“Thermal imaging,” said the Inspectre. “Clever, isn’t it? We use it to track criminals from helicopters. That makes good television, too. The crims try to hide in dustbins, but their heat signatures give them away. Lots of laughs all round.”
“I’m not trying to hide in a dustbin,” said Soap.
“No, and at least you’ll know better than to do so in future. But tell me,” Inspectre Hovis pointed to the colourful Soap on the screen. “What would you take that to be?”
“What?” Soap asked.
“This area here. Up the back of your coat. Surely that is the heat signature of a tiny man, all crouched up, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Soap. I’m nicked, he thought.
“You’re nicked,” said Hovis. “I have you bang to rights.”
“Now look,” said Soap. “I can see that this doesn’t look too good for me at the present and I can see that on the evidence it would seem that you have a case. But, as dearly as I love justice, and I do love it dearly, don’t get me wrong, I’m afraid I can’t stay around here any longer. I have important things to be doing and I—”
“Have to stop you there,” said Inspectre Hovis. “Have to give you the necessary caution. Must keep things all legal and above board.”
“Would you take a bribe?” Soap asked.
“Certainly not,” said Hovis.
“Well, could you pass my case on to an officer who would take a bribe?”
“Nice try,” said Hovis. “Novel suggestion. But I think I’ll just bang you up in the cells until the accounts department can work out just how much you owe us in fines. Now, do you want to go quietly, or will I be forced to summon in a couple of constables to rough you up a little?”
“I am a Buddhist,” said Soap, “and I abhor violence. So—”
And here at last Soap got his chance for some action.
He gathered up his hat and goggles, thrust them on and with no thought for anything but the said action, rushed the Inspectre’s office and flung himself through the plate-glass window.
If this courageous deed had been captured on camera it would have been well worth a play on Crime Watch. Viewers would no doubt have taped it for their private collections and played it in slow motion, and freeze-framed on the good bits and even run it in reverse, which is always good for a laugh, if you’re suitably sad and lonely.
But it wasn’t, so they couldn’t, so to speak.
For there were no surveillance cameras trained on the Inspectre’s window. Not that there weren’t any trained on the building. There were, loads of the buggers. But these were all aimed at the ground floor.
And Inspectre Hovis’s office was not on the ground floor.
Inspectre Hovis’s office was on the twenty-third floor.
A bit too high up to merit surveillance.
Now it came as some surprise to Soap that, having smashed through the plate-glass window, he did not land immediately upon the ground. He had assumed, incorrectly as it proved, that he was on the ground floor and the spectacular rooftop view of Brentford[11] that met his eyes for a mere split second was pleasing to behold. But the pleasure was fleeting and tempered by a feeling of alarm and, as he began the rapid rush downwards, alarm in turn became terror.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Soap Distant, the way that you do when falling to your death. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” and, “Look out, below.”
There is, apparently, a mathematical calculation that can be worked out, regarding the speed of a falling object. Soap did not know this calculation, and even if he had known, and indeed known that it would take him precisely 3.4256 seconds to make contact with the ground below, it is doubtful whether he would have shown a lot of interest.
But a lot can happen in 3.4256 seconds, as anyone who knows such things will tell you.
But you have to know, of course, precisely which 3.4256 seconds to choose.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” continued Soap, using up 1.3849 seconds.
“Aaaaaaaaagh!” went he a little more, which was part of the very same “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”
And then he stopped aaaaaaaaaaghing, because he ceased falling, which must have meant that he’d made impact.
As indeed he had. Though not with the ground.
Soap suddenly found himself hanging in the air. Just hanging there, suspended, so to speak. Some three good yards above the pavement and perched on a cushion of air.
And looking up from directly below him was a lad. A lad in a black T-shirt and shorts. A lad who looked strangely familiar.
“What’s your bloody game?” asked the lad. “You could have killed me falling down like that.”
Soap took to floundering up upon high. Boggle-eyed behind his goggles, open-mouthed beneath. Hovering on nothingness, defying gravity’s law.
“It’s a good job I’m wearing this,” said the lad, pointing to a complicated wristwatch affair. “Personal lifespan chronometer, incorporating personal defence mechanism. Activated by a wide-band polarizing field that detects rapidly approaching objects. Do you have any idea of the speed you were travelling?”
Soap managed a “No” and shook his head a little.
“Well, I can work it out on my chronometer. Look, here comes your hat.”
Soap’s black hat came fluttering down and landed on his head.
“Well caught, that man,” said the lad.
“What?” went Soap. “How?”
“How does it work? Simple. The wide-band polarizing field detects the approaching object, calculates its mass and causes a cohesion to occur in the surrounding air, effectively joining the oxygen molecules to create a spherical barrier that is virtually impenetrable. Go on, poke it with your finger if you don’t believe me.”
Soap didn’t bother. He did believe him.
“Trouble is,” said the lad. “It takes it out of the batteries. So if you don’t mind I’ll just step aside and switch it off.”
This he did, and Soap crashed to the pavement.
“Are you all right?” the lad asked.
Soap sat up and felt at his limbs. He seemed to be all in one piece.
“Well, if you’re not, it will just serve you right for falling on people. If you must jump out of high windows, try to do it when no one’s around. And look at all this glass, someone could cut themselves on that.”
Soap nodded numbly.
“Goodbye,” the lad said.
“No, wait, please.” Soap climbed painfully to his feet.
“What is it?” said the lad.
“You saved my life. I want to thank you.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose. In fact I didn’t do it at all.”
“Well, thank you anyway. My name is Soap Distant. Might I ask you yours?”
“Soap Distant?” the lad thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “That name doesn’t ring any bells.”
“But it will,” said Soap. “I will soon be very famous.”
“No,” said the lad. “If you were to be, I’d know.”
“Eh?” said Soap.
“Goodbye,” said the lad.
“No, hold on, please. At least tell me your name.”
“My name is Wingarde,” said the lad. “My surname I’d rather not mention.”
And with that he walked away, leaving Soap to wonder.
But he didn’t stand and wonder very long. Because all at once alarms began to clang out from the police station.
Which proved, at least, that Soap did ring some bells.
Soap fled the scene of his falling and saving and spent the evening and the night stalking around and about. He rarely, if ever, slept nowadays. Ten years beneath had altered him in many ways.
Soap stalked along the streets of his youth, passing the houses of friends he’d once known. Cab-Arthur Roper, Duck-Barry Martin, Wild-Norman Peacock and all of the rest. Soap paused at times to lurk in alleyways, where, with the rain beating down on his hat, he viewed people’s various doings.
He saw Norman Hartnell in his underwear returning to his shop. He saw Pooley[12] enter the Penist’s house and he made a mental note of the address. And he saw other things that were strange and mysterious. Things that you only see late in the night.
12
Lest the discerning reader think to spy a monstrous plothole looming, yes, Soap did run into Pooley earlier in the evening. Just after he'd made his escape from the police station. Which was just before Jim reached John's house. Which was when he told Jim about Branson being on the poundnotes.