“You can pay for the one he’s just had, Laz,” said Fangio.

“We can discuss that,” said Laz to the fat boy.

I took Laz’s trusty Smith & Wesson and stared at it. The trusty Smith & Wesson: what a collector’s item. I was still a fan – I had no control over it. Once you’re a fan of something or someone, you’re stuck to it. I thanked Laz and waved farewell to the fat boy.

And then I left the bar. I passed down the now legendary alleyway, where Laz used to get into sticky situations, and found my way to his office. It was where I expected it to be, so it was no mystery how I found it.

On the partition door the words LAZLO WOODBINE INVESTIGATIONS were etched into the glass. I don’t know what I felt. Nervous? Yes. Doubtful? Yes. Guilty? Yes, that too. It was all my fault, what had happened; what had caused Mr Penrose to behave as he had. But truth is truth is truth. He obviously hadn’t been a good person. Not if he’d had Mr Woodbine, Mr Passing Cloud, killed.

But there was more that troubled me. Could I actually trust Mr Woodbine/Passing Cloud? I knew that the dead were notable liars. Perhaps I hadn’t been told the truth. But I was really giving up on the truth. Perhaps there really isn’t any truth, any ultimate truth. Perhaps the universe consists for the most part of half-truths and just plain lies. Perhaps there really isn’t any real truth at all.

I knocked at the office door.

“Come,” called a voice.

And I entered.

It was the same office – the same office as that which Mr Boothy had occupied. Exactly the same. Behind the desk of this one sat an old gentleman clad in a suit of Boleskine tweed.

“Mr Penrose?” I said. “Mr Charles Penrose?”

The gentleman stared at me, though he did not seem at all bothered by my obviously grotesque appearance. “So,” said he. “Someone who knows my real name, my True Name. And you would be?”

“Gary Cheese,” I said. “Gary Charlton Cheese. You would know me as Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr Penrose. “The maniac. But this is a bit of a surprise. I didn’t expect ever to see you here.”

“It’s fate,” I said. “Everything fits together for a purpose. It’s just that most of us never get to know what that purpose might be.” And I looked hard at Mr Penrose. He obviously didn’t know that I was the one who’d woken him up from the dead and caused him to hate humanity so much. Well, if he didn’t know, I wasn’t going to tell him.

“And what is your purpose?” asked Mr Penrose.

I pulled out Laz’s gun. “I’ve come here to kill you,” I said. “I’m sorry, but there it is. You are my favourite author and I’m your greatest fan. And I can’t tell you just how incredible it is for me to meet you – if not in the flesh, then at least in the spirit. But I have to kill you, to stop you playing your games with humanity. All that has to stop now. But before I kill you, and I must, and I am sorry for it, would it be all right if I asked you a question? Something that I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Ask on,” said Mr Penrose.

“Thank you,” I said. “The question is this: where do you get your ideas from?”

Mr Penrose made a groaning sound, deep in the back of his throat.

“So?” I said.

“Forget it, lad. If I knew where I got my ideas from I wouldn’t tell you. And I do know, and it’s a secret.”

“Like magic,” I said.

“Ideas are magic,” said Mr Penrose. “So let’s discuss the business of you killing me. What’s that all about, then?”

“You know perfectly well what it’s all about,” I said, waggling the gun at the famous author. “All that beaming of science-fiction characters into people’s brains: that has to stop.”

“Why?” asked Mr Penrose.

“Because it’s not right.”

“People kill one another all the time, with or without my prompting. What’s a few less people in the world?”

“That’s a rather callous attitude. I don’t think you’re a very nice man. I thought you were a great sportsman.” I cocked the pistol.

“It’s not very sporting to shoot an unarmed man,” said Mr Penrose.

“Sportsmanship doesn’t enter into this,” I said.

“Well, it should. I’ve always given my characters a sporting chance.”

“You didn’t give me much of one.”

“Oh yes, I did. You lost the game because you fell into an obvious trap. Imagine going through a door marked WHITE COAT AND LIGHT BULB STORE. Ludicrous.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “I was under stress. It had been a difficult day. And it wasn’t me, was it? It was Valdec Firesword making me do what I did.”

“So if you had another chance, you’d do better, would you? Doing your own thinking, you’d win the game?”

“What game?” I said. “What is the game anyway?”

“It’s a role-playing game,” Mr Penrose explained, “based on the plot from one of my Adam Earth series. An alien race is wiped out in a cosmic catastrophe, but their spirits are able to manipulate human beings. They’re a competitive race, the aliens, and somewhat cold-blooded. They compete on Earth through their unknowing human hosts. It’s survival of the fittest and the most intelligent. Eventually there will be only one of them left. That one wins the game.”

“And what’s the prize?” I asked.

“Earth, of course,” said Mr Penrose. “The winner will be the one who ends up controlling the entire planet.”

“That’s daft,” I said. “Just beam one of your characters into the head of the President of the United States and he’s the winner.”

“Unsporting,” said Mr Penrose. “Too easy. It has to be little people who can work their way up to become rich and famous. You had a lot of chances, you know. You were given the opportunity to communicate with the dead. That should have given you an edge.”

“If I’d known,” I said. “But Valdec Firesword screwed it up, not me.”

“He never was too bright. Which is why he lost the game.”

“Who’s winning at the moment?” I asked. “Not that I’m interested.”

“I’m not going to tell you that,” said Mr Penrose. “That would be really unsporting.”

“Well, it’s neither here nor there. You’re a dead dead-man.” And I levelled the pistol at his head.

“You can’t do it, you know. You can’t just shoot me here.”

“And why not?”

“Do you like this office? Do you really like it?”

“It’s OK,” I said. “It’s nothing much to speak of.”

“So how would you feel about spending all eternity here?”

“I wouldn’t be too keen on that at all.”

“No,” said Mr Penrose. “And, frankly, I hate it. But that’s what I’m stuck with. Because I’m stuck here. Because of what I’ve done. You’ll be doing me a favour if you shoot me. I’ll move on to another level. But you won’t be doing yourself a favour. Your actions will cause you to become stuck here, right here, in this office, like mine have for me. Bad thoughts and actions weigh down the dead and stop them moving on.”

“Hm,” I said, scratching my head with the gun barrel and noticing for the first time just what a lot of head there was to scratch.

“A dead woman called Mother Demdike explained that to me. This is a tricky situation.”

“I can’t see any way out of it for either of us,” said Mr Penrose.

I stared at him and I scratched at my head once more. “I think I can,” I said.

“Oh yes? And what do you have in mind?”

“Well,” I said, “you consider yourself to be a great sporting man, yes?”

Mr Penrose nodded.

“Well, what if you and I had some sport? One on one and winner takes all?”

“I am intrigued,” said Mr Penrose. “Speak to me of this sport.”

And so I spoke to him.