Icarus shook his head.

“And he talks to himself. When he thinks that he can’t be overheard. He seems to suffer from multiple personality disorder. I’ve heard him arguing with an imaginary character called Barry. He blames this Barry for everything that’s happened to him.”

Icarus nodded once again.

“I’m wondering perhaps whether he’s tormented by some childhood trauma,” said the doctor. “I know he’s got a drink problem and a broken marriage and I feel that he’s trying to reach out to his feminine side.”

Icarus nodded, then shook his head, and then he nodded again.

“So I think it would be for the best,” said the doctor, “if you signed this form, committing him to a course of psychiatric treatment.”

Icarus nodded and Icarus grinned.

“Lend me your biro,” he said.

“Now that was just plain mean,” said Johnny Boy, looking up from his drink. “Getting your brother banged up in a loony bin.”

They were sitting once more in the Station Hotel and Icarus hadn’t stopped grinning since they got there.

“It’s not a loony bin,” he told Johnny Boy. “It’s a psychiatric hospital. It will be for the best. He really does need the treatment.”

“You realize”, said Johnny Boy, “that you might just have signed his death warrant.”

“It wasn’t a death warrant. Just a form to commit him to care.”

“And he’s been in that hospital for five days already, which means that his week is nearly up. And if he doesn’t solve his case, by tomorrow, God’s wife is going to punish him big time.”

“But the case is solved. Colin was the culprit and Colin died in an accident.”

“Nothing is solved,” said Johnny Boy. “Take a look over at the barman.”

Icarus glanced over at the barman. The barman wasn’t Fangio, but Icarus hadn’t expected him to be. The barman was the usual barman, the one who wore Mr Cormerant’s relocated watch fob.

But the barman’s true form could now be seen by Icarus. The barman had quills that rose high above his green reptilian head.

“Nothing is solved,” said Johnny Boy once again.

“I’m working on it,” said Icarus. “I haven’t been idle. The men at the Ministry don’t know that Colin is dead. I’ve forged memos using letter headings from Cormerant’s briefcase. I’ve sent them to all departments at the Ministry, closing down the exo-cranial programme. And dismissing all the operatives in hairdresser’s and barber’s shops. And desisting from any further harassment of our good selves. I don’t see what more I can do than that.”

“Nor me,” said Johnny Boy. “But the demons and angels are still among us and only we know that they’re here.”

“Perhaps there’s nothing we can do but wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Wait for a new generation to grow up. A generation that doesn’t have its head massaged. That generation will see the truth.”

“That’s a cop-out ending, if ever there was one,” said Johnny Boy. “Have you given up on being a relocator now? Perhaps now your brother is in the loony bin, you don’t have to try any more. You don’t have anything to prove. Is that it?”

“No, that’s not it.” Icarus sighed. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps now, with his brother safely locked up, perhaps he no longer did have to prove anything.

“And something I haven’t asked you,” said Johnny Boy. “Whatever happened to your mum? Did Cormerant do something horrible to her when he went to your house to get the left luggage locker key you’d mailed to yourself?”

“No, she was out at the time. Apparently he smashed open the front door and simply snatched the envelope from the floor.”

“Well isn’t that hunky-dory? So you don’t even have any revenge to take. Let’s just have another drink and wait for the next generation.”

“Give it a rest,” said Icarus. “I’ve done all I can. I don’t know what else I can do.”

“No,” said Johnny Boy, finishing his drink. “You don’t. But I bet your brother does. I’ll bet if he was out of that loony bin and back on the case, he’d sort everything out.”

“He’s too sick,” said Icarus. “He’s a regular dying detective. He’s got broken bones and everything.”

“Has he hell,” said Johnny Boy. “I’ve visited him. He’s just got a couple of teeth missing and a few bruises. He could have been out of there and back on the case, if you hadn’t signed his death warrant.”

Icarus went up to the bar to get in another round of drinks. The barman with the watch fob leered at him. Icarus stared into the evil face. The long reptilian head, the eyes with their vertical pupils, the quivering quills, the hideous insect mouthparts.

“You haven’t put any little treats in my direction lately,” said the barman, fingering the watch fob with a terrible talon. “You’ll just have to pay for this round of drinks. Nothing comes for free in this world, you know.”

Icarus paid and returned with the drinks to his table.

“We’re going to the hospital,” he said. “We’re going to get my brother.”

“I’m an only child,” I said. “I don’t know why you keep going on about me having a brother.”

“I do have your case notes here,” said the doctor. “I do know who you really are.”

“I’m Woodbine,” I said. “Lazlo Woodbine,” adding, just for the hell of it, “Some call me Laz.”

“Woodbine,” and the doctor nodded. At least he’d got my name right. “The world famous private eye. Everybody knows his name, but no-one can put a face to it.”

“That’s the way that I do business.”

“Are you sleeping well?” the doctor asked.

“I haven’t slept for five days. I daren’t sleep, I’ll give away the ending if I sleep.”

“Barry will give the ending away, will he?”

“I don’t want to talk about Barry,” I said. “Forget about Barry.”

“All right, let’s forget about Barry. Let’s talk about you. Mr Lazlo Woodbine, private eye.”

“Good choice of topic,” I said. “Could I have another wideawake pill?”

“Now according to my notes …” The doctor was at those goddamn case notes once again. “According to my notes, Lazlo Woodbine works in only four locations.”

“You got it,” I said. “The office, the bar, the alleyway and the rooftop. No good detective ever needs more.”

“Not even a bedroom, for all that gratuitous sex you genre detectives are so noted for?”

“There are some promises that even a detective can’t keep.”

“So you stick to the four locations.”

“I do,” said I. And I did.

The doctor stretched out his arms and put his hands behind his head. “So how do you explain your present location?” he asked.

“Name any location,” said the taxi driver. “Anywhere in Inner or Greater London and I’ll tell you how to get to it from here.”

It wasn’t the same taxi driver. But you’d have been hard pressed to tell the difference. He had that same curious thing with hair on the left hand side and that same odd business with the tongue when he used the word “plinth”.[17]

“I’m not really in the mood,” said Johnny Boy.

“Oh go on,” said the cabbie. “It will make me go faster.”

“All right,” said Johnny Boy. “How do you get to the Flying Swan?”

“That’s easy,” said the cabbie. “You go up Abbadon Street, along Moby Dick Terrace, turn left into Sprite Street, right into …”

“He’s making it up,” said Johnny Boy.

“I think they always do,” said Icarus Smith.

“You make all this up,” said the doctor. “It’s all a fantasy. If you were the real Lazlo Woodbine, you couldn’t be sitting here now.”

“Hm,” said I. “Well.”

“Over the last five days you have told me a story that is a complete fantasy. About a voice in your head that put in a word with the widow of God. About a drug which enables people to see angels and demons. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ve been under the impression that I’m one of these demons. One of these ‘wrong’uns’, am I correct?”