“P.P. Penrose is what this is all about,” said Mr Boothy.

I scratched at my head. And bits of my head fell off.

“Careful on my carpet,” said Mr Boothy. “I’ve just had it cleaned.”

“I’m going to shoot you again,” I said. “Try to die this time, will you?”

“You’ve heard of P.P. Penrose, haven’t you?” said Mr Boothy.

“My favourite author,” I said. “I’m his biggest fan.”

“And you like all those Lazlo Woodbine thrillers?”

“Brilliant. I love them.”

“And what about the Adam Earth series?”

“His science-fiction books? They’re rubbish. Everyone agrees on that.”

“Pity,” said Mr Boothy. “Because you’ve been drawn into them. You’re part of them. You and most of mankind.”

“Rubbish,” I said. “Do you mind if I shoot you again? I feel compelled.”

“Help yourself. But mind the face. Don’t touch the face.”

I emptied the gun into Mr Boothy’s chest.

“Feel better?” he said. “Did it help?”

“Not much, apparently.”

“Then let me continue. Mr Penrose died in nineteen fifty-nine, in a bizarre vacuum-cleaning incident.”

“I know,” I said. “I went to his funeral.”

“I know you did,” said Mr Boothy, nodding his head and patting his dog. “And did you read his biography that was published this year – P.P. Penrose: The Man Who Was Lazlo Woodbine, by Macgillicudy Val Der Mar?”

“Er, no,” I said. “Although I did attend the launch party.”

“Yes, I know that too,” said Mr Boothy. “You do turn up in the darnedest places. Well, had you read his biography you would have learned that Mr Penrose got really fed up with writing Lazlo Woodbine thrillers. He even tried to kill Laz off at one point.”

“In The Final Solution,” I said. “He had Laz plunge to his death over the Reichenbach Falls with his archenemy Montmorency.”

“That’s right. But the public wouldn’t have it. The public demanded more Woodbine. So he wrote the ‘Return’ series.”

“It wasn’t as good,” I said. “But it was still brilliant. And certainly better than that Adam Earth rubbish.”

“Well, had you read the biography, you’d have learned that P.P. Penrose did not want to be remembered for the Lazlo Woodbine books. He really wanted to be remembered for the Adam Earth series, his science-fiction books.”

“But they were rubbish,” I said. “The characters had all these stupid names like Zador Startrouser of the quilted codpiece, or whatever.”

“Yes, didn’t they,” said Mr Boothy, with a grin. “In fact, you’ll find many of the so-called True Names – the names of the dead aliens who control humans – in those books. That’s where the names come from.”

“You’re telling me that real aliens adopted fictitious names?”

“No, that’s not what I’m telling you at all. Something happened to P.P. Penrose, happened to him after he died. It turned him from being a sporting man and a good-natured novelist, who was merely a bit miffed that his science-fiction books weren’t recognized as his greatest works, into a deeply embittered dead man. A dead man, it seems, who violently hates the living.”

“I wonder what might have done that to him,” I said.

“Probably being awakened in his grave,” said Mr Boothy.

“Oh,” I said.

“Yes, oh. He thought it all up, all of it. Invented the dead aliens who control the living. Gave them life from beyond the grave. He’s responsible for it all. One man, but many now he’s dead. He’s all of those dead aliens, such as Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri, that’s you, and Lady Fairflower of the Rainbow Mountains, your wife Sandra: all thought up by P.P. Penrose. All characters from his books. That dead man has a remarkable imagination. And it’s even bigger now, beyond the grave.”

“And you’re telling me that all of this is down to him? The alien that possessed me and made me kill people, he invented this alien?”

“That’s what novelists do: invent characters. Operation Orpheus gave a gifted novelist the opportunity to make his imaginary characters real. To let a dead man control live people. Let him project his characters into the brains of the living. It was an accident waiting to happen. We just didn’t know it at the time.”

“So he did it to me,” I said.

“You were a fan,” said Mr Boothy. “His greatest fan, you said. You were therefore susceptible to his ideas. Don’t forget the word fan is short for fanatic. You’ve spent most of your life being a character in one of Mr Penrose’s post-life novels.”

“I’m speechless,” I said.

And I was.

And I was made all the more speechless because I realized that it was all my fault. If I hadn’t reanimated him in his coffin, he might never have done any of this. He was getting his own back on the living because of what one of the living had done to him after he died. It was all my fault.

I felt sick inside, I can tell you. I felt wretched. I wanted to blurt it all out to Mr Boothy; own up to what I’d done. But I didn’t. Because you don’t, do you? When things are all your fault you never own up. You deny. And if you can’t deny, you make excuses. Or you simply refuse to believe it.

“I simply refuse to believe this,” I said. “There are too many loose ends. Like, for instance, how come you know this. When did you find it out?”

“I found it out when I died. When the dead alien creation no longer controlled me. You must have experienced the same thing when you died. I have contacted experts in the field of this kind of thing. Reanimated experts, of course. We’ve pooled our knowledge. There’s no mistake about it. Mr Penrose is behind all this. He’s playing games with humanity. Role-playing games, based on the plots of his science-fiction books.”

I looked once more at my watch. “Not for much longer,” I said. “I have to go.”

“Oh, don’t leave just yet.” Mr Boothy gave his dog some more patting. “You’ll miss the best bit.”

“Sadly so,” I said. “I would have loved to stay and be part of it.”

“The big explosion, do you mean?”

“Well, actually, yes.”

Mr Boothy shook his head.

A knock came at his office door.

“Enter,” called Mr Boothy.

The door swung open and in walked Dave. And in walked Sandra. Dave looked somewhat the worse for wear. He sported a big black eye. Sandra looked well though. Well, as well as she could.

Two men followed after Sandra and Dave. Big men, both, and carrying guns.

“Surprise,” said Mr Boothy.

27

“Well, well, well,” said Mr Boothy. “If it isn’t the woman who ran me over last week.”

“Gary shoot Mr Boothy,” said Sandra.

“Been there, done that,” said I. “The gun’s empty.”

“And who’s this bruised fellow?” Mr Boothy asked.

“That’s Dave,” said I. “Hi, Dave.”

“Hi,” said Dave, looking dismal.

“And you were going to blow up this entire complex?”

Dave shook his head. “Not me,” he said.

“Really?” said Mr Boothy. “Yet I’m sure it was you I saw on the closed circuit television, driving the van into the secret tunnel. The same van that ran over me.”

Dave shook his head and said, “No, it wasn’t me.”

“I once thought of joining the police force,” said Mr Boothy. “But a chum of mine said, no, don’t do it, it’s such a disappointment. Because criminals never own up, like they do in the movies. They never come clean, even when caught red-handed. They say, ‘It wasn’t me,’ and ‘I didn’t do it,’ and ‘I was two-places other at the time.’ So I didn’t join the force. I joined the Ministry of Serendipity instead. And the irony of ironies is I’ve spent the last thirty years denying everything I’ve done to anyone who’s accused me of doing it.”

“How very interesting,” I said. “But I have to go now.”

“Why?” asked Mr Boothy.

“Because I don’t want to stay.”

“But I can make you stay.”

“I think not,” I said. “You can shoot me to pieces, if you want. And I’ll thank you for it. But other than that, what? I’m dead, so what can you do to me?”