I looked at Dave.

And Dave looked at me.

“No,” I said. “Not really. Dave is my bestest friend, even though he’s been … you know … with my wife. Don’t bung either of them into the furnace. Let them go.”

“Nice one,” said Dave.

“Gary …” said Sandra.

“And in return, let me go,” I said to Sandra. “Let me do this. Dave will look after you. Dave cares about you. I was never much of a husband, although I did love you. But I treated you badly and I should atone for what I’ve done. For all the bad things I’ve done. Maybe by doing this it will go some way towards making things right.”

Sandra just stared at me and I couldn’t read her expression at all.

Dave said, “Good luck, mate,” and put out his hand for a shake.

I shook Dave warmly by the hand. “You are my bestest friend,” I said. “You’re an utter no-mark, thoroughly dishonest and untrustworthy, but I am proud to call you my bestest friend.”

“And you are a conscienceless serial killer,” said Dave. “But you’re my bestest friend too.”

And so we shook hands and got a bit dewy-eyed and trembly-lipped and patted each other on the shoulder and finally said our farewells. I reached out to give Sandra a kiss and a cuddle, but she just drew back, folded her arms and stamped whoever’s feet she had upon the carpet. I think that, deep down, she still loved me. But women are funny creatures and don’t always show their real emotions. “’Bye, then, Sandra,” I said. “I hope you’ll be happy with Dave.”

Dave and Sandra departed the office of Mr Boothy, leaving me behind. Sandra, however, didn’t leave without a struggle, and one of the security men had to hold her mouth shut to stop her commanding me to do something unspeakable to Mr Boothy.

“That was rather touching about you and Dave,” said Mr Boothy. “I’ve never really had a bestest friend. My dogs are my best friends. But it’s not quite the same.”

“So,” I said. “I suppose we should press on.” I handed Mr Boothy my gun. “You’d best shoot me in the head. That should get the job done.”

Mr Boothy weighed the gun in his hands. “I don’t think this would work,” he said. “Your body must be utterly destroyed. I think it would be best if you were tossed into the furnace.”

“Eh?” I said. “No. That would really hurt. That’s not a good idea. That’s a really bad idea. I don’t like that at all. The gun is the thing. One quick shot between the eyes. One—”

“The gun is empty,” said Mr Boothy. “And we are in a hurry. Security guards—”

“No!” I shouted. “No. Stop. Hold on.”

“Escort Mr Cheese to the furnace and—”

“No!”

“Bung him in.”

“NO!”

But damn me if it wasn’t yes.

28

Can you believe that?

I mean, can you?

He had me thrown into the furnace.

If frying in the electric chair had been bad, it was a doddle compared with that.

That really hurt.

But it did get the job done and, there was no doubt about it, I was definitely dead again. And for good and all this time, with no Earthly hope for resurrection. Gone, reduced to ashes. No more Gary Charlton Cheese in the flesh. Only in the spirit. I didn’t find myself back at Mr Doveston’s tomb this time: I found myself nowhere in particular. A bit lost, as it happens. Just sort of drifting.

But it felt really nice. I didn’t feel empty at all this time. There was a great deal of darkness around and about, but a light or two in the distance. I moved towards those lights.

As I moved on, the lights moved nearer. Big lights, two lights.

A car ran me over.

I picked myself up and dusted myself down and chewed upon my lip as I surveyed the tyre marks over my chest. “Not a great start,” said I.

But where was I?

It looked a bit like New York, but as I’d never been to New York I couldn’t be sure. However, as I’d seen New York on TV and in movies, I could be sure. It was New York. But why New York?

I shambled along in a bumbling kind of fashion, like you do when you’re lost, or drunk, or both. I didn’t recognize any New York landmarks.

But then suddenly I did.

There was a bar up ahead – a New York bar, a Manhattan bar. A neon light flashed above it, spelling out letters that made up the name: FANGIO’S.

Fangio’s bar, favourite hangout of Lazlo Woodbine. I bumbled towards Fangio’s bar. Of course I recognized the cracked glass door. It was exactly as I’d imagined it, exactly as it had been in the books. And inside, the bar was all there, all exactly right. A man stood behind the bar counter, and he was a big man, a big fat man. This was Fangio, the fat boy barman. And seated upon the customer side of the counter, upon a chromium bar stool, sat the other man. He wore a trenchcoat and a fedora. He sipped on a bottle of Bud and munched upon a hot pastrami on rye.

The other man was none other than Lazlo Woodbine.

Fangio looked over at me as I swung in the door.

“Lordy, lordy,” said he. “It’s the elephant man.” I chewed upon my bottom lip and realized that it was a quite substantial bottom lip. And I remembered my encounter with the late Mother Demdike – how she’d said that, when we died, we each got the form that was really us. “Ah, no offence meant, fella,” said Fangio. “Looks ain’t everything. Did the circus leave town without you? Why not have a drink? What’ll it be?”

“Anything at all,” I said. “Anything at all.”

“That’s a bit vague,” said Fangio. “We like to be specific here.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Give me a beer. Give me a Bud.”

The guy in the trenchcoat (you note that I say “guy” here, rather than “man”) turned to me.

“Sit yourself down,” he said. “There’s no appearance-code here. We’re always grateful when someone breezes in to chew the fat. What’s your name, buddy?”

“It’s Cheese,” I said. “Gary Charlton Cheese. And you are …” I couldn’t get the words out.

“The name’s Woodbine,” said Woodbine. “Lazlo Woodbine, private eye.” And he added, “Some call me Laz.”

“I would be proud to call you Laz,” said I. “I’m your greatest fan. Well, the fan of your author. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.”

“Don’t use my catch phrases,” said Mr Woodbine. “And don’t mention him. He and I do not see eye to eye any more.”

“I’m perplexed,” I said, as Fangio handed me my bottle of Bud. “I mean, you’re real. You’re here. I thought—”

“That I was a fictitious character?”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s because I was written up as a fictitious character. But I was once alive, like you were. So what are you doing in this neck of the Manhattan woods?”

“It’s a bit embarrassing for me to have to tell you,” I said, “but I’ve come to kill P.P. Penrose. That dead man is wreaking havoc on Earth.”

“It’s fine with me,” said Laz, for I could call him that. “I hate the guy. He wrote up my cases then claimed all the glory for himself. Like I say, I was never a fictitious character. I was a real detective. He just changed my name.”

“Outrageous!” I said.

“And he had me killed.”

“What!” I said.

“I was going to expose him. He had me killed. Weirdest thing. Never saw it coming and me being Woodbine – well, Passing Cloud, actually; I’m half Cherokee from my father’s side. This blind guy killed me. Blind guy from the circus. Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique.”

“Oh no,” I said. “My Uncle Jonny.”

“Small world, isn’t it?” said Mr Woodbine. “Everything fits together, eventually, doesn’t it?”

“Where is he?” I asked. “Mr Penrose. Do you know where he is?”

“In my office, doing his stuff: pulling strings, playing his sporting games.”

“Do you want to come with me?” I asked. “Do you want to help?”

“Can’t,” said Laz and he shook his fedora’d head. “I’m stuck here, in this bar. Me and Fangio, we chew fat and talk toot. We tried to kill him, because we hated him so much for what he did. But if you hate, you get stuck. We got stuck here, but we make the best of it. You go get him, kid. And here, take this; you’ll need it.” And Laz pulled out his trusty Smith & Wesson and handed it to me. “It’s taken down a few bad guys in its time,” he said. “One more won’t hurt. Get the job done, kid, then come back here. I’ll stand you a beer.”