“And you’re telling me that all of this is down to him? The alien that possessed me and made me kill people, he invented this alien?”
“That’s what novelists do: invent characters. Operation Orpheus gave a gifted novelist the opportunity to make his imaginary characters real. To let a dead man control live people. Let him project his characters into the brains of the living. It was an accident waiting to happen. We just didn’t know it at the time.”
“So he did it to me,” I said.
“You were a fan,” said Mr Boothy. “His greatest fan, you said. You were therefore susceptible to his ideas. Don’t forget the word fan is short for fanatic. You’ve spent most of your life being a character in one of Mr Penrose’s post-life novels.”
“I’m speechless,” I said.
And I was.
And I was made all the more speechless because I realized that it was all my fault. If I hadn’t reanimated him in his coffin, he might never have done any of this. He was getting his own back on the living because of what one of the living had done to him after he died. It was all my fault.
I felt sick inside, I can tell you. I felt wretched. I wanted to blurt it all out to Mr Boothy; own up to what I’d done. But I didn’t. Because you don’t, do you? When things are all your fault you never own up. You deny. And if you can’t deny, you make excuses. Or you simply refuse to believe it.
“I simply refuse to believe this,” I said. “There are too many loose ends. Like, for instance, how come you know this. When did you find it out?”
“I found it out when I died. When the dead alien creation no longer controlled me. You must have experienced the same thing when you died. I have contacted experts in the field of this kind of thing. Reanimated experts, of course. We’ve pooled our knowledge. There’s no mistake about it. Mr Penrose is behind all this. He’s playing games with humanity. Role-playing games, based on the plots of his science-fiction books.”
I looked once more at my watch. “Not for much longer,” I said. “I have to go.”
“Oh, don’t leave just yet.” Mr Boothy gave his dog some more patting. “You’ll miss the best bit.”
“Sadly so,” I said. “I would have loved to stay and be part of it.”
“The big explosion, do you mean?”
“Well, actually, yes.”
Mr Boothy shook his head.
A knock came at his office door.
“Enter,” called Mr Boothy.
The door swung open and in walked Dave. And in walked Sandra. Dave looked somewhat the worse for wear. He sported a big black eye. Sandra looked well though. Well, as well as she could.
Two men followed after Sandra and Dave. Big men, both, and carrying guns.
“Surprise,” said Mr Boothy.
27
“Well, well, well,” said Mr Boothy. “If it isn’t the woman who ran me over last week.”
“Gary shoot Mr Boothy,” said Sandra.
“Been there, done that,” said I. “The gun’s empty.”
“And who’s this bruised fellow?” Mr Boothy asked.
“That’s Dave,” said I. “Hi, Dave.”
“Hi,” said Dave, looking dismal.
“And you were going to blow up this entire complex?”
Dave shook his head. “Not me,” he said.
“Really?” said Mr Boothy. “Yet I’m sure it was you I saw on the closed circuit television, driving the van into the secret tunnel. The same van that ran over me.”
Dave shook his head and said, “No, it wasn’t me.”
“I once thought of joining the police force,” said Mr Boothy. “But a chum of mine said, no, don’t do it, it’s such a disappointment. Because criminals never own up, like they do in the movies. They never come clean, even when caught red-handed. They say, ‘It wasn’t me,’ and ‘I didn’t do it,’ and ‘I was two-places other at the time.’ So I didn’t join the force. I joined the Ministry of Serendipity instead. And the irony of ironies is I’ve spent the last thirty years denying everything I’ve done to anyone who’s accused me of doing it.”
“How very interesting,” I said. “But I have to go now.”
“Why?” asked Mr Boothy.
“Because I don’t want to stay.”
“But I can make you stay.”
“I think not,” I said. “You can shoot me to pieces, if you want. And I’ll thank you for it. But other than that, what? I’m dead, so what can you do to me?”
“Good point,” said Mr Boothy.
“Sandra go too,” said Sandra. “Sandra dead, Sandra go.”
“Why does she talk like that?” asked Mr Boothy. “All monosyllabic?”
“Because she’s been undead for too long,” I said. “Her brain is mush. You’ll be like it soon and so will I.”
“Rubbish,” said Mr Boothy. “The thinking processes remain unaffected.”
“Ssssh,” I said and I shushed him with my hands.
“Oh, I see,” said Mr Boothy. “You … er …”
“You … er … what?” asked Dave, staring me pointy daggers.
“I just quietened her down a bit,” I said. “She was somewhat over-feisty when alive.”
“Gary atone for sins big time when Sandra get Gary home,” said Sandra, which was rather too long a sentence for my liking.
Mr Boothy sighed. “So what should I do with you?” he asked.
“You should shoot Dave,” I suggested.
“What?” said Dave. “I’m your bestest friend.”
“You’ve been sexing my wife.”
“She’s not your wife any more. You’re dead.”
“That’s a technicality.”
“It’s a fact!”
“But she’s dead too!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Mr Boothy held up calming hands. “This isn’t helping matters.”
“Stuff you,” I said. “Keep out of it.”
“I think I have a solution to this that will satisfy all parties,” said Mr Boothy.
“Fair enough,” I said. “Shoot Dave.”
“No, it’s not that. You see, we at the Ministry would really like to clear up all this P.P. Penrose business.”
“What business is that?” asked Dave. “And please don’t shoot me.”
“I won’t shoot you,” said Mr Boothy.
“Fine,” said Dave. “Then I’m off. Goodbye.”
“I’ll have you shot if you try to leave.”
“Fine,” said Dave. “So what is this P.P. Penrose business?”
“All the dead aliens,” I said to Dave: “they’re not real. They’re all the invention of P.P. Penrose. They exist in his dead imagination. They have a reality there and they’re the ones who control the living.”
“Oh, that,” said Dave. “I know all about that.”
“You do?”
“Certainly. I overheard Mr Boothy telling you all about that when he captured you.”
“But you never told me.”
“That’s because I don’t believe it. It is rather far-fetched.”
I sighed. Deeply.
“May I continue?” asked Mr Boothy.
I shrugged. “Please yourself.”
“Thank you. The problem of the late Mr Penrose really does need a final solution. I would never have known the truth about it if it hadn’t been for Sandra here, running me over and killing me. I can’t mention my knowledge to any live members of the Ministry – they’re all under Mr Penrose’s control. This is something I must sort out for myself. I feel that the best way to sort it out is to have a volunteer sort it out for me. Deal with the man, one on one, if you know what I mean.”