“Good point,” said Mr Boothy.

“Sandra go too,” said Sandra. “Sandra dead, Sandra go.”

“Why does she talk like that?” asked Mr Boothy. “All monosyllabic?”

“Because she’s been undead for too long,” I said. “Her brain is mush. You’ll be like it soon and so will I.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr Boothy. “The thinking processes remain unaffected.”

“Ssssh,” I said and I shushed him with my hands.

“Oh, I see,” said Mr Boothy. “You … er …”

“You … er … what?” asked Dave, staring me pointy daggers.

“I just quietened her down a bit,” I said. “She was somewhat over-feisty when alive.”

“Gary atone for sins big time when Sandra get Gary home,” said Sandra, which was rather too long a sentence for my liking.

Mr Boothy sighed. “So what should I do with you?” he asked.

“You should shoot Dave,” I suggested.

“What?” said Dave. “I’m your bestest friend.”

“You’ve been sexing my wife.”

“She’s not your wife any more. You’re dead.”

“That’s a technicality.”

“It’s a fact!”

“But she’s dead too!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Mr Boothy held up calming hands. “This isn’t helping matters.”

“Stuff you,” I said. “Keep out of it.”

“I think I have a solution to this that will satisfy all parties,” said Mr Boothy.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Shoot Dave.”

“No, it’s not that. You see, we at the Ministry would really like to clear up all this P.P. Penrose business.”

“What business is that?” asked Dave. “And please don’t shoot me.”

“I won’t shoot you,” said Mr Boothy.

“Fine,” said Dave. “Then I’m off. Goodbye.”

“I’ll have you shot if you try to leave.”

“Fine,” said Dave. “So what is this P.P. Penrose business?”

“All the dead aliens,” I said to Dave: “they’re not real. They’re all the invention of P.P. Penrose. They exist in his dead imagination. They have a reality there and they’re the ones who control the living.”

“Oh, that,” said Dave. “I know all about that.”

“You do?”

“Certainly. I overheard Mr Boothy telling you all about that when he captured you.”

“But you never told me.”

“That’s because I don’t believe it. It is rather far-fetched.”

I sighed. Deeply.

“May I continue?” asked Mr Boothy.

I shrugged. “Please yourself.”

“Thank you. The problem of the late Mr Penrose really does need a final solution. I would never have known the truth about it if it hadn’t been for Sandra here, running me over and killing me. I can’t mention my knowledge to any live members of the Ministry – they’re all under Mr Penrose’s control. This is something I must sort out for myself. I feel that the best way to sort it out is to have a volunteer sort it out for me. Deal with the man, one on one, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” said I.

“Someone has to stop it,” said Mr Boothy. “Someone has to assassinate Mr Penrose.”

“Assassinate him? Why don’t you just shut down the FLATLINE connection? Shut off the power; put the phone down for good. What could he do? He’d be finished. It would be all over. No need for me to do any more bad stuff.”

“We can’t afford to do that. Our link with the dead is far too valuable. We need the information the dead supply us with to keep us one step ahead of the rest. The British Empire needs it. Our government would be flailing about in the dark if we couldn’t supply it with the dead’s secrets. It’s not the FLATLINE that’s the problem, it’s just that meddling Penrose. He has control of too many people and we just can’t have him messing around with them and causing havoc any more. If he is eradicated, we will be back on track. He needs to be killed. We need him dead.”

“But he’s already dead,” I said.

“I mentioned to you earlier that there’s dead and there’s dead and there’s really dead.”

“You mentioned it,” I said. “But as it didn’t make too much sense, I ignored it.”

“He’s out there,” said Mr Boothy, “in the realm beyond death, constructing plotlines, inventing fanciful characters, playing his sporting games, projecting them into the brains of the living. This is not a good thing. This must be stopped. And the only way it can be stopped is by someone dead seeking him out and putting paid to him once and for all.”

“But you can’t kill a dead man.”

“You can,” said Mr Boothy. “You can with magic. Magic knows no bounds. If magic can restore the dead to life, then magic can also kill the dead. So, as I say, the Ministry has been looking for a volunteer. Someone brave who would take on the task.”

“And no takers, I suppose?” said Dave.

“Not so far,” said Mr Boothy. “You see, glorious as being dead is, those we have reanimated are still keen to stay undead. I think it must be the good wages the Ministry pays and all the fringe benefits. Once people live again they are eager to keep on living.”

“I’m not,” I said.

And Mr Boothy grinned. A real big toothy grin – although he did have a couple of teeth missing and his tongue was somewhat furry.

“I rather thought not,” said he. “In fact, I was absolutely sure of it when I watched you on the CCTV, strolling down the staircase, as if you wanted to get caught and killed again.”

Sandra glared at me. But then she hadn’t stopped glaring since she’d learned about her “dumbing down”.

“And I’m sure I’d be right in thinking,” said Mr Boothy, “that you are a natural magician. And as it’s all your fault anyway, I think you should sort it out.”

“All my fault?” I said. “What do you mean?”

“Gary, this is the Ministry of Serendipity. It’s a secret ministry, and secret ministries thrive on information, you know, like the CIA. Information is power. We have files on everyone. When you were brought to justice—”

“It wasn’t justice,” I said. “That trial was a travesty of justice.”

“All right, then. When you were brought to travesty of justice, we looked into your file. And we found all kinds of interesting things: old surveillance footage from the restricted section of Brentford library; surveillance footage from the home of P.P. Penrose; during his wake. It’s all on film, what you did.”

“What?” I said. “You have me on film? Outrageous! What an invasion of privacy.”

“Everyone is under surveillance,” said Mr Boothy. “Everyone. Especially the rich and famous like Mr Penrose. You reanimated him in his grave. All this is your fault. It is extremely fortuitous that you should have turned up here today. You could call it fate. You are the volunteer that we have been looking for. Who else could it be but you?”

“I’m not an assassin,” I said.

“Gary,” said Mr Boothy, “like it or like it not, you are a psychopath. With or without Mr Penrose’s Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri, in your head, you would have been a psychopath. It’s not your fault, it’s probably your father’s fault.”

“It’s definitely his fault,” I said.

“Which is probably why you did for him.”

“Let’s not get into that,” I said.

“Well, be it here, or be it there” – Mr Boothy smiled and patted his dog some more – “you are the ideal man for the job.”

“And when, I mean, if, I do this job, then I’m free? I can be dead and fly off around the universe for ever? I’m out of all this? I’m free?”

“Free as a bird,” said Mr Boothy. “You’ll have atoned for all your sins. Eternity will be yours to do with as you please.”

“Then I volunteer,” I said. “I’m your man.”

“Gary not your man,” said Sandra. “Gary Sandra’s man. Gary stay here, serve Sandra. That what Gary do.”

I looked at Mr Boothy.

And Mr Boothy looked at me.

“Security guard,” said Mr Boothy, to one of the security guards. “Kindly take Mr Cheese’s wife down to the boiler room and toss her into the furnace.”

“No!” Dave shouted, and raised his fists. “Hold on. Don’t do that.”

Mr Boothy looked at me once more. “Do you want me to have the security guard toss your friend Dave into the furnace too?” he asked.