And so they ran up. First up one staircase. Then another. And they ran along further corridors, knocking on doors and shouting for help. But do you know what? Not a single door opened to them. Not one. And why was that? Was it because the good people of Brentford turn deaf ears to callings for help? No, it wasn’t that. Was it, then, that they were afraid to answer their doors, what with all the shooting going on, and everything? No, it wasn’t even that. If it was anything at all, and it was, it was because, but for the three men running and the demons firing shots, the entire flat block was deserted.

There wasn’t another living soul in that flat block.

And why was that?

Had all the occupants gone out shopping? No. Had they gone on holiday then, a coach outing, or something?

No, not even that.

They had all, in fact, moved. Every last one of them.

Because the tower block had been declared an unsafe structure. It was scheduled for demolition.

Today, actually.

In about fifteen minutes.

Now normally, when a local council decides to blow up one of its flat blocks, this gets on to the news and thousands of people turn up to watch the detonation and cheer as the block comes tumbling down. And the streets get sealed off for half a mile around and policemen stand in their shirt sleeves and smile at everybody and some cherub-faced kiddie who’s won the “Why I’d like to blow up the flat block” competition gets to light the blue touch-paper or press down a plunger of whatever and it’s all a right old carry-on and how-do-you-do.

But not here.

Not in Brentford.

Brentford doesn’t go in for all that hullabaloo.

Brentford does things in a quiet and sedate manner.

In Brentford, the council simply rehouses the flat block’s occupants, in new and finer homes, then calls in the SAS to demolish the tower block with SHITE. So the flat block simply ceases to exist. In silence. In the twinkling of an eye.

Down on the ground level, the SAS were even now setting up the charges and unrolling metres of fuse.

Up on level twenty-three Icarus banged on more doors.

“Perhaps they’ve all gone to the shops,” puffed Johnny Boy.

“Or on holiday, on a coach outing. What do you think, brother Icarus?”

“I think we’re in trouble here.”

“Oh, you’ll get us out of it. You always get me out of every sticky situation.”

Sounds of marching feet came up the stairwell. Sounds of handguns being reloaded. Ugly sounds of sucking breath and grunting.

“Onward, ever upward,” said Icarus.

“I’m all done,” said Johnny Boy. “Leave me here to die.”

“Icarus will save us, Johnny Boy, don’t fear.”

Icarus gestured with the trusty Smith and Where’s-the-sense-in-going-up-any-higher-why-not-simply-make-a-fight-of-it-here?

“Up,” urged Icarus. “Up.”

But of course, going up has to stop eventually. Eventually you are up and you can’t go up any more. Eventually, you hit the top and when you’ve hit it, you know, just know, exactly where your going up has got you.

They crashed out through a door and onto the tower block roof.

An acre of blank tarmac, relieved only by four of those whirly-whirly-air-conditioning-sucky-out-extractor-fan jobbies that you always find on tower block roofs, along with all the pigeon poo.

Johnny Boy crawled onto the rooftop. “Seventy-two floors,” he wheezed. “But at least we got here at last.”

Icarus staggered onto the rooftop. He whirled around like one of the whirly-whirly things, the gun in his hand and a rather horrified look on his face. “Where is it?” he managed to say. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what, brother? Ooh, the view’s lovely from here. You can see Kew Gardens; look at the sunlight on the glasshouses.”

“Where’s the cradle? The window-cleaning cradle. I thought we could abseil down on the ropes.”

“Now that would have been exciting,” said Johnny Boy, clutching at his heart. “I’d have been right up for a bit of abseiling.”

“We’re trapped.” And Icarus whirled around again.

And got himself dizzy. And fell right over.

Johnny Boy sat on his little bum and laughed. Laughed, that’s what he did. “There’s no way down,” he laughed. It was what they call hysterical laughter. “You’ve got us up here and there’s no way down.”

“Shut up!” shouted Icarus. “I’m thinking.”

“Better think fast, then.” Johnny Boy laughed some more.

“I could soar down,” said the other, making wings with his arms. “I could soar down, like a swan, or a mighty condor, spread my wings and …”

Icarus dragged him back. “Sober up,” he shouted. “Pull yourself together. Be Woodbine. You are Woodbine. He’d get us out of this. He would.”

“You’ll get us out of this, brother. I trust you. You’re my hero.”

“No. I’m nobody. You’re the hero. You’re my hero. Really.”

“You’re not my hero.” A gun-toting demon stepped out onto the rooftop.

“Nor mine,” said his hideous companion. “I only like Carol Vorderman.”

“I don’t like anybody,” said Cormerant, pushing the demons aside.

Icarus raised the gun to fire. But guns have safety catches. Click went the gun. And click again. Icarus fumbled to drop the safety catch, but there is a knack to these things.

Cormerant strode over the rooftop and tore the gun from the hand of Icarus Smith. “Here,” said he. “Why don’t you let your companion here have a go at it?” And he thrust the gun into the limp-looking hand of the man who had once been Woodbine.

“Oh no,” said that man. “I can’t be having with guns. Nasty things, guns. They go off and shoot people.”

Cormerant laughed. “He’s sort of lost his edge, hasn’t he?” he said, and he offered the gun to Johnny Boy.

“I’ll have a go,” said the midget. “But I might need a hand pulling the trigger.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” said Cormerant. “But not for that.”

And he reached down to Johnny Boy, took hold of his head and snapped the little man’s neck.

“No!” Icarus screamed and sank to his knees beside the body. “No, Johnny Boy, no.”

Cormerant turned to his two evil henchmen. “Go back to the car,” he said. “I can handle everything here. Take the car back to the Ministry. I’ll join you later for a nice cup of tea.”

The demons departed, laughing all the way.

“You killed him.” Tears flowed down the face of Icarus Smith. “You callous monstrous bastard. There was no need to kill him.”

“I’m cleaning up,” said Cormerant. “Cleaning up all the mess you’ve made with your interfering. He’s dead because of you. Because you stole my briefcase. You’re the one who has to live with his death on your conscience. But don’t worry yourself, you won’t have to live with it for long.”

“I’ve posted the cassette tape.” Icarus looked up through his tears. “I’ve posted the cassette tape of you torturing Professor Partington. To a newspaper. Along with a signed testimony and one of the Red Head tablets. And I’ve had a chemist analyse the drug and produce gallons of it in liquid form. A friend of mine has it and if I don’t phone him at a specified time today, he’ll pour it into the local water supply. People will see you and your kind for what you really are.”

“I don’t think so,” said Cormerant. “Your friend. Would that be your best friend? Friend Bob?”

“How—”

“I’ve been keeping a careful eye on you. Your best Friend Bob is now sadly deceased.”

“No,” wept Icarus. “No.”

“You should never have messed with me,” said Cormerant. “You don’t know who I really am.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” said Icarus.

“Language,” said Cormerant. “You shouldn’t talk like that to me. You should call me by my official title. You should call me Your Satanic Majesty.”

Icarus stared up at Cormerant. And the face of evil stared back down at him.