, he felt that he was on some mission that seemed almost divine.
But he was a lad of eighteen. His whole life stretched before him. He had already got himself into something rather dangerous. Would it not perhaps be better just to cut and run while he still had the chance?
‘It’s a lot to think about, isn’t it?’ said Johnny Boy.
‘Far too much,’ said Icarus Smith. ‘And that is not the way that I do business. So let’s leave it to fate. It either goes in, or it doesn’t.’
‘Eh?’
Icarus tilted back his head, closed his eyes and opened his mouth. And then he flipped the tablet high into the air.
The tablet spun into the fug of cigarette smoke, caught a fleeting beam of sunlight when it reached its apogee, became a tiny star hung in a foul-smelling Heaven and then fell back to Earth.
To vanish down the throat of Icarus Smith.
‘Fate has it then,’ said Johnny Boy.
Icarus gagged and reached for his glass and swallowed down some vodka.
‘There’s no going back now, lad,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘Let’s just hope that you’re up to it. I think you are. In fact, I’m sure you are.’
Icarus wiped at his mouth. Sweat was already coming to his brow. The thought ‘Oh God, what have I done?’ was crying very loudly in his head.
‘Don’t panic,’ said Johnny Boy, patting the arm of Icarus. ‘You won’t actually feel anything. You’ll experience a bit of double vision at first, but when that clears…well, when that clears, we’ll talk about things.’
Icarus clutched at his head. There was something going on in there. Something decidedly odd. There was a rushing noise in his ears now. And a queer sensation, as if parts of his brain were being tightened, or bolted up, or realigned in some way.
‘Tuned in,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘Your brain’s just being tuned in. It’s all to do with frequencies, you see. Like the ghosts. We’re all attuned to only a limited range of frequencies, which is why we can only hear and see and smell a limited number of things. We can’t see everything that’s really going on around us. And that’s the way the wrong’uns would like to keep it. That’s why they’ll stop at nothing to make sure the professor’s drug doesn’t fall into the right hands. Except it already has. It’s fallen into yours.’
The double vision was really kicking in now. Icarus pinched at his eyes. ‘I can’t see.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘I’m going blind.’
‘It will clear, lad. It will clear.’
Icarus suddenly jerked bolt upright, his eyes widened and he stared at Johnny Boy. And then his jaw dropped open and then it slowly closed again.
‘My God,’ said Icarus Smith. ‘Johnny Boy, you’re beautiful.’
‘Well, thank you very much.’
‘But you are. You’re beautiful. You glow. You’ve got a golden aura all around you.’
Icarus glanced at the bar. And just as it is when you do some really good acid, it was as if he was now seeing everything the way it really was, for the first time ever.
The only difference was, that Icarus really was seeing it.
He gawped at the people standing at the bar. Talking, drinking, smoking, swearing. Just ordinary people. Normal people. But Icarus could really see them. Really see them. He could see, not just the people, but what they really were. The very essence of the people. What made the people people.
Some were evidently good people. They veritably shone. Like Johnny Boy, who sparkled. Some, however, were not at all good. These exuded a grimness about them. A dark foreboding.
And it wasn’t just the people. The bar itself looked different too. The colours were heightened. Cleaner. Crisper. Everything was more defined. More clarified.
‘Wow,’ went Icarus Smith. ‘And I do mean, Wow.’
‘Like it?’ said Johnny Boy. ‘Like what you see?’
‘It’s incredible. See that big bloke over in the corner? He’s lying to that chap with the moustache. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can actually see that he’s lying. I can, how can I explain this, perceive it somehow.’
‘Doors of perception,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘Aldous Huxley wrote about that.’
Icarus took up his glass for a swig. ‘Urgh,’ he said, gaping at the vodka. ‘This stuff’s been watered down. You can actually see, my God, you can actually see the water in it.’
‘I was too polite to mention that,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘Seeing as you were buying.’
Icarus looked the midget up and down. ‘You’re a really good person, man,’ he said.
‘No, please,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘Don’t start calling everybody man. Break the habit now, while you still can.’
‘Yeah, but man oh man oh man.’ Icarus whistled. ‘This is some trip.’
‘It is for now,’ said Johnny Boy. ‘But sadly it won’t be for long.’
‘You mean this effect will wear off?’
‘No, but you’ve only seen the good side of it so far. And no, hold on, now you’re going to see the other side. I don’t want you to look just yet, but someone has just come into the bar.’
‘Who?’ asked Icarus.
‘It doesn’t matter who, just look at me, please. I’m going to ask you to turn your head in a moment and look. But when you do and when you see what you see, I don’t want you to react. Don’t scream, or anything.’
‘As if I would,’ said Icarus.
‘Listen, lad. I told you not to look at the ghosts, didn’t I? But you didn’t listen. Now I’m telling you to keep your wits about you and not to react to what you see. You mustn’t give the game away. You mustn’t let them know that you can see them.’
‘Would this be the wrong’uns?’ whispered Icarus.
‘Yes it would, lad. He’s up at the bar now, so turn your head slowly and keep your mouth tight shut. And don’t stare, whatever you do. Just look and then look away. I really mean it, trust me and do what I tell you.’
‘All right,’ said Icarus. ‘I will.’
And Icarus turned his head slowly and looked towards the man who now stood at the bar. And then Icarus turned his head back slowly towards Johnny Boy.
And Johnny Boy looked into the eyes of Icarus Smith.
And Johnny Boy saw the terror that was in them.
Icarus was finding it hard to form words, but when he could, they came out in a whisper. ‘It’s not a man,’ he whispered. ‘It’s some kind of monster. What is it?’
‘It’s a wrong’un, lad. That’s what it is. Now take another look and don’t react. It doesn’t know you can see it for what it really is. You’re safe, as long as you don’t do anything stupid.’
Icarus turned his head once more and feigned a casual glance towards the figure standing at the bar.
It was hideous. Evil. Lo
athsome. It was more than the height of a man, with tall quills rising from a scaly elongated head. The eyes were those of a reptile, greeny-red with vertical slits. There was no nose to speak of, but the mouthparts were complicated, just as those of some grossly magnified insect. And there was more to it, so very much more. And all this more was fearsome to behold.
Icarus took a gulp of his watered down vodka and slowly turned once more to Johnny Boy. ‘It’s an alien,’ he whispered. ‘A creature from outer space. They really do walk among us.’
Johnny Boy grinned. ‘Alien?’ he said. ‘You watch far too many duff old movies. That wrong’un isn’t an alien.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It’s a demon from Hell, lad. Although it’s not exactly from Hell. You see, people have always had the wrong idea about Heaven and Hell. They thought Heaven was up in the clouds and Hell way down in the burning depths. But they’re not. They’re both right here. Inhabiting the same space we do.
‘You see, there is no afterlife. No Heaven or Hell that you go to when you die. When you die, you’re finished, gone, kaput. But there are angels and there are demons and they do walk among us. This world can be Heaven or Hell, depending how your cards fall. Depending who, or rather what, is pulling your strings. I don’t know if there’s a God or not. But if there is, I’ll bet He’s down here too.’
‘Demons,’ whispered Icarus. ‘And they’ve always been among us? And people can’t see them for what they are? People just think they’re other people?’
‘You’re catching on, lad.’
‘It’s all too much. I mean, well, I mean, the demons and the angels both here on Earth. I mean, they don’t get on with each other, surely, I mean…’
‘You mean, you mean, you mean. No, they don’t get on with each other. You might have noticed that mankind does indulge in a bit of warfare once in a while. The odd bit of conflict. Well, that’s not always the fault of mankind. All those evil despots, those Hitlers and Stalins, people have said that they sold their souls to the devil. But that’s not true. They really were demons. Waging their wars. Using up people as if they were nothing at all. So that the forces of evil can rule the planet.’
Icarus buried his face in his hands. ‘No,’ he wept. ‘No.’
‘Pull yourself together, lad. People will look. The wrong’un will look.’
Icarus did some snappy pulling together. ‘We have to do something about this,’ he said. ‘This is big. This is really really big. This is bigger than anything. The knowledge of this could really change the world.’
‘So, it’s a good thing you won’t be telling anybody about it, isn’t it?’
Icarus looked up in horror.
The chauffeur of the long dark automobile looked down.
He wasn’t a wrong’un. But he was a bad ’un.
He gestured with a bulging jacket pocket.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is a gun. You might have seen it earlier. Now pick up all the boxes and the paper and walk quietly before me to the front door.’
‘And what if I don’t?’ said Icarus. Suddenly bold and very very angry. ‘Are you really going to shoot me in here, in a crowded bar?’
Icarus heard the pistol cock.
‘Without a moment’s thought,’ said the chauffeur.
Icarus could see the man within the man.
And Icarus could see that the man within the man wasn’t lying.
Icarus gathered up the boxes and the papers and the spectremeter, and with Johnny Boy before him and the chauffeur behind, moved across the crowded bar towards the door.
They passed close by the creature standing before the counter. Icarus could feel its pitiless gaze and a chill ran through him. What was he to do? Shout for help, turn suddenly and fight?
The jacket-muffled muzzle of the gun dug into his back. ‘Just keep walking,’ came the chauffeur’s voice at his ear.
Outside and drawn up close to the kerb was the long dark automobile. As Johnny Boy and Icarus approached it, a rear door swung open.
‘Get inside,’ said the chauffeur.
Johnny Boy peered in, then jerked back in horror.
‘Go on,’ said the chauffeur, ‘both of you get in.’
Icarus climbed into the car. Johnny Boy followed him.
Stretched out on the rear car seat was a single occupant.
The single occupant was not a human being.
The long quills glistened and twitched, moving singly or in pairs, probing, sensing. The cold reptilian eyes swivelled in their scaly sockets. The complicated mouthparts moved and chewed and sucked.
‘So,’ said the creature in a cold dead voice. ‘We meet again.’
‘We do?’ Icarus Smith whispered the words. His throat was dry and he was shaking terribly.
‘Well, briefly,’ said the creature. ‘In Stravino’s barber’s shop. You stole my briefcase, I believe.’
10
Now, when I found myself standing in an alleyway, at the back of the Crimson Teacup, looking down at the dead body of God and turning up my collar to the howling hurricane, I stayed as cool as a Conservative councillor caught with a Cockney castrato in a curate’s cloakroom.
‘Deny everything,’ I shouted to Barry, above the wind and weather. ‘We’ll just have to deny everything. Hide the body. Pretend this didn’t happen. Spin some line to God’s wife that He’s off on a fishing holiday in Norfolk and I’ll change my name and grow a beard and become a Muslim.’
‘Neat thinking, chief.’
‘You think there’s a chance I can pull it off?’
‘About as much chance as Dr Harold Shipman becoming the Queen Mum’s personal physician.’
‘Quite a slim chance, then?’
‘Somewhat thinner than Fangio’s waistline, chief.’
‘Then that leaves me with only one alternative.’
‘And what’s that, chief?’
I shoulder-holstered my trusty Smith and Wesleyan chapel, dropped to my knees in the rain, hail, fog and snow and sleet and sunshine, closed my eyes and clasped my hands in prayer. ‘Please forgive me, God’s widow,’ I wept. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save Him. I shot the two hoods who gunned Him down. Have mercy on me, miserable sinner that I am.’
‘Turn it in, chief.’
‘Sssh please, Barry, I’m praying.’
‘She won’t be listening, chief. People don’t pray to Her, because they don’t know She exists. So She doesn’t listen to praying. Got me?’
‘Gotcha,’ I said. ‘So it’s bury the body, grow the beard and Allah Akbah till the sacred cows come home.’
‘Comparative religion not really your strong point, eh, chief?’
A rain of frogs came down upon my head.
‘I think we’d better discuss this back at my office,’ I said. ‘My trench-coat can’t take this sort of punishment.’
Now the last thing I needed at a time like this was another client showing up. So when I walked into my office to find a broad sitting behind my desk, you could have knocked me down with an auctioneer’s gavel and bathed my butt in borax.
I’ve seen some ugly fat dames in my time, but this one took the dog biscuit. She made Mo Mowlam look like Madonna. I didn’t figure this dame looked good for anything but using as a roadblock in Belfast. But always being the gent that I am, and having been given that telling off by Fangio for not being politically correct, I gave her the big hello.
‘Hi, babe,’ I said, as suave as Sinatra. ‘Did the circus leave town without you?’
She shot me a glance like she was chewing on a stewed chihuahua and moved more chins than Chairman Mao on his glorious march to the south.
‘Did you just shake your head?’ I said. ‘Or was that a Zeppelin docking?’
‘Sit down, Mr Woodworm,’ she replied, and she didn’t smile when she said it.
‘The name’s Woodbine,’ I said. ‘Lazlo Woodbine.’ And added, ‘Some call me Laz.’
‘Well, I shall call you cadaver, boy, if you don’t sit do
wn when you’re told.’
This dame had more front than Frinton. But I wasn’t in the mood to take a donkey ride.
‘Listen, lady,’ I told her. ‘I’ve had a rough evening. I’ve just left three dead men in an alleyway, and the world won’t weep for a lardy lass. So kindly shift your wide load off my chair and your whole damn trailer-park out of my office.’ And I made the kind of shooing motions that you do to a dachshund that’s doodling on your dahlias.
Which, as it turned out for me, wasn’t the smartest of moves.
The dame lifted a mitt the size of a silicone implant and zapped me with a lightning bolt that singed my decorum and set my fedora ablaze.
I went up like Crystal Palace and down like a funk soul brother.
‘Oooh! Aaagh! Eeek!’ I went. ‘Oooh! Aaagh! Eeek!’ and ‘Waaaaah!’
I didn’t cotton on at first to just what was happening to me. I figured it was a case of spontaneous human combustion. I get that every once in a while, if I’ve eaten too much coleslaw. But usually this just makes my socks smoulder. Which is no great shakes.
But what was happening to me now had nothing to do with coleslaw. This was the full B. K. Flamer.
I beat at myself like a borderline self-mutilator and hopped and howled like a hedonist.
And then the dame moved her mitt again and my water cooler sort of lifted itself off its stand, swung across the room and emptied its contents all over my head.
Which had a more than sobering effect.
I did a couple more ‘Aaah!’s and ‘Eeek!’s and then I got down to a bit of serious grovelling. ‘Please forgive me, God’s widow,’ I wept. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save Him, I shot the two hoods who gunned Him down. Have mercy on me…’
‘Shut it!’ said Eartha, widow of God, because that’s who She was.
‘Shut it!’ She said.
And I shut it.
Eartha raised her bulk from my office chair and leaned across my desk. She glared me glances that jangled my nerves and set my knees a-knocking. ‘Mr Woodworm,’ She said (I didn’t correct Her). ‘Mr Woodworm. Am I right in assuming that my husband is dead?’
‘Well, ma’am,’ I went. ‘You see, I, well, in as much as, which is to say…’