And then I shot him dead.

“Damn!” I said, staring at my hand and the pistol. “I really didn’t want to do that.” And, believe me, I didn’t. I’ll throw the gun away, I thought. But I couldn’t. I was compelled. I had been commanded. I was helpless to resist.

It felt really horrible, I can tell you. It’s impossible to explain. I suppose its nearest equivalent would be hypnosis. And in a way that’s sort of what magic is, an altered state. It’s not a higher state; it’s just a different state. But when in that state, everything is different.

And I suppose, as I strolled across the big hangar, potting off intraterrestrials and not cursing myself for doing it because I knew they needed potting off, but cursing myself for doing it because I had no free will in the matter, I realized for the first time in (and after) my life that I was a natural magician.

I had, after all, practised magic successfully. Not just by bringing Mr Penrose and Sandra back from the dead, but in other ways also. There was the matter of my father and of Count Otto – the matter of what happened to them before they died. The sniffing of swatches of tweed in the gents’ outfitters. The outbursts of uncontrollable laughter. The Zulu king stuff and the dressing in robes befitting. And their obsession with the idea that an invisible Chinaman called Frank was driving them to distraction.

That was magic, you see. Very basic stuff, as it happens – sympathetic magic, voodoo magic, if you like. Creating an obsession in an individual. I was very good at it. I could tell you exactly how I made it happen. But I won’t, because it’s a secret.

“Stop,” said someone. “Stop now.”

My gun was up and ready. But I stopped.

“Stop!” said Mr Boothy, for it was he. “No more shooting. No more killing.”

I aimed my gun straight at his head. “Sorry,” I said.

“Wait.” Mr Boothy raised his hands. “Please wait.”

“For what?” I asked. “There’s no waiting left.”

“We should talk. You and me. Before you do this.”

I looked very hard at Mr Boothy. He stood before me, all slim and designer-stubbled, with his two dogs Wibble and Trolley Bus.

“You should at least look surprised to see me,” I said. “I am, after all, dead.”

“I can see that,” said Mr Boothy. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But you might at least look surprised.”

“Nothing surprises me,” said Mr Boothy. “Surprises are for morons. Those in the know just know.”

I cocked my pistol. “I have to shoot you dead,” I told him. “I have no choice in the matter. I have been commanded to do so. But you do have it coming. You and your stupid boffins have been responsible for ruining my life. And not just mine. You really belong dead.”

“We should talk.” Mr Boothy smiled. And I’ll swear that his dogs smiled too.

“No,” I said. “It’s time for you to die. But don’t worry about it. Being dead is great. You’ll love it. Just don’t get in a big state when you’re dead. Go with the flow. Let yourself drift. You can fly all around the universe for ever. That’s the point of death, you see.”

“And you’re telling me that. As if I don’t know.”

“Uh?” I said. “You do know?”

“Of course I know. Here.” Mr Boothy pointed to his chest. “Put a couple of bullets here and then we’ll talk.”

“Do what?” said I.

“Shoot me. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, it is, but—”

“Don’t but me any buts, boy. Shoot me. Go on, do it. Get it out of the way.”

“All right,” I said. And I shot him. Twice. Right in the chest.

Mr Boothy just stood there. He put his fingers into the holes and then he licked those fingers.

“There,” he said. “Now you’ve done your duty. You’ve followed your commands and got it out of the way. Shall we talk now?”

“I am perplexed,” I said.

“I’m dead,” said Mr Boothy. “Like you.”

“I’m really perplexed,” I said.

“It’s no big deal.” Mr Boothy shrugged. “Or, rather, I suppose it is. You see, there’s dead and there’s dead and there’s really dead. Would you like to come to my office and I’ll tell you all about it?”

I looked at my watch. It was twelve-fifteen.

“OK,” I said and I followed him.

An intraterrestrial or two appeared before me on the way and I shot them when I saw them.

“Must you do that?” asked Mr Boothy.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I must.”

“Never mind. Come on, then.”

He led me to his office. It wasn’t much of an office. Nothing fancy. Just basic. A hat stand and a filing cabinet, a water cooler and a desk and a couple of chairs. It put me in mind of Lazlo Woodbine’s office. But this didn’t cheer me very much.

“Sit there,” said Mr Boothy.

I sat where he told me to.

“Drink?” he asked.

“I can’t taste anything,” I said. “But something strong would be nice.”

Mr Boothy poured me something strong. I think it was petrol.

“Bottoms up,” he said. And I drank what he had given me and he drank what he’d poured for himself. Then he sat himself down in the chair behind the desk, which wasn’t much to speak of, so I shall not speak of it here.

“You’re perplexed,” said Mr Boothy, patting a dog which had climbed up onto his knee.

“I am,” I said, patting his other dog, which was humping my leg.

“It’s all been a terrible bols-up,” said Mr Boothy. “Operation Orpheus. Everything really went wrong right from the start. We did get the information we needed that helped us to win the war. But then later, in nineteen fifty-nine, all this alien business kicked in and we didn’t understand what we were dealing with or what was happening to us. By the time we did realize, it was all but too late. We did what we could, we tried to make reparations, but things got out of hand.”

“I am still perplexed,” I said. “What do you mean by reparations?”

“Restoring people to life,” said Mr Boothy. “Those who the aliens had killed in their games. Back in the nineteen fifties, the department, the Ministry of Serendipity, we investigated the possibilities of restoring the dead to life. Books existed, you see, in the restricted sections of the libraries. But I assume you know all about that, or you wouldn’t be here now. You see, whenever someone important to us – a government official, or someone big in office – was killed, we used magic to restore them to life. But you know how chaotic that becomes. They fall to pieces. It’s a real mess.

“But reanimation, for those killed in the course of their duties, was written into the standard work contract for the Ministry of Serendipity. My secretary reanimated me only hours after I’d been run down. And quite right too, because I’m important. But of course everyone involved had loved ones, and when one of them died they wanted them brought back to life. It all grew and it got out of control. Did you know that there are towns in this country where the dead outnumber the living?”

I shook my head.

“Ever heard of Hove?” asked Mr Boothy.

I shook my head again.

“Well, believe me, it’s a real problem. And I’m here heading up this Ministry. And now I’m dead.”

“You’re lying,” I said. “You gave evidence at my trial. You’re being controlled by an alien.”

“You’re so right,” said Mr Boothy. “I was being controlled then. But I was alive then. I’m not now. You see, a knackered transit van ran over me outside the prison last week. It was making a speedy getaway. I understand that the woman who was driving the van had stolen your body from the prison graveyard.”

“Tough luck,” I said, though I couldn’t disguise a smile. “But about the dead aliens—”

“Listen to me, Gary,” said Mr Boothy. “Forget about those dead aliens. Dismiss those dead aliens from your mind. They’re not what you think.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Dead aliens is what this is all about.”