“We feel just great,” the great one continued. “And it’s all thanks to a little lady called Litany, who sang to us before we came on. And I think she’s going to come out and sing for you, after we’re done. Just like she did for us.”
A roar went up from the long-standing Gandhi fans. Could this really be true? Had Litany really got her magic back?
“Take it away, boys,” said Lennon, and the Beatles launched into their latest hit record. Something about Hoppers that come in on the wind.
The crowd strained ever nearer to the stage, causing some squelching up front. Usually the stage would have been protected by a stock of broad-shouldered, big-bellied Rent-a-thugs, called in to provide security. But on this occasion there were none. With the non-arrival of Wingarde, many things that should have been done hadn’t been done.
And now certain things that shouldn’t be done were about to be done. So to speak.
“Hold up, Wingarde,” called Omally, waving his hands in the air.
Wingarde slowed the car to a crawl.
“Run him down,” ordered The Voice.
“Run him down?” said Wingarde. “Why?”
“Because we don’t have time and because he means to harm you. Trust what I’m saying. Run him down.”
Wingarde shrugged his shoulders. “Fair enough,” he said. “I never liked him much anyway.”
Wingarde’s foot hit the accelerator pedal. “Run him down it is, then,” he said.
Norman and Small Dave were doing some running. All across the blighted wastes of Brentford. Surveillance cameras viewed them from on high. Operators called in their location and police cars now streaked in pursuit.
“We ought to split up,” puffed Dave. “Find separate places to hide.”
“Bad idea,” puffed Norman in reply. “We must head for my lockup. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“I do hope you know what you’re doing.” Surrounded by silence and invisible to all, the pilot’s voice echoed in the void.
“You’re the one doing the landing,” said Hovis.
“Yes, but under your orders. I can’t see the wheels. I’m not sure how low I should go.”
“Just drop us down another yard. We’ll no doubt feel the thump.”
The thump he received on the back of the head took Geraldo by surprise. He wasn’t used to getting thumped about and under normal circumstances he would have had his personal defence mechanism activated. But having an invisible forcefield surrounding yourself in the middle of a large crowd can tend to get you noticed. So Geraldo and pals had kept them switched off, and Geraldo got thumped in the head.
“Ouch!” went Geraldo, clutching his skull.
“You’re nicked,” said a plain-clothed constable.
“You’re dead,” said Wingarde, pushing his foot to the floor. The limousine swept forward, gathering both speed and mass. The tyres burned rubber, the engine burned oil and the eyes of Omally burned red. There was no time at all to do anything but leap out of the way. And in fact when it came right down to it there was no time at all to do that.
“Don’t do that!” A fist sailed through the air and struck the plain-clothed constable. Geraldo turned, as best he could amidst the crush, to view the scourge of his attacker. The scourge was a man dressed all in black, with a chalk-white face and a transparent nose.
“Good Gawd!” went Geraldo, “It’s Death himself. How hard did that bloke hit me?”
Other constables, now close at hand, were drawing out their truncheons. At the sight of these more fists began to fly and chaos was given its head.
“Come with me!” shouted Soap to Geraldo.
“No way, Death!” came the reply.
Omally, in the path of certain death, had nowhere to run or to hide. So he did that thing which few would ever dare and he flung himself flat on the ground. The limo passed over him, all heat and choking exhaust. Wingarde slammed on the anchors and the car swerved to a halt.
“Did I get him?” Wingarde asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“No, you didn’t,” said The Voice. “Back up. Back up fast.”
Wingarde thrust the stick-shift into reverse. But as he did so a shot rang out and his rear-view mirror shattered.
“Holy fuck!” shouted Wingarde. “He’s got a gun. He’s firing at me.”
And indeed Omally did have a gun. It was his grandfather’s gun. The one given him by Michael Collins. John had hung on to that gun. Had repaired and restored it. Had loaded it and saved it. Awaiting the day on which it would be used, upon the man who had killed his bestest friend.
And this was that very day.
And the man at the wheel was the man.
John ran forward, firing into the back of the car.
Wingarde ducked his head and rammed the stick-shift into first. “I’m outta here!” cried Wingarde, flooring the pedal once more.
“I think that’s wise,” said The Voice in his head. “For my sake, get a move on.”
“Get a move on,” Small Dave huffed and puffed. They had reached Norman’s lock-up at last, but Norman was looking perplexed.
“What’s the problem? Open it up.” Small Dave huffed and puffed a bit more.
“The problem is that I don’t have the key to the padlock.”
“Oh shit, Norman.” Small Dave rattled the door. “What have you got in there anyway? A tank, I hope, at least.”
“No,” and Norman shook his head. “It’s not a tank, it’s—”
Two police cars swung around the corner and into what was left of the street.
“Give us a lift up,” shouted Small Dave. “Give us a lift to the lock.”
“What?” went Norman.
“Give us a lift up!”
Norman gave Dave a lift up.
The police cars slewed to a double halt.
Small Dave bit through the padlock.
“Give yourselves up,” came that old loudhailer voice. “Give yourselves up or we fire.”
“Inside!” shouted Norman, dragging open the door.
“Come with me,” shouted Soap, dragging at Geraldo’s arm.
“Spare me, Death,” wailed Geraldo in his silly squeaky voice.
“I’m not Death.” Soap tugged and pulled. “I have to talk to you. It’s about Wingarde.”
“Wingarde?” Geraldo’s voice went up an octave. “What has that bastard done now?”
That bastard has his head down and his foot down hard as well. The limo’s tyres burned further tread and the car moved off at the hurry-up along the gravel towards Gunnersbury House. John Omally, racing forward, made one of those heroic all-action, manly-man, Hollywood-movie-star leaps for the boot that all-action manly man Hollywood movie stars always leave to their stunt doubles.
With his non-gun-toting hand he managed to hang onto one of those delta-wing type jobbie things that big expensive limousines always have at the back. And which are probably designed for this very purpose.
“Whoah!” went Omally, as his expensive although non-stunt toecaps raked along the gravel, raising a fine shower of sparks.
The helicopter’s invisible wheels raised no sparks at all as they settled down upon the gleaming aluminium half-dome of the stage canopy.
“Pretty impressive landing, eh?” said the pilot. “I should get a Blue Peter badge for that.”
“I’ll put a word in for you,” said the voice of Hovis. “I know the new presenter, Myra Hindley. Now switch off the engine. I don’t want to get my head chopped off by an invisible rotor blade.”
“Sure thing, sir.” The pilot fumbled about at the invisible instrument panel with his invisible fingers and drew out the invisible ignition key. “All done, sir,” he said. “You may now disembark.”
“Just wait for me here.” Hovis fumbled open the invisible door and leapt out of the helicopter.