“Who?” asked Icarus.

“It doesn’t matter who, just look at me, please. I’m going to ask you to turn your head in a moment and look. But when you do and when you see what you see, I don’t want you to react. Don’t scream, or anything.”

“As if I would,” said Icarus.

“Listen, lad. I told you not to look at the ghosts, didn’t I? But you didn’t listen. Now I’m telling you to keep your wits about you and not to react to what you see. You mustn’t give the game away. You mustn’t let them know that you can see them.”

“Would this be the wrong’uns?” whispered Icarus.

“Yes it would, lad. He’s up at the bar now, so turn your head slowly and keep your mouth tight shut. And don’t stare, whatever you do. Just look and then look away. I really mean it, trust me and do what I tell you.”

“All right,” said Icarus. “I will.”

And Icarus turned his head slowly and looked towards the man who now stood at the bar. And then Icarus turned his head back slowly towards Johnny Boy.

And Johnny Boy looked into the eyes of Icarus Smith.

And Johnny Boy saw the terror that was in them.

Icarus was finding it hard to form words, but when he could, they came out in a whisper. “It’s not a man,” he whispered. “It’s some kind of monster. What is it?”

“It’s a wrong’un, lad. That’s what it is. Now take another look and don’t react. It doesn’t know you can see it for what it really is. You’re safe, as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

Icarus turned his head once more and feigned a casual glance towards the figure standing at the bar.

It was hideous. Evil. Loathsome. It was more than the height of a man, with tall quills rising from a scaly elongated head. The eyes were those of a reptile, greeny-red with vertical slits. There was no nose to speak of, but the mouthparts were complicated, just as those of some grossly magnified insect. And there was more to it, so very much more. And all this more was fearsome to behold.

Icarus took a gulp of his watered down vodka and slowly turned once more to Johnny Boy. “It’s an alien,” he whispered. “A creature from outer space. They really do walk among us.”

Johnny Boy grinned. “Alien?” he said. “You watch far too many duff old movies. That wrong’un isn’t an alien.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a demon from Hell, lad. Although it’s not exactly from Hell. You see, people have always had the wrong idea about Heaven and Hell. They thought Heaven was up in the clouds and Hell way down in the burning depths. But they’re not. They’re both right here. Inhabiting the same space we do.

“You see, there is no afterlife. No Heaven or Hell that you go to when you die. When you die, you’re finished, gone, kaput. But there are angels and there are demons and they do walk among us. This world can be Heaven or Hell, depending how your cards fall. Depending who, or rather what, is pulling your strings. I don’t know if there’s a God or not. But if there is, I’ll bet He’s down here too.”

“Demons,” whispered Icarus. “And they’ve always been among us? And people can’t see them for what they are? People just think they’re other people?”

“You’re catching on, lad.”

“It’s all too much. I mean, well, I mean, the demons and the angels both here on Earth. I mean, they don’t get on with each other, surely, I mean …”

“You mean, you mean, you mean. No, they don’t get on with each other. You might have noticed that mankind does indulge in a bit of warfare once in a while. The odd bit of conflict. Well, that’s not always the fault of mankind. All those evil despots, those Hitlers and Stalins, people have said that they sold their souls to the devil. But that’s not true. They really were demons. Waging their wars. Using up people as if they were nothing at all. So that the forces of evil can rule the planet.”

Icarus buried his face in his hands. “No,” he wept. “No.”

“Pull yourself together, lad. People will look. The wrong’un will look.”

Icarus did some snappy pulling together. “We have to do something about this,” he said. “This is big. This is really really big. This is bigger than anything. The knowledge of this could really change the world.”

“So, it’s a good thing you won’t be telling anybody about it, isn’t it?”

Icarus looked up in horror.

The chauffeur of the long dark automobile looked down.

He wasn’t a wrong’un. But he was a bad ’un.

He gestured with a bulging jacket pocket.

“Yes,” he said. “It is a gun. You might have seen it earlier. Now pick up all the boxes and the paper and walk quietly before me to the front door.”

“And what if I don’t?” said Icarus. Suddenly bold and very very angry. “Are you really going to shoot me in here, in a crowded bar?”

Icarus heard the pistol cock.

“Without a second’s thought,” said the chauffeur.

Icarus could see the man within the man.

And Icarus could see that the man wasn’t lying.

Icarus gathered up the boxes and the papers and the spectremeter, and with Johnny Boy before him and the chauffeur behind, moved across the crowded bar towards the door.

They passed close by the creature standing before the counter. Icarus could feel its pitiless gaze and a chill ran through him. What was he to do? Shout for help, turn suddenly and fight?

The jacket-muffled muzzle of the gun dug into his back. “Just keep walking,” came the chauffeur’s voice at his ear.

Outside and drawn up close to the kerb was the long dark automobile. As Johnny Boy and Icarus approached it, a rear door swung open.

“Get inside,” said the chauffeur.

Johnny Boy peered in, then jerked back in horror.

“Go on,” said the chauffeur, “both of you get in.”

Icarus climbed into the car. Johnny Boy followed him.

Stretched out on the rear car seat was a single occupant.

The single occupant was not a human being.

The long quills glistened and twitched, moving singly or in pairs, probing, sensing. The cold reptilian eyes swivelled in their scaly sockets. The complicated mouthparts moved and chewed and sucked.

“So,” said the creature in a cold dead voice. “We meet again.”

“We do?” Icarus Smith whispered the words. His throat was dry and he was shaking terribly.

“Well, briefly,” said the creature. “In Stravino’s barber’s shop. You stole my briefcase, I believe.”

10

Now, when I found myself standing in an alleyway, at the back of the Crimson Teacup, looking down at the dead body of God and turning up my collar to the howling hurricane, I stayed as cool as a Conservative councillor caught with a Cockney castrato in a curate’s cloakroom.

“Deny everything,” I shouted to Barry, above the wind and weather. “We’ll just have to deny everything. Hide the body. Pretend this didn’t happen. Spin some line to God’s wife that He’s off on a fishing holiday in Norfolk and I’ll change my name and grow a beard and become a Muslim.”

“Neat thinking, chief.”

“You think there’s a chance I can pull it off?”

“About as much chance as Dr Harold Shipman becoming the Queen Mum’s personal physician.”

“Quite a slim chance, then?”

“Somewhat thinner than Fangio’s waistline, chief.”

“Then that leaves me with only one alternative.”

“And what’s that, chief?”

I shoulder-holstered my trusty Smith and Wesleyan chapel, dropped to my knees in the rain, hail, fog and snow and sleet and sunshine, closed my eyes and clasped my hands in prayer. “Please forgive me, God’s widow,” I wept. “It wasn’t my fault. I tried to save Him. I shot the two hoods who gunned Him down. Have mercy on me, miserable sinner that I am.”

“Turn it in, chief.”

“Sssh please, Barry, I’m praying.”

“She won’t be listening, chief. People don’t pray to Her, because they don’t know She exists. So She doesn’t listen to praying. Got me?”