“Whoa!” went Johnny Boy. “We just went right through ourselves. Or rather, ourselves just went right through us. Or was it …”

“Far out,” said the grinner, grinning again. “I’m tripping out here, man. So, like I was saying. Our dad got into real trouble with the company he worked for, because he kept delivering stuff to the wrong locations. And eventually they sacked him. And then he was on the dole and we couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments on the house and we had a nice house and he had to sell it and get a tiny one instead. And it was all the fault of Icarus and I was going to tell Mum, but Icarus said he’d lock me in the suitcase if I did and never let me out.”

“He’s making this up,” said Icarus, desperately swerving to avoid an oncoming taxi which turned out to be driven by himself.

“I never told Mum, but Icarus used to have nightmares. He’d wake up screaming that he could put everything back in the right places.”

“Shut up!” shouted Icarus. “Shut up, or I’ll throw you out of the taxi. You’re no good to us like this. Pull yourself together. Be Lazlo Woodbine again.”

“You want me to be Lazlo Woodbine? How could I be Lazlo Woodbine? That was him in the other taxi, wasn’t it?”

“That was you in the other taxi.”

“Johnny Boy said it was Lazlo Woodbine. When are we going to have lunch?”

Icarus Smith glared over his shoulder. “You’ve got to help us,” he growled. “You are Woodbine. The greatest detective of them all. You tell him, Johnny Boy.”

“Stop being horrid to your brother,” said Johnny Boy.

“Oh no!” shouted Icarus. “Look out.”

Something smashed into something else.

No it didn’t.

Yes it did.

The long dark automobile ploughed head on into the taxi, mashing up its bonnet to oblivion and bringing the ‘Oh no’ing driver through the windscreen in slow motion amidst the shattering glass.

The driver crashed down onto the bonnet of the long dark automobile.

“That’s him,” shouted Cormerant. “Get out and shoot him dead.”

The demons hastened to oblige.

One took hold of the crash victim’s bloody head and twisted it around.

“Kill him!” shouted Cormerant. “I’ve suffered enough of this young man.”

The demon did as he was told.

And shot the young man dead.

18

It really was true.

About your whole life flashing right in front of your eyes at that terrible final moment. As the taxi struck the long dark automobile and Icarus Smith shouted “Oh no!” his whole life flashed before him, right in front of his eyes.

And it really hadn’t been the best of lives.

Icarus could see himself as a child, locking his brother in the suitcase and pushing it under his mother’s bed. Tormenting his brother, hiding his teddy, making him play the manic detective in order to find it again. Shuffling up his father’s delivery sheets and dreaming the guilt-ridden nightmares, where only he, Icarus Smith, could put the world to rights.

Icarus saw all this as the taxi’s brakes failed and the cab ran into the long dark automobile.

Into the rear of the long dark automobile.

It was a considerable smash-up, but as the long dark automobile was already ground into the front of another taxi, the long dark automobile didn’t move very much at all.

The demon who had despatched the driver of the other cab looked up from his murderous business and wiped away at the spatterings of blood that sprinkled his terrible visage.

“I think I just shot the wrong bloke, sir,” he said.

And of course it was true.

An innocent man lay dead on the long dark bonnet of the long dark automobile. An innocent man who did bear an uncanny resemblance to Icarus Smith. Could almost, in fact, have been taken for his twin. What are the chances of that happening?

Eh?

“Kill the right one then,” shouted Cormerant. “Hurry up. Do it now.”

“Right one, yes sir.” The demon hastened once more to oblige.

“Out of the taxi.” Icarus was out and dragging the rear door open.

“I’m all shook up,” said Johnny Boy.

“I’m hungry,” said the other. “Are we going to have lunch now?”

Icarus bundled them out of the taxi. “Run,” said he. “It’s the only hope we have.”

“Brother,” said the other, “I’m really not in the mood to run.”

A gun went bang and a bullet parted a Ramón Navarro hairstyle.

“I’ll race you, brother Icarus, come on.”

Icarus ran, and Johnny Boy ran and the man with the parted hairstyle ran as well.

The demons marched behind, quills high and quivering, evil reptiloid faces thrusting forward, nasty nasty mouthparts sucking in the air.

Oh, and guns held high and firing all the way.

The three men ran across the Ealing Road, towards the tower blocks on the other side. They ran across a forecourt area which seemed strangely deserted, considering the time of day, and then they ran between the first two mighty buildings.

Why do they call buildings buildings? Have you ever wondered about that? I mean a building is only a building when you’re actually building it. When it’s built, it’s built. So they really shouldn’t call them buildings, should they? They should be called builts.

“These builts are really high, aren’t they?” said Johnny Boy, as he ran.

“These whats?” Icarus answered him.

“Oh nothing, just a thought.”

“In here,” said Icarus, “quickly.” And he pushed upon a door.

The door was locked.

Icarus fumbled out his little roll of tools.

A bullet ricocheted off the doorpost.

“We’re gonna die,” cried Johnny Boy. “Hurry, Icarus, hurry.”

Icarus hurried.

The lock clicked and the door came open.

Icarus pushed the two men through the doorway. The little one with the terrified expression. The big one with the stupid look on his face.

Icarus slammed shut the door and locked it.

“There,” he said. “We’re safe.”

“There what?” said Johnny Boy. “We’re not safe. Those buggers will shoot the lock off.”

Icarus turned. They were in a corridor, another corridor! It seemed to be all corridors these days. And underground or overground, a corridor looks like a corridor. Except, of course, when it’s a passage, or a hall. But then they’re all pretty much the same when you get right down to it, except for the carpets. And perhaps the lighting; you can do a lot with a corridor if you light it tastefully. Not that you could have done much with this particular corridor. It looked really ill kept. Uncared for. This was an unloved corridor. It did have some stairs leading up from it, which was something, although not really something worth cheering about.

“Up the stairs,” shouted Icarus.

“Up?” said Johnny Boy. “Since when did escape ever lie up?”

“It did the last time.”

“We were underground the last time.”

The sounds of gunfire echoed from without.

“Up it is,” said Johnny Boy, taking a very big breath.

“Brother,” said the other, “you won’t let those beastly things get me, will you? You will protect me?”

“Where’s the gun?” said Icarus.

“Here,” said Johnny Boy.

“Then I’ll hold them off. You run upstairs with my useless brother here and knock on someone’s door. Call the police, or something.”

“And which police would that be? The good police, or the wrong’un police? Should I ask them to send cops without quills? Do you think they’ll understand what I mean?”

“Are you trying to be difficult?”

“No, it’s just …”

The sounds of close-quarters gunfire and the lock exploding from the door put paid to further conversation.

“Up?” said Johnny Boy. “Up it certainly is.”