Waiting for Godalming (12 page)

“What happened?” he managed to ask. “Where are we?”

“That evil bitch played havoc with your brain. You told her everything. Where you’d hidden the briefcase. How you mailed the key to yourself. Your address.”

“Oh God, no.”

“I’m sorry,” said Johnny Boy. “There was nothing I could do to stop her. They flushed all the tablets down the sink and burned the professor’s notes. They’d have smashed up the spectremeter too, if you hadn’t told them what it did.”

“I don’t remember anything.” Icarus rubbed at his knees.

“No, she said that you wouldn’t. They made me drag you here and they locked us in. You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“Oh God, I’m shaking all over. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Please don’t,” said Johnny Boy. “This is only a very small cell.”

“A cell.” Icarus looked up and around and about.

“Death cell, I should think,” said Johnny Boy. “I’m really sorry, Icarus. It’s all my fault that you got into this.”

“Don’t blame yourself. We’re in it now and we have to get out of it and quick.”

Johnny Boy sighed a little sigh, “We’ve lost,” said he. “They’ve destroyed the tablets and the formula. They win, we lose.”

“Oh no we don’t,” said Icarus and he opened his right hand. On his palm lay a dozen tablets, all very sweaty and rather crunched up, but a dozen tablets, none the less. “I relocated these while we were in the car. We can get some chemist to analyse them. We’re not done for yet.”

“Smart lad,” said Johnny Boy. “But how do we get out of here?”

“Getting out of this cell is no problem,” said Icarus. “It’s what we do when we’re out that worries me.”

Johnny Boy had not counted doors, or busts in little niches. And when Icarus (using certain instruments which he kept in the heels of his shoes) had opened the cell door and glanced up and down a strange corridor, and asked Johnny Boy which way it was to the barber’s shop, the small man could only shrug his shoulders and say it was perhaps this way or perhaps the other.

“Best leave it to fate, then,” said Icarus. “Follow me.”

This corridor had a stone-flagged floor and walls of echoing stone. This was your standard prison corridor, the one along which the cries of tortured souls are wont to echo.

“Your heels really click, don’t they?” said Icarus.

“Tap-shoes,” said Johnny Boy. “I used to do a bit of the old Fred and Ginger.”

“Perhaps you’d like to take them off, or walk on tiptoe or something.”

Johnny Boy stopped and took off his shoes and tucked them into his trouser pockets.

“What happened to your socks?” asked Icarus. “They look all singed.”

“I suffer from spontaneous human combustion. If I eat too much coleslaw.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” said Icarus. “My mad brother says that he suffers from that. But I never believed him. I thought he was making it up.”

“It’s a common complaint,” said Johnny Boy. “I’d like to meet your brother.”

“No, you wouldn’t. He’s a nutter. Lives in a world of fantasy.”

“Unlike us,” said Johnny Boy.

“Exactly,” said Icarus Smith. “But he’s one of the reasons that we have to get out of here fast. Cormerant has my address; he’ll go there to get the luggage locker key. I don’t want any harm to come to my family.”

“Shame,” said a voice.

“Oh dear,” said Johnny Boy.

“Just put your hands up,” said the voice. It was the voice of the chauffeur.

Icarus raised his hands and turned around. Johnny Boy did likewise.

“You’re very nifty with locks, aren’t you?” said the chauffeur. “I just missed you. Happily I heard your little mate’s heels clicking down the corridor.”

“Sorry,” said Johnny Boy.

“Never mind,” said Icarus.

“Yeah well, never mind,” said the chauffeur. “I wasn’t coming to bring you your breakfast, or anything. I was coming to put a bullet through each of your heads. And I can do it as easily here as back in the cell.” The chauffeur raised his gun and pointed it at the head of Icarus Smith.

“No,” said Icarus, “don’t. You don’t understand what’s going on here. You don’t understand who you’re working for.
What
you’re working for. Cormerant isn’t a human, he’s a—”

“Forget it,” said the chauffeur. “You’re dead, the two of you.”

And he cocked his pistol and squeezed the trigger.

“No, please …” Icarus covered his face. “No, please don’t …”

But.

There was a flash and a bang.

Icarus gasped and clutched at his head.

And then he heard the screaming.

His eyes, which had been tightly closed, flashed open.

To see before him a terrifying sight.

The chauffeur was squirming, his arms flailing and his head twisting backwards on his neck. From his chest projected a golden crescent. His feet were some twelve inches from the flagstoned floor and kicking violently. The chauffeur contorted in a paroxysm of pain and then went limp and sagged like a broken doll.

The golden crescent swished away. The chauffeur fell to the floor and lay there dead.

And then Icarus saw him. The man who now stood over the chauffeur’s body. The man who had driven the blade through his body and lifted him off his feet. The man just stood there, calmly sheathing his golden blade. He was a man, but he was more than a man. A golden aura glowed about him. Bright white light was haloed all around his head.

Icarus stared at the glowing man, then down at the lifeless carcass of the chauffeur and then Icarus did what any reasonable man would do.

He was violently sick.

“How are you feeling now?” asked the saviour of Icarus Smith when the lad had recovered what senses he had.

“Not good,” said Icarus, “but you. I know you, don’t I?”

“You saw me today and I saw you. We were both after the same thing. The briefcase. I’ve been following you ever since. I hid in the boot of the long dark automobile.”

“In the barber’s shop,” said Icarus. “I saw you in Stravino’s barber’s shop.”

“Captain Ian Drayton, at your service.” The captain saluted.

“But you’re …”

“Don’t say the word,” said Captain Ian.

“Angel,” said Johnny Boy. “He’s an angel. Only the third one I’ve ever seen.”

“So both of you know. You’ve both taken the professor’s drug.”

“You know all about that, do you?” said Johnny Boy.

“We’ve had this place under surveillance for a very long time. We know most of what goes on in here.”

“The professor’s dead,” said Johnny Boy. “They killed him.”

“I feared as much.”

“Hold on,” said Icarus. “I want to know what is going on here.”

“There’s no time now,” said Captain Ian. “But I’ll tell you everything you need to know. There is someone else I have to rescue first. I was hoping that you might assist me in this.”

“I think we owe you one,” said Icarus. “Who needs rescuing?”

“A detective,” said Captain Ian. “A very famous detective.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” said Johnny Boy.

“Lazlo Woodbine,” said Captain Ian.

“Lazlo Woodbine?” Johnny Boy scratched at his little dolly head. “Lazlo Woodbine is
here
?”

“He was brought in unconscious this evening. They’re holding him in the medical facility. There’s a
doctor
interviewing him now.”

“I don’t like the way you said
doctor
,” said Johnny Boy.

“The doctor is, as you might say, a wrong’un.”

“Hold on,” said Icarus. “This Woodbine character. How was he dressed? Was he wearing his now legendary trenchcoat and a fedora?”

“No, actually he was wearing an old tweed jacket.”

Icarus let out a plaintive sigh.

“That was one hell of a plaintive sigh,” said Johnny Boy. “Why did you let that out?”

“Because of the old tweed jacket. That’s the disguise he likes to wear. He believes that it fools people into believing he’s a reporter for the
Brentford Mercury
.”

“I didn’t know Lazlo Woodbine ever wore a disguise,” said Johnny Boy.

“He doesn’t,” said Icarus. “Because the man who is here is not the real Lazlo Woodbine. The man who is here is my barking mad brother.”

“What?” went Johnny Boy.

“My brother,” said Icarus. “The one with the smouldering socks. The one who I told you was a nutter. The one who lives in a world of fantasy. The one who believes that he’s Lazlo Woodbine. That’s not the real Lazlo Woodbine they’ve brought in here. That’s my lunatic brother.”

Now, I’m an only child. They broke the mould before they made me. And being an only child means that you’re a loner. You don’t have any big brothers to get you out of sticky situations. You have to learn to deal with things yourself. To think on your feet, or even when you’re off them.

And, like I’ve told you before, I work only the four locations. My office, the bar, the alleyway and the rooftop. No great detective ever needs more. So, when I awoke after falling into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion, to find myself in a fifth and unscheduled location, I had to think on my feet, or in this case, off them.

Yes siree.

By golly.

“Open your eyes, Woodpecker.” I heard the voice of Sam Maggot, but I wasn’t opening my eyes.

“Come on, you son of a bitch, we know you’re awake.”

“OK,” I said. “I’m awake already. But I’m not opening my eyes.”

“Oh please do,” said Sam in a voice like syrup. “There’s something I want you to see.”

“What’s that?”

“A little piece of video footage.”

“Oh, fine,” I said. “I’ll watch that. Would you mind turning all the lights out, so I can see the screen clearly?”

“You’re wacko, Woodpecker. But OK.”

Now Sam had a sidekick. Guys like Sam always have a sidekick. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. I’ve never had a sidekick myself, because, like I say, I’m a loner. Sam’s sidekick switched the lights off and I opened my eyes. The room was in darkness, and hey, darkness is darkness, right? I could have been in any darkness. In the darkness of my office, or wherever.

“Just watch the screen,” said Sam and a television screen lit up, as the eyes of a beautiful babe will do when she sees me coming out of the shower.

“Alleyway behind the Crimson Teacup,” said the voice of Sam. “Closed-circuit surveillance footage. This evening, eight thirty p.m.”

I cast a steely peeper at the footage. There was the alleyway, and there was me, busting the back door. And there were the two guys standing at the end of the alleyway talking. And there was me, ducking back, unholstering the trusty Smith and West End Girls and then leaping out and gunning the two of them down and …

“Hold it right there,” I shouted. “Play that footage again.”

“Oh, you like it, do you, Woodpecker? Want to see yourself committing the murders again and again? Perhaps you’d like me to make you a copy, so you can watch it in the death cell. You murdering piece of—”

“There’s something wrong there,” I rightly protested. “Something wrong with that footage. That’s not the way it happened.”

“OK, I’ll run it again.”

Sam ran the footage again and once again I burst out of the door and once again I gunned down two innocent talkers.

“No,” I said. “There’s a fix in here. This footage has been tampered with.”

“No, Woodpecker. There’s no fix. We’ve got you on video, committing the murders and talking to yourself. You’re a wacko, Woodpecker. You’re barking mad. It was only a matter of time before you did something like this. Playing the detective and gunning down innocent victims. You’re gonna fry in the chair for this one, Woodpecker. You’re gonna take that long last walk.”

Captain Ian marched along the corridor. Icarus plodded behind. Johnny Boy ran at full pelt to keep up.

Icarus viewed the captain as he marched. The forceful motions of his shoulders. The confident stride. The sheer sense of purpose. This was certainly not the Captain Ian he had seen in Stravino’s. That was a war-scarred veteran, who wore the look of one who had seen too many terrible things.

But now, with his new gift for true vision, Icarus could really see the captain. An angelic being, radiating light. And he’d had a sword, hadn’t he? A golden sword, that had driven into the chauffeur’s back and dragged him from his feet. But there was no evidence of a sword now. Which had Icarus perplexed.

Was there more that might be seen? More beyond the capabilities of the Red Head drug? More truth? A higher truth?

Icarus didn’t have the time for such thinking now.

“He’s in here,” said Captain Ian, pointing to a formidable door, all steel and rivet-pimpled.

“That’s a very secure-looking door,” said Johnny Boy, catching up and catching his breath. “And it doesn’t seem to have a handle.”

“Or a keyhole, for that matter,” said Icarus.

“We must blow it open,” said the captain.

“This should be good,” said Johnny Boy. “I like a big loud explosion.”

“I don’t,” said Icarus. “We’re in some underground labyrinth here. The noise of an explosion will have those creatures coming running from miles.”

“No problem,” said the captain. “I’ll use a silent explosive.”

“A
silent
explosive?” Icarus made the face of grave doubt.

“Latest thing,” said the captain, drawing out a stick of something dangerous-looking from his pocket. “The SAS use it all the time. It goes off without a sound. You’ve heard of gelignite and dynamite? Well, this stuff’s called—”

“Don’t tell me,” said Johnny Boy. “Silent nite.”

“No,” said the captain.

Johnny Boy creased double laughing. “It’s a good ’un though, isn’t it?” he said, between guffaws. “Silent nite. Silent night? Get it? Silent night and angels, what a good ’un, eh?”

“It’s not
that
funny,” said Icarus.

“No,” said Johnny Boy, straightening up. “I suppose it’s not that funny.”

“It’s SHITE,” said the captain.

“Oh come on,” said Johnny Boy. “It wasn’t
that
bad.”

“No, the explosive is called SHITE. S.H.I.T.E. Silent High Intensity Transcalent Explosive. The SAS could probably have called it by a more polite name, but they’re — well hard, those lads.”

“What does transcalent mean?” asked Johnny Boy.

“It means, permitting the passage of heat. The explosive instantly melts anything within the range of the explosion. So there’s no noise, you see. Clever, isn’t it?”

“Silent nite was cleverer,” said Johnny Boy.

“No it wasn’t,” said Icarus.

“Was.”

“Wasn’t.”

“You’d better stand back,” said the captain. “I’m going to light the fuse.”

“Any chance of a light?” I said, pulling out a pack of Camels.

I don’t know about you, but when I’m in a sticky situation that’s testing my nerves and calling my mental health into question, I like to light up a Camel. I find that the mellow Virginia tobacco combined with the special filter, with its most distinctive pack and competitive price, gives me everything I need.

Except, perhaps, for a handgun.

“You can’t smoke in here,” said Sam. “This is a—”

“An office,” I said. “It’s an office. Could be any office. Could be my office.”

“I’m going to have my sidekick switch the light on,” said Sam. “And then we’ll see whose office it is.”

“No,” I said. “Don’t do that.”

But I could hear Sam’s sidekick moving towards where I knew the door must be and I could almost feel his finger as it pushed down hard on the light switch.

“!!!”
went the silent explosive.

“My,” said Johnny Boy. “What a very loud silence.”

Light rushed all about me. But not from some bulb on the ceiling. Or a neon tube. Or several tastefully arranged table lamps of the sort you might buy from Habitat.
[12]
Or any number of Art Nouveau style wall lights with tinted Lalique shades. Or one of those ghastly standard lamps with the big fringed shades that your aunty always used to have standing in the sitting room behind the sofa with the antimacassars on it.

No, it wasn’t from any of those. The light came suddenly rushing through the doorway from a corridor beyond. And then three men came bursting in. Or it might have been two men and a kiddie.

“It’s three,” said Johnny Boy. “Is this your nutty brother, Icarus?”

I shielded my eyes from the light. But it didn’t illuminate the entire room. Just me really, sitting there in a chair. Which could have been anyone’s chair. My office chair, for instance.

“That’s him,” said Icarus. “That’s my brother.”

“Brother?” said I. “Buddy, I ain’t your brother. The name’s Woodbine, Lazlo Woodbine, private eye. Some call me Laz, but none brother.”

“You’re my brother,” said Icarus.

“No, kid, I ain’t. I know you’d like me to be, love me to be, even. Who wouldn’t? It must be every kid’s dream to have Lazlo Woodbine as his big brother.”

“It’s never been mine,” said the voice of Sam Maggot. “But you guys better hold it there. And what the bejiggers did you do to my sidekick? Shit and salvation, he’s melted all over the floor.”

There was a lot of movement then. And I can never be having with too much movement. I mean, take the suffragette movement for instance. What was
that
all about? A lot of sassy dames with penis envy, running off at the mouth about equal rights for women. Equal rights? They wish. But hey, I’m only kidding about with you. I’m all for women having equal rights. “You’re equal,” I tell them when I’m on a bus, “so move your butt and let me sit down, before I move it for you.”

But anyhow, this wasn’t movement like that. Or even like the other. This was violent movement. A lot of violent movement. Sam had his pistol drawn, but the guy with the soldier’s bearing — not the guy who wished I was his brother, or the tiny dude who looked like Barbie’s
[13]
boyfriend — the guy with the soldier’s bearing comes in swinging.

He knocked the gun out of Sam’s hand and gave him an evil beating. Sam slumped down right over my lap. A broken man, with three teeth missing and his left ear half torn off. He looked up at me, and I could tell by the expression on his bloodied face that he was pleading with me to step in and save him further punishment.

My reputation as a great humanitarian can often put me in a situation such as this.

I eased Sam carefully down to the floor. Cradled his head in my hands and smiled him one of my winners.

And then I straightened up and put the boot in. Sending Sam into a deep dark whirling pit of oblivion, from which I trusted he would sometime awaken, an older but wiser man.

“Well,” said I, flicking specks of blood from my old tweed jacket. “I guess I have to thank you guys for helping me out. Sam’s sidekick cooked to a puddle and Sam in the land of nod. I’ll be taking my leave now. I’ll meet you in a bar somewhere.”

“Just a minute,” said the kid called Icarus. “Mum said I was to give you a message, the next time I saw you.”

“Kid,” said I, “I’m not your brother. How can I get this through your skull?”

“You certainly look like my brother,” said Icarus. “In fact you look exactly like my brother. Identical to my brother in fact.”

“Kid, have you ever met Lazlo Woodbine?”

“Of course not,” said Icarus.

“And have you ever seen a photograph of Lazlo Woodbine?”

Icarus shook his head.

“Because there are no photographs. No-one knows exactly what Woodbine looks like. All anyone knows for sure about Woodbine is that he wears a trenchcoat and a fedora, but no-one can put a face to the name. And do you know why that is? Don’t speak, I’ll tell you. It’s one of the secrets of my success. My exciting exploits are always told in the first person, so the reader is Woodbine. And the reader projects his own image onto the blank canvas. The reader identifies with Woodbine. Sees himself as Woodbine.”

“You don’t look like me,” said Icarus. “You look like my brother.”

“I haven’t finished, kid. If the reader doesn’t identify himself with Woodbine, then he does the next best thing. Puts his hero’s face on Woodbine’s body. You obviously look up to your brother as a hero.”

“Someone hold me back,” said Icarus. “Someone hold me back, or I’ll punch his lights out.”

“Christmas dinner must be a lot of laughs at your house,” said Johnny Boy. “I’m holding your leg, that’s the best I can do.”

“Give it up, kid,” I said. “I’m not your brother, though I’d be honoured, if I were you, to think I was. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do.”

“He’s barking,” said Icarus. “What did I tell you, Johnny Boy?”

“But he thinks he’s telling the truth. Look at him, you have the gift, you can see his colours.”

And Icarus could. He could see the intricate webbings of colour that were thoughts and emotions swimming all over the man. And he could see the man inside the man. The man who was his brother?

“We don’t have time for this,” said Icarus. “We have to get out of here and fast.”

“Leave it to me, kid.” I straightened my shoulders with more sang-froid than a San Fernando sandwich salesman at a sanitary-wear symposium. “I’ll have us out of here in less than twenty minutes.” I stepped over the VCR and removed the surveillance tape. I slid this into my inside pocket and then stepped over to the desk. Here I retrieved my trusty Smith and Western Union and slotted this into my shoulder holster. Then I stepped over to the telephone and dialled out a digit or two.

And then I spoke words and received words in return and then I replaced the receiver. “All done,” said I.

“What is done?” asked Icarus. “How are you getting us out of here?”

“I dialled out for a pizza, kid.”

“At a time like this!”

“Easy, kid, easy. It’s one of those pizza companies where, if they can’t deliver the pizza in twenty minutes, you get it for free. And did you ever hear of anybody actually getting their pizza for free?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Icarus.

“No, kid, you didn’t. Because those guys find you wherever you are. And I’ve tried hiding. In the spirit of experimentation, you understand, or devilment, when I have imps in me. You know how it is.”

“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?”