“I see,” said the wife of God.

“And I’ve named it after you. It’s called the Earth.”

God’s wife did that thing once again. “My name is not Earth!” she said. “It’s Eartha. You know I don’t like you calling me Earth. It sounds dirty, somehow.”

“You used to like it when I called you Earth.” God made a sad and sorry face.

“Well that was then and this is now and what is that supposed to be?”

“Which that is that?”

“That little that down there on the Earth.”

“Ah,” said God, with pride in His voice. “That little that is Man.”

“Man?” asked Eartha, wife of God.

“Man,” said God. “I created him in my own image.”

“Ha ha ha,” went the wife of God. “You never looked as good as that.”

“It’s what you call an idealized representation.”

“Yeah, right, sure it is.”

“Look,” God sighed. “Do you want it or not? It took me days to make.”

“How many days?”

God sighed again. “What does it matter, how many days? Look at the detail. Look at all the pretty colours.”

God’s wife looked. “And what are those?” she asked.

“Those are trees,” said God. “And those are flowers. And those are rabbits. And those are birdies. And that’s a Ford Fiesta.”

“I don’t like that,” said Eartha.

“Why don’t you like it? What’s wrong with it?”

“The design of the inner sill on the wheel arches. You’ll get rust there.”

“Ah,” said God.

“And why is Man grinning like that?”

“Because he’s happy.” God shook His old head. “So do you want it, or not?”

God’s wife shrugged. “Suppose so,” she said. “But what’s it for? Can I wear it?”

“No!” God threw up His hands in despair. “It’s not for wearing. It’s not even for touching. It’s just for looking at. You look at it and it makes you happy.”

God’s wife looked. “Oh no it doesn’t,” she said. “But if you made me another one, I could wear the pair as earrings.”

“I give up,” said God. “I give up.” And God put on His over-robe. “I give up and I’m going fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“Never mind!”

God left, slamming the door behind Him. God’s wife looked down on the Earth. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s an improvement on that stupid black hole thing He made for me last year. But it needs a bit of tidying up. It needs a woman’s touch. The Ford Fiesta can go for a start. And as for you …”

God’s wife peered down at the grinning Man.

“What you need is a wife.”

The grinning Man ceased grinning. “I’d rather keep the Ford,” he said.

“And you probably know the rest, chief. Adam gets a wife. The wife gets tempted. Original sin. Adam gets kicked out of paradise and it’s another ten thousand years before the Ford Fiesta is invented. And they never sort out the problem with the inner sill on the wheel arches.”

I whistled two bars of “Mean Woman Blues”.

“You get the picture now, chief?”

“I do. So I’ll tell you what I think. I think I’ll put the other case on hold for now!”

“I think you’ve made the right decision there, chief. And it’s really nice that you made it of your own free will, without me having to mention the threats and everything.”

“Threats? What threats?”

“Oh, just the threats that God’s wife made, regarding what she’d do if you didn’t find her husband within twenty-four hours. The most unpleasant but suitably spectacular death, followed by the eternity of hellfire and damnation. But as you’ve made the decision of your own free will, I won’t have to mention them at all.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“You haven’t got a hope, you feeble-minded sod.”

“What was that, Barry?”

“I said put on your hat and coat and let’s go and find God.”

“OK, Barry, let’s have a little action.”

6

Icarus Smith returned the cassette tape and address book to the relocated briefcase and departed from the Station Hotel. Following Hollywood’s example, he then placed the briefcase in a left luggage locker at the station. Put the key into an envelope, addressed this to himself, stuck a stamp upon it and popped it into the post box on the corner.

Having, of course, first assured himself that it was a real post box. Well, you never know.

“Right,” said Icarus, when all these things had been done. “First stop, Wisteria Lodge, home of Professor Partington. If I am to find this Red Head drug, or at least some clue as to its hidden location, the most logical place to begin my search would be there.”

And who could argue with that?

Wisteria Lodge was a grand old Georgian pile. It stood tall and proud with its heels dug into Brentford’s history and its head held high towards the changing of the times.

Because, as is often the case, certain additions had been made to the building over the years.

To the original Georgian pile had been added a Victorian bubo, an Edwardian boil and a nineteen-thirties cyst.

At the rear, work was currently in progress to construct a monstrous carbuncle.

Icarus stepped up to the front door and gave the knocker a knock. He waited a while and then knocked again, but answer came there none. Icarus became aware of the many keyholes in the front door and proceeded to the rear of the building.

The scaffolding was up, but the builders were absent. It was, after all, the afternoon now and builders rarely return from their lunches. Icarus tried the back door and found it to be unlocked.

To some this would be encouraging, but not to Icarus, who reasoned that an unlocked door is a likely sign of occupancy.

“Hello,” called Icarus. “Anyone at home?”

There didn’t seem to be.

Icarus entered the empty house and closed the door behind him.

He stood now in a hallway that could have done with a lick of paint, or a big French kiss of paper. Plaster had been ripped away from the walls and holes driven through the laths. Icarus stepped carefully over the rubble-strewn floor and made his way towards the front rooms.

These he found to be elegant and well proportioned. But utterly utterly trashed. Antique furniture smashed and broken, doors wrenched from hinges, marble fireplaces levered from the walls. Holes driven into the ceilings, floorboards torn from the floors.

Icarus surveyed the terrible destruction.

“It would seem”, said he, “that the men from the Ministry of Serendipity have done some pretty thorough searching here.”

Icarus now stood in what had once been a beautiful dining room. He righted an upturned Regency chair that still retained all of its legs and sat down hard upon it.

“But did they find what they were looking for?” he asked himself.

“Not if their language was anything to go by.”

Icarus turned at the sound of the voice and all but fell off the chair. In the doorless doorway stood a tiny man. He wasn’t just small, he was tiny. He had more the appearance of an animated doll than a human being. In fact, it was almost as if a ventriloquist’s dummy had been conjured into life.

Clearly this effect was one that the wee man sought to cultivate. For he had slicked back his hair and powdered his cheeks and pencilled lines from the corners of his mouth that met beneath his chin. He wore a dress suit, starched shirt with black dicky bow and patent leather shoes. And he leaned upon a slim malacca cane and eyed Icarus with suspicion.

“So what’s your game?” asked the miniature man. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you Professor Partington?” asked Icarus, rising to his feet.

“Of course I’m not. You know I’m not. I’m Johnny Boy, I am.”

“Pleased to meet you, Johnny Boy. My name is Icarus Smith.”

Johnny Boy cocked his head on one side. “Icarus Smith?” said he. “So what are you, Icarus Smith? You’re not a wrong’un, like those monsters from the Ministry.”