I had to make my presence felt in order to get near that table. I had to tread on David Bowie’s toe and elbow Cat Stevens in the ribs, but when I did get myself right up close to the extravagant nosh I spied a most curious thing. I spied someone slipping silver spoons into their pocket.

Now I know that the rich and famous are not averse to this kind of behaviour. And I know that their status makes them immune from prosecutions. Like that secret law that allows people with expensive four-wheel-drives to park on double yellow lines, when the rest of us would get nicked for it. But I was strangely shocked to see it happening right before my eyes. And as this was Barry’s bash and those were Harry’s/Peter’s spoons, I was doubly offended by it.

I leaned over and grasped the wrist of the offender. “Excuse me, sir,” I said, for he was a he, “but I think you’ve inadvertently slipped a load of silver spoons into your pocket. I think we should perhaps go and discuss this matter outside.”

The offender turned to face me. He wore one of those burglar eye masks, the sort that the Lone Ranger used to wear. He also wore what appeared to be a prison uniform of the comic-book persuasion that have the arrowhead (or is it crow’s-foot?) motifs all over them.

“Blimey,” said the malcontent. “Blimey, Gary, it’s you.”

I stared once and then I stared again.

“Dave,” I said. “Dave Rodway, it’s you.”

“It was, the last time I looked,” said Dave. “But I don’t look often, in case I’m up to something. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

“I certainly do,” I said. “But what are you doing here? I thought you were doing a five stretch in Strangeways.”

“I absconded,” said Dave. “Stole the governor’s keys and his motorcar and absconded. It was dull in there and they wouldn’t let me work in the laundry room.”

“Well, bravo, Dave,” I said. “Let me get you a drink.”

“Nice,” said Dave. “But let me nick you one instead.”

“I can get the drinks for free,” I said.

“Where’s the sport in that?”

I let Dave nick us a bottle of bubbly, then we ejected a couple of Miracles[21] from a comfy-looking sofa and sat down.

“Cheers,” said Dave, pouring drinks, and we drank.

“This is brilliant,” I said. “Seeing you again. I’ve missed you, Dave.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Dave.

“I have, a bit.”

“I heard about Sandra. I’m sorry about that.”

“She’s over there, chatting with Olivia Newton John,” I said.

“She’s what?” said Dave. “But she’s dead.”

“Was dead,” I said. “I reanimated her, like with Mr Penrose. I dug her up first, though.”

“Well done,” said Dave. “You’re still into all that death and magic stuff, then? You’re still a weirdo. I’m glad. I thought you’d sold out to the system.”

“Me? Never.”

“So what are you doing? Up to no good? Wheeling and dealing? Being your own man?”

“Absolutely,” I lied. “The nine-to-five will never be me, as Sid Barrett used to sing.”

“Cool,” said Dave. “And what about Harry? Fell on his feet with this job, eh?”

“Bought a motorbike,” I said, draining my glass. “But what are you doing here?”

“I happened to be passing by – well, running by. I’d been perusing a civilian suit in a West End tailor’s and the alarm went off. The sissy boy bouncer saw my mask and thought I was a guest.”

“And so we meet up again. What a happy coincidence.”

“Yeah,” said Dave. “What about that, eh?”

We got stuck into the bottle of champagne.

“So,” said Dave, by way of conversation. “How is Sandra holding up? Is she – how shall I put this delicately? – is she, well, decomposing?”

“Sadly, yes,” I said. “I have to keep gluing bits back on. But they’re making all kinds of advances in the field of medicine nowadays, grafting and suchlike. I have high hopes for the future.”

Dave nodded thoughtfully and the eyes behind the mask followed a particularly delicious-looking young woman in next to no clothing, who was clicking her high-heeled way towards the ladies. “Look at the body on that,” said Dave.

“Yes,” I said, and I sighed.

“Sandra had a good body,” said Dave.

“Very good,” I agreed.

“Very curvy in all the right places.”

“Very curvy, yes.”

“And that little mole on her bum. And the way she whinnied like a pony when she—”

“Eh?” I said. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Dave. “All women have moles on their bums. And the posh ones always whinny when they, you know …”

“Do they?” I asked.

“So I am reliably informed.”

“I quite miss the mole,” I said. “It came off last week.”

“Shame,” said Dave. “You should get Sandra a new one.”

“A new mole? Where do you buy new moles?”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you buy one. I was thinking more that you acquire one.”

“Acquire one? What are you talking about?”

Dave set his glass aside and put the champagne bottle to his lips. He took a big swig and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She needs spare parts,” said Dave. “She’s your wife; you care about her. Her welfare should come first.”

“It does,” I said.

“Then get her some spare parts. If a leg gets ropy, get her a new one. Get her two. And a bum.”

“Her navel’s caved in,” I said.

“Then get her a new stomach, and tits.”

“She could certainly do with new tits,” I said.

“Then go the full Monty: get her an entire new ensemble. A whole new body. It would be great for her, like having a new dress. And it would be great for you. A new body. A fresh new body.”

“It’s a thought,” I said. “And a good one. I could dig one up for her, I suppose.”

“Use your brain,” said Dave. “Why dig up a dead one? It would already be going mouldy. Get her a new fresh body. Get her a live one.” He nodded towards the delicious young woman who was now coming out of the Ladies. “Get her that one.” And he turned and winked through his eye mask. “Sandra would really appreciate that one.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, but I knew exactly what he was saying.

“You know exactly what I’m saying,” said Dave. “How long have we been bestest friends, Gary?”

“For ever,” I said. “As long as I can remember.”

“And we trust each other, yes?”

“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could poke you with a stick.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean that we can trust each other in that what we say to each other will never go any further. We can trust in each other.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “How could it be any other way?”

“Exactly,” said Dave. “So we are honest with each other.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“So let’s be honest,” said Dave. “Where are you working, Gary?”

“At the telephone exchange,” I said. “I’ve been there for five years.”

“There,” said Dave. “That wasn’t difficult, was it?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t like lying to you.”

“Good,” said Dave. “So, I’ll ask you another question and you’ll give me an honest answer, yes?”

“Yes,” I said.

“OK,” said Dave, in a lowered tone. “To your knowledge, how many deaths have you been responsible for, Gary?”

I scratched my head. What kind of question was that? I mean, what kind of questions was that?

“I’m waiting,” said Dave.

I stared at Dave.

“How many?” said Dave.

“A few,” I said. “Maybe.”

“A few,” said Dave. “Maybe. And that would account for your daddy, the ice-cream man, and Count Otto Black and Sandra, by proxy. I might have been in the nick when Count Otto copped it, but I knew what he was up to with Sandra. And I recognized your hand in his tragic demise.”

I shrugged and made an innocent face, but as I was wearing a domino mask Dave couldn’t see me making it.

“So, that would be four,” said Dave. “You never actually laid a hand on them, but I know, and you know that I know, that you were directly responsible. I’m asking you how many others you have actually killed by your own hand.”