Waiting for Godalming (Completely Barking Mad Trilogy Book 3)

by Robert Rankin

  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 demons 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.’

  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.

  ‘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 khazi. ‘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 don’t smell like Heaven. But you ain’t immortal any more. Not here. 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 Buxton. 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 as much nose candy up my proboscis as Noah had knobbing on his party boat.

  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, maggot-face,’ 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 howled.

  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 nuts.’

  And, my friends, that’s just 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 okay, 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 monster 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.