“I don’t,” said I.
“Someone has to stop it,” said Mr Boothy. “Someone has to assassinate Mr Penrose.”
“Assassinate him? Why don’t you just shut down the FLATLINE connection? Shut off the power; put the phone down for good. What could he do? He’d be finished. It would be all over. No need for me to do any more bad stuff.”
“We can’t afford to do that. Our link with the dead is far too valuable. We need the information the dead supply us with to keep us one step ahead of the rest. The British Empire needs it. Our government would be flailing about in the dark if we couldn’t supply it with the dead’s secrets. It’s not the FLATLINE that’s the problem, it’s just that meddling Penrose. He has control of too many people and we just can’t have him messing around with them and causing havoc any more. If he is eradicated, we will be back on track. He needs to be killed. We need him dead.”
“But he’s already dead,” I said.
“I mentioned to you earlier that there’s dead and there’s dead and there’s really dead.”
“You mentioned it,” I said. “But as it didn’t make too much sense, I ignored it.”
“He’s out there,” said Mr Boothy, “in the realm beyond death, constructing plotlines, inventing fanciful characters, playing his sporting games, projecting them into the brains of the living. This is not a good thing. This must be stopped. And the only way it can be stopped is by someone dead seeking him out and putting paid to him once and for all.”
“But you can’t kill a dead man.”
“You can,” said Mr Boothy. “You can with magic. Magic knows no bounds. If magic can restore the dead to life, then magic can also kill the dead. So, as I say, the Ministry has been looking for a volunteer. Someone brave who would take on the task.”
“And no takers, I suppose?” said Dave.
“Not so far,” said Mr Boothy. “You see, glorious as being dead is, those we have reanimated are still keen to stay undead. I think it must be the good wages the Ministry pays and all the fringe benefits. Once people live again they are eager to keep on living.”
“I’m not,” I said.
And Mr Boothy grinned. A real big toothy grin – although he did have a couple of teeth missing and his tongue was somewhat furry.
“I rather thought not,” said he. “In fact, I was absolutely sure of it when I watched you on the CCTV, strolling down the staircase, as if you wanted to get caught and killed again.”
Sandra glared at me. But then she hadn’t stopped glaring since she’d learned about her “dumbing down”.
“And I’m sure I’d be right in thinking,” said Mr Boothy, “that you are a natural magician. And as it’s all your fault anyway, I think you should sort it out.”
“All my fault?” I said. “What do you mean?”
“Gary, this is the Ministry of Serendipity. It’s a secret ministry, and secret ministries thrive on information, you know, like the CIA. Information is power. We have files on everyone. When you were brought to justice—”
“It wasn’t justice,” I said. “That trial was a travesty of justice.”
“All right, then. When you were brought to travesty of justice, we looked into your file. And we found all kinds of interesting things: old surveillance footage from the restricted section of Brentford library; surveillance footage from the home of P.P. Penrose; during his wake. It’s all on film, what you did.”
“What?” I said. “You have me on film? Outrageous! What an invasion of privacy.”
“Everyone is under surveillance,” said Mr Boothy. “Everyone. Especially the rich and famous like Mr Penrose. You reanimated him in his grave. All this is your fault. It is extremely fortuitous that you should have turned up here today. You could call it fate. You are the volunteer that we have been looking for. Who else could it be but you?”
“I’m not an assassin,” I said.
“Gary,” said Mr Boothy, “like it or like it not, you are a psychopath. With or without Mr Penrose’s Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri, in your head, you would have been a psychopath. It’s not your fault, it’s probably your father’s fault.”
“It’s definitely his fault,” I said.
“Which is probably why you did for him.”
“Let’s not get into that,” I said.
“Well, be it here, or be it there” – Mr Boothy smiled and patted his dog some more – “you are the ideal man for the job.”
“And when, I mean, if, I do this job, then I’m free? I can be dead and fly off around the universe for ever? I’m out of all this? I’m free?”
“Free as a bird,” said Mr Boothy. “You’ll have atoned for all your sins. Eternity will be yours to do with as you please.”
“Then I volunteer,” I said. “I’m your man.”
“Gary not your man,” said Sandra. “Gary Sandra’s man. Gary stay here, serve Sandra. That what Gary do.”
I looked at Mr Boothy.
And Mr Boothy looked at me.
“Security guard,” said Mr Boothy, to one of the security guards. “Kindly take Mr Cheese’s wife down to the boiler room and toss her into the furnace.”
“No!” Dave shouted, and raised his fists. “Hold on. Don’t do that.”
Mr Boothy looked at me once more. “Do you want me to have the security guard toss your friend Dave into the furnace too?” he asked.
I looked at Dave.
And Dave looked at me.
“No,” I said. “Not really. Dave is my bestest friend, even though he’s been … you know … with my wife. Don’t bung either of them into the furnace. Let them go.”
“Nice one,” said Dave.
“Gary …” said Sandra.
“And in return, let me go,” I said to Sandra. “Let me do this. Dave will look after you. Dave cares about you. I was never much of a husband, although I did love you. But I treated you badly and I should atone for what I’ve done. For all the bad things I’ve done. Maybe by doing this it will go some way towards making things right.”
Sandra just stared at me and I couldn’t read her expression at all.
Dave said, “Good luck, mate,” and put out his hand for a shake.
I shook Dave warmly by the hand. “You are my bestest friend,” I said. “You’re an utter no-mark, thoroughly dishonest and untrustworthy, but I am proud to call you my bestest friend.”
“And you are a conscienceless serial killer,” said Dave. “But you’re my bestest friend too.”
And so we shook hands and got a bit dewy-eyed and trembly-lipped and patted each other on the shoulder and finally said our farewells. I reached out to give Sandra a kiss and a cuddle, but she just drew back, folded her arms and stamped whoever’s feet she had upon the carpet. I think that, deep down, she still loved me. But women are funny creatures and don’t always show their real emotions. “’Bye, then, Sandra,” I said. “I hope you’ll be happy with Dave.”
Dave and Sandra departed the office of Mr Boothy, leaving me behind. Sandra, however, didn’t leave without a struggle, and one of the security men had to hold her mouth shut to stop her commanding me to do something unspeakable to Mr Boothy.
“That was rather touching about you and Dave,” said Mr Boothy. “I’ve never really had a bestest friend. My dogs are my best friends. But it’s not quite the same.”
“So,” I said. “I suppose we should press on.” I handed Mr Boothy my gun. “You’d best shoot me in the head. That should get the job done.”
Mr Boothy weighed the gun in his hands. “I don’t think this would work,” he said. “Your body must be utterly destroyed. I think it would be best if you were tossed into the furnace.”