“Lord Crawford, Brentford’s Aristo in Residence, owes you a favour?”
“That’s why I suggested Gunnersbury Park. You know all those vids I sold to Norman?”
“You bought them from Lord Crawford?”
“Indirectly. You know how these things are.”
“No,” said Jim. “I don’t. But what a very small world it is. We need a venue for a big rock concert and Lord Crawford just happens to live in a big park around the corner and just happens to indirectly owe you a favour. Some people might consider all this somewhat hard to believe.”
“Then some people would be miserable buggers, wouldn’t they? We’re on a roll here, Jim. Nothing can stop us. Nothing.”
High upon the flat block opposite the Swan, Wingarde Pooley squinted through the telescopic sight of his AK47. He was set upon a single course. That of destroying the ancestor who had besmirched the family name. The obvious flaw in this – that in so doing he would surely cancel out his own existence – seemed not to have occurred to him at all.
But, then, perhaps it had. And, then, perhaps he had found a way around this dire eventuality. Because Wingarde hadn’t just travelled back through time to save rock stars from their early deaths. He had made one or two other major alterations to history during his travels. Such as assassinating the Queen and arranging for Richard Branson to sit upon the throne of England.
Deeds which in themselves were deserving not only of our unmitigated praise and undying gratitude but also our unquestioning trust that here was a young man who knew exactly what he was doing.
Indeed, here was a young man whose deeds, fulfilling as they did the sincere if unspoken wish-dreams of us all, could be said to be little less than divinely inspired.
Which in fact, they were.
For, you see, Wingarde was not acting, as Geraldo had supposed, from desperation to free his family from the curse of The Pooley. Wingarde was acting under the guidance of a higher force.
The higher force.
Wingarde heard The Voice.
For The Voice did speak unto Wingarde. Speak unto him whilst he did lie in his bed, or dwell upon the toilet bowl, or eat thereof his cornflakes, or sit, or stand, or walk, or run, or have a quiet one off the wrist. The Voice did speak unto Wingarde and Wingarde did do all the doings that The Voice did order him to do.
Knowing that The Voice he heard was heard by no one but himself.
Knowing that it was The Voice of God.
And not, as in the case of his many times great ancestor, the voice of Small Dave in a cistern.
Wingarde squinted through the telescopic sight, the cross-hairs focused on the Swan’s saloon bar door.
Go for a head shot, whispered The Voice in his head. Make me proud of you, my son.
Brentford’s other Lord, The Lord of the Old Button Hole, was a proud and pretty fellow who had voices of his own. And while few could doubt that Wingarde’s inner voice was indeed The Voice of God, as evidenced by the charitable deeds it urged him to perform, the voices that shrieked in the head of Leo Justice were a different kettle of Kobbolds altogether.
And Leo not only heard these voices, he could sometimes see their owners too. Three demonic entities possessed him. They took turns, one running the show whilst the other two vacated the cerebral premises and hung around outside, waiting for their goes to come around again.
They were visible to Leo alone and, although he had considered the possibility of exorcism, the truth of the matter was that Leo rather enjoyed their company and revelled in the wickedness and depravity which he was oft times encouraged to inflict upon others.
But then, of course, he was a newspaper editor.[14]
On this particular Thursday lunchtime Leo sat at his desk, in his now less box-crowded office, munching upon a bread roll containing lettuce, celery, tomato, cheese, little boy’s bottom parts and Thousand Island dressing, no salt or pepper, when a knock-knock-knock came at his door and a man called Soap came striding in.
“Good day to you,” cried Soap, a-waving his photographs. “I have them here, so let’s get into action.”
Leo Justice looked up from his eating. To the left and right of him, although unseen by Soap, the arch demons Balberith and Gressil, who played the roles of “The Lord” and “The Magnificent” respectively, when in residence, also looked up. And Leviathan, Prince of the First Hierarchy of Hell and currently at the controls, as it were, peered out through Leo’s eyeballs and moved his mouth about.
“Your mother darns socks in hell,” said the voice of Leviathan.
“Pardon me?” said Soap, who hadn’t seen The Exorcist and so didn’t fall about in hysterical mirth.
Leo coughed and regained control of his vocal chords. “Who are you?” he wanted to know.
“I am Soap. Soap Distant. Traveller belooooow. The man who placed the flag of the realm in the planet’s beating heart.”
“Then why are you dressed as a library clerk? And is that make-up you’re wearing?”
“I wish to remain incognito for the present. And it’s just a bit of blusher to add a spot of flesh-tone. And the eyeliner rather highlights the pinkness of my pupils, don’t you think? Your woman outside gave me a quick makeover. She was still worrying at those wires. I advised her to give them a miss. The Information Superhighway is just a road to nowhere, I told her. She seemed to agree, because she said I was to tell you that you could stuff your job and she was off to join the raggle-taggle gypsies for a life of romance and rheumatism.”
“Come sit upon my knee, dear boy,” crooned the voice of Leviathan, who, as “Leo Baby”, swung both ways.
Soap arched an eyebrow, bridged his nose and did an underpass job with his mouth. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.
“State your business,” said Leo.
“I have the photographs. The proof of my travels belooooow. Taken with the old box Brownie. And in colour, not black and white.”
“Thrill me with them,” said Leo, raising a languid hand and sweeping the clutter of his desktop to the floor. Bottom-part sandwiches and all.
Soap strode over to the desk and dealt a hand of photos.
“That’s the west pier, Atlantis. And that’s one of me with a monk at the Temple of Agharti in Shambhala. Eating bat.”
“Eating bat?” said the voice of Leviathan. “Isn’t that a euphemism for—”
“No,” said Soap. “It’s just bat. The wings were a bit stringy. But when in Rome—”
“Bugger the senate?” said Leviathan.
“Possibly,” said Soap. “I’ve never understood the Italian football league.”
“What’s this one?” asked Leo.
“That’s me in the cave of the Gibberlins. See all that gold? Makes Fort Knox look like a boot-sale, doesn’t it?”
“Do you have any of Hell?” asked Leviathan.
“They didn’t come out,” said Soap.
“They never do.” And Leviathan laughed, spraying Soap with a projectile vomit composed of black frogs, safety pins, fish hooks and threepenny bits.
“Pardon me,” said Leo, wiping his chin. “Got a bit carried away there.”
“Well,” said Soap, picking frogs from his lapels. “I think you’ll agree that these photographs prove my claims to be true. Shall we discuss contracts and a six-figure advance?”
“How about a six-fingered advance?” said Leviathan. “Without the rear-guard action.”
Soap folded his arms, creased his brow and put a tuck in his top lip. “Now just you see here!” he said, in the way that you do when you do. So to speak.
“What, here?” asked Leviathan, revolving Leo’s left eye. “Or here?” He made the right one roll into his head.
“That’s an impressive trick,” said Soap, who was never above the awarding of praise. “I had an uncle once who could poke the end of a contraceptive up his nose and then cough it out of his mouth, and then he would pull on each end in turn, like using dental floss. Said it kept his sinuses clear. It used to get him chucked out of a lot of restaurants, though.”