“I know you once hid in the loft,” said Icarus. “And the pizza man abseiled down the roof and found you.”

“Good example,” said I. “Not me, of course. But good example.”

“Did you order us all a pizza?” asked Johnny Boy. “Because I’d like anchovies on mine. I love anchovies, they’re small and delicious. A bit like me, really.”

“Gimme a break.”

Icarus sighed. He’d been doing a lot of sighing lately. More than was normally natural for one of his tender years. “So you really think”, said he, “that if we just wait around here, in this secret underground establishment, a pizza delivery man is going to knock on the door?”

“There isn’t a door any more,” said Johnny Boy.

“Knock on the doorpost then. Pizza in hand?”

“And then we just follow him out,” said I. “You don’t get to be the best in the business without having a flair for this kind of thing. I’m telling you, kid, in my business, having a flair can mean the difference between a pair of drainpipe trousers or a pair of bell-bottoms. If you know what I mean, and I’m sure I could have put it somewhat better than that.”

“Barking,” said Icarus. “He’s barking mad.”

“I think we should just run,” said Johnny Boy.

Captain Ian nudged the arm of Icarus. “Do you want me to punch your brother’s lights out?” he asked. “I could carry him over my shoulder.”

“I heard that,” I said, checking my watch.

“Oh, get real,” said Icarus. “This rubbish isn’t going to work.”

“I’ll give you a slice,” I said to Johnny Boy. “But if there’s only one olive, I’m having it.”

“Fair enough. I hope you ordered extra cheese.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“For the love of God!” said Icarus. “This is insanity. There isn’t going to be a pizza man. We’re down here in the Ministry of Hell. We have to be serious. We have to escape.”

“Pizza for Mr Woodwork,” said a voice. “Hot pastrami, double cheese and triple chewing fat.”

I looked at the kid called Icarus.

And he looked back at me.

“Don’t say it, kid,” I said. “Don’t go getting all dewy-eyed and all choked up and saying, ‘Thank you, Mr Woodbine, you’re the bestest friend a boy could ever have.’ Just bow to the inevitable. Forget the rest, when you’re dealing with the best. This is Woodbine you’re dealing with and Woodbine always gets the job done.”

The kid was speechless and who could blame him? I took his hand in mine and gave it a shake.

A couple of tablets dropped from his hand and into my manly palm. They looked kind of sweaty, but a tablet is a tablet and I had a real old headache from the bopping that Sam had given me.

“Aspirins,” I said.

And I tossed one down my throat.

13

“Sit down,” said Icarus Smith. “Something is about to happen to you. We don’t have much time.”

“Listen, kid,” I told him. “I’m done with sitting down. I have a case that needs solving.”

“You have to listen, something is about to happen. That wasn’t an aspirin that you just swallowed. That was the Red Head drug.”

“Who’s paying for this pizza?” asked the pizza guy, doing that thing that they always do with their helmets.

“I’m paying,” said I. “And I’ve got fifty big ones for you if you give me a lift out of here on the back of your bike.”

“No,” said Icarus. “Hold on.”

“Fifty big ones!” said the pizza guy. Now doing that thing they always do with their gloves. “Hop on, Mr Woodcock, and I’ll have you away in a jiffy.”

“No! Hold on!” And Icarus made a pair of fists.

The guy with the military bearing stepped forward to block my passage. And I don’t take kindly to that, when I’m not wearing corduroy. I drew out the trusty Smith and “Go West” by the Village People.

“Out of my way, fella,” said I. “Or know the joy that a bullet brings, which ain’t no joy at all.”

The guy took another step forward and I took a small one back. This guy was brave, I had to give him that.

Now I don’t know what might have happened next. Perhaps I might have shot the guy, perhaps I might not. Perhaps the guy would have just backed off and then perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps I should have noticed the little guy with the singed socks who was creeping up on me and then ducked the pizza, with the double cheese and the triple chewing fat, that he hurled right into my face. But as something else happened at that very moment and none of these things did, I guess I’ll never know for sure.

The something else that happened happened suddenly and when it suddenly happened, it was loud. That something was an alarm bell sounding and it brought with it that sense of urgency and panic that alarm bells so often do.

“We’re rumbled!” I shouted above the hubbub. “Follow me and let’s go.”

They dithered for a moment, but soon bowed to my natural authority. There was a bit of rushing then and we all got stuck in the doorway.

“Can five fit on your bike?” I shouted at the pizza guy.

“You don’t have to shout,” he said. “I’ve got my helmet on.”

“Can you get five on your bike?” I reiterated in a moderate tone.

“No problem,” said he. “As long as three are prepared to run behind.”

“Then let’s go for it,” I cried. “Take us to the nearest bar and don’t spare the horsepower.”

The nearest bar turned out to be the Lion’s Mane, a safari theme pub on the corner of Thor Bridge Road and not two hundred yards from the entrance to Mornington Crescent underground station.

I entered the establishment, hacked my way through the plantain and the jungle vines and beat a path to the bar. The landlord was lean as a leopard and gamin as a gazelle. He wore a solar toupee and one of those khaki safari suits that not even David Attenborough can wear without looking an utter plum.

“Set ’em up, barkeep,” I said. “Four gin slings and a punka wallah and none of that calling me bwana.”

“Ice and a slice?” asked the lean landlord.

“A squeeze, if you please,” said I.

“Aaagh!” went Johnny Boy. “There’s a big snake trying to eat our pizza.”

“And a machete please, barkeep,” I added.

The landlord did the business and I put paid to the python.

“I’ll have to charge you extra for killing the wildlife,” said the lanksome landlord. “You just missed the happy hunting hour. But for a small surcharge, our in-house tailor can make you up a jacket from the snake’s skin.”

“Put me down for a trenchcoat and matching fedora,” said I.

“Hell’s mud huts and hinterland!” said the long-legged landlord. “It’s you, Laz. I didn’t recognize you in that old tweed jacket. I thought you were that reporter guy from the Brentford Mercury.”

I looked the lean and lanksome long-legged landlord up and down. “Why, Fange,” I said. “It’s you. I didn’t recognize you in that solar toupee. I thought it was Ally McBeal with her hair up;”

“Enough of your thinnist remarks, you fat bastard.”

“Serve the drinks up, Posh,” said I. “And put some Karen Carpenter on the jukebox.”

The landlord did as he was bid and I hacked my way to the veranda area. Here we sat ourselves down upon wicker chairs and watched the sun sinking low over the veldt, to the sound of distant tribal drums and the calls of the uzelum bird.

“Damn these mosquitoes,” said Johnny Boy, flicking flies from his forehead. “And damn those native drums. Beating. Beating. They’re driving me mad, I tell you.”

“Turn it in,” said Icarus. “You’re only encouraging him.”

“Listen, kid,” I told the kid. “I got you out of there, didn’t I? A big thank you might be nice. And should you wish to include a large ‘So sorry to have ever doubted you, Mr Woodbine, sir’ you won’t find me complaining.”

Icarus threw up his hands. “Look at him,” he said to Captain Ian. “The Red Head drug’s done absolutely nothing. It hasn’t worked.”