“You have seriously fucked with me,” declared the Evil One. “You’ve fucked with my plans. I had that moron Colin right in the palm of my hand. He was mine. And with his father dead and the Earth passed on to him, I would have had it. He would have sold the Earth to me, just to spite his mother. But then you come along. Stupid petty criminal and you fuck everything up. There’s no Hell for you to go to now. But I will make your final moments more hellish than your puny little mind could ever comprehend.”

And the spawn of the pit took hold of Icarus and lifted him from his feet.

“Eyes first,” said His Satanic Majesty. “Eyes plucked out and pushed down your throat, then other bits too, one slowly after another.”

Icarus shook and fought to break free, but you really don’t have too much chance against the devil.

Icarus tried to close his eyes and turn his face away, but the taloned claws pressed in upon his eyeballs.

And once again Icarus found the whole of his life flashing right there in front of his eyes.

And once again he felt it hadn’t been the best of lives.

“Time to suffer, you thieving little gobshite.” And the claws of Hell went pressing in.

“Hey, scumbag,” I said. “Leave the kid alone.”

The creature turned to face me and I could see by the look on his big ugly puss that he didn’t like what he saw.

“And what’s this?” he asked in a tone that I didn’t take to.

“This is where you get it,” I said, cooler than a Carmelite in a coprophiliac’s karsy. “This is where you get what’s coming to you.”

The Beast of the Revelation looked me up and down then up and down some more.

I raised the trusty Smith and Wes Craven’s Nightmare and thumbed back the hammer. “The safety catch is off this time,” I said.

Cormerant let Icarus fall to the rooftop. “You have got to be kidding,” said he.

“Me, buddy, I never kid. This is the final rooftop showdown. This is where you get yours.”

“You dare to point that gun at me, you cringing gutless piece of shit!”

I cocked an eyebrow and smiled him one of my Woodbine winners. “I might not have slept for a week,” said I. “And I may be drugged up to the windows of my stainless soul. And I may have had to adopt a different persona, that of this kid’s brother, in order to cover the scenes where I left the hospital and travelled in the taxi and through the streets and up the stairs and everything. But this is my territory here, buddy. This is my fourth location. The rooftop where the villain gets his and I get all the glory.”

“Ha,” the devil-made-filthy-flesh laughed and evilly he did it too. “You dare to mess about with me?” he asked. “When you know who I really am?”

“You must be the devil, pal, because you sure as hell smell just like shit. But you ain’t no immortal any more. Not with there being no afterlife. You can catch a bullet like the rest of them.”

Mr Evil lunged towards me, but I took a duck to the side. Taking a duck to the side can often save your life when you’re a private eye. Mind you, you have to know which side to duck to. Knowing which side to duck to can mean the difference between bathing the babe in bechamel sauce and burning your butt on a Bessemer converter. Or chewing the fat with the fattest of friends and biting the bullet in Brixton. Or any one of a number of similar permutations, most of which are obscene.

If you know what I mean. And I’m sure that you do.

The creature lunged and I took a duck.

And damn me if I didn’t duck the wrong way.

But hey, gimme a break, I hadn’t slept for a week and I had more nose candy up my proboscis than Noah had knobbing on his ark.

And all of a sudden, and a very bad sudden it was, I had talons around my throat and more bad breath in my face than a necrophage’s dental hygienist.

“So you burn, Mr Woodsmoke.”

“Can’t you do better than that, buddy?” I asked, trying to lighten up the situation. “Surely Wood … er … Wood …” But damn me if I could think of another one myself.

But hey, gimme another break, I …

“Time to die,” said Cormerant.

“You first, shitface,” I said. And I stuck my gun right into his plug-ugly gob and let him have six of the best.

Which lightened the situation right up for me.

But darkened it somewhat for him.

The top came off his horrible head and it was raining quills.

He staggered about, and I’ll tell you, friends, he didn’t look like he was making whoopee.

“You shot me,” he said.

And I could see clear through his mouth to the sky.

“Yeah,” said I. “And if you think that’s rough. I’m now gonna kick you in the balls.”

And, my friends, that’s what I did.

And he took the rooftop plunge.

And down at ground level, and all but forgotten in all the excitement, an SAS demolition man went “three, two, one” and pushed down on the plunger, in that way they always do.

“!”

went the SHITE. Which was one very loud bit of silence.

Yeah, well, it might have been. But it wasn’t.

I’m sure he would have pushed upon that plunger. That’s what they always do, when they’re blowing things up.

But a hand fell on the soldier’s shoulder and the voice of Captain Ian Drayton said, “Hold fire.”

Back on the rooftop, I helped Icarus up. “Are you OK, kid?” I asked. “You look a little shaky on your pins.”

“Thanks, Mr Woodbine,” he said. “You came through for us. Well, you came through for me.”

He dropped to his knees beside the little broken dolly man.

“The bastard killed him,” Icarus wept. “Merciless bastard.”

“He’s one dead bastard now,” said I. “I’m sorry about your little buddy.”

Icarus lifted the tiny man up in his arms and kissed him on the forehead.

“Oi!” went Johnny Boy. “None of that. I know we’re friends. But not that friendly.”

“It’s a miracle,” said Icarus Smith.

“You never can tell,” said I.

19

We headed back to my office, Icarus, Johnny Boy, Captain Ian and I. We took a taxi, I recall, and the cabbie told us all about the knowledge. I don’t remember too much about what he said, but I’m damn sure he was wrong about the route to Heartbreak Hotel.

Once we were safely back in my office, I leaned my butt on my desk.

“OK,” said I, with more suavity than a Swiss sword-swallower in a Swedish swivel chair. “I guess you’d like me to explain it all to you.”

Heads nodded all round, as they generally do when I ask a question like that.

“The first thing you have to understand is that Colin did not put the hit out on his old man.”

“He didn’t?” said Johnny Boy. “But he was the prime suspect.”

“Little guy,” said I, “this isn’t some episode of Columbo. In the world of Lazlo Woodbine, it is never the prime suspect.”

“I knew that,” said Icarus.

“Well you never told me,” said Johnny Boy.

“Might I continue?” I enquired, with more retort than a Reigate squire on a cardboard box in Carfax.

Heads nodded all round again and I was set into telling of my tale. “It wasn’t Colin and it wasn’t Eartha.”

“Eartha?” said Icarus.

“Put a sock in it, kid. Eartha was number one on my list. She called me in to search for Her missing husband. I figured that She wouldn’t have done that unless She cared about him. Unless, on the other hand that rocks the cradle, She wanted evidence for a divorce. Which She didn’t, because God had got up to His capers with the Jewish girls before and She’s taken him back every time. So, at the start off, I figured She cared. But. She shows up at my office, less than an hour after He’s copped it, with the will in Her hand and She’s hardly the grieving widow. She doesn’t show a flicker of emotion on that plug-ugly puss of Hers. And that made me suspicious. She’s got the will and the will fingers Colin. I tell Her that. But She doesn’t care about that either. It seems that She’s happy to have Colin put in the frame. And as investigations prove that Colin is running the Ministry of Serendipity, an organization dedicated to dumbing down the public — thumbing down the public in fact — to keep them unaware that demons and angels are walking on the face of the Earth, it looks like Colin all the way. And it seems that Colin’s mum doesn’t give a flea’s fart about him either. To me it all smells worse than a Baskerville do-do in a devil’s footbath. But, like I say, it wasn’t Her.”