“Oh, you like it, do you, Woodpecker? Want to see yourself committing the murders again and again? Perhaps you’d like me to make you a copy, so you can watch it in the death cell. You murdering piece of—”
“There’s something wrong there,” I rightly protested. “Something wrong with that footage. That’s not the way it happened.”
“OK, I’ll run it again.”
Sam ran the footage again and once again I burst out of the door and once again I gunned down two innocent talkers.
“No,” I said. “There’s a fix in here. This footage has been tampered with.”
“No, Woodpecker. There’s no fix. We’ve got you on video, committing the murders and talking to yourself. You’re a wacko, Woodpecker. You’re barking mad. It was only a matter of time before you did something like this. Playing the detective and gunning down innocent victims. You’re gonna fry in the chair for this one, Woodpecker. You’re gonna take that long last walk.”
Captain Ian marched along the corridor. Icarus plodded behind. Johnny Boy ran at full pelt to keep up.
Icarus viewed the captain as he marched. The forceful motions of his shoulders. The confident stride. The sheer sense of purpose. This was certainly not the Captain Ian he had seen in Stravino’s. That was a war-scarred veteran, who wore the look of one who had seen too many terrible things.
But now, with his new gift for true vision, Icarus could really see the captain. An angelic being, radiating light. And he’d had a sword, hadn’t he? A golden sword, that had driven into the chauffeur’s back and dragged him from his feet. But there was no evidence of a sword now. Which had Icarus perplexed.
Was there more that might be seen? More beyond the capabilities of the Red Head drug? More truth? A higher truth?
Icarus didn’t have the time for such thinking now.
“He’s in here,” said Captain Ian, pointing to a formidable door, all steel and rivet-pimpled.
“That’s a very secure-looking door,” said Johnny Boy, catching up and catching his breath. “And it doesn’t seem to have a handle.”
“Or a keyhole, for that matter,” said Icarus.
“We must blow it open,” said the captain.
“This should be good,” said Johnny Boy. “I like a big loud explosion.”
“I don’t,” said Icarus. “We’re in some underground labyrinth here. The noise of an explosion will have those creatures coming running from miles.”
“No problem,” said the captain. “I’ll use a silent explosive.”
“A silent explosive?” Icarus made the face of grave doubt.
“Latest thing,” said the captain, drawing out a stick of something dangerous-looking from his pocket. “The SAS use it all the time. It goes off without a sound. You’ve heard of gelignite and dynamite? Well, this stuff’s called—”
“Don’t tell me,” said Johnny Boy. “Silent nite.”
“No,” said the captain.
Johnny Boy creased double laughing. “It’s a good ’un though, isn’t it?” he said, between guffaws. “Silent nite. Silent night? Get it? Silent night and angels, what a good ’un, eh?”
“It’s not that funny,” said Icarus.
“No,” said Johnny Boy, straightening up. “I suppose it’s not that funny.”
“It’s SHITE,” said the captain.
“Oh come on,” said Johnny Boy. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“No, the explosive is called SHITE. S.H.I.T.E. Silent High Intensity Transcalent Explosive. The SAS could probably have called it by a more polite name, but they’re — well hard, those lads.”
“What does transcalent mean?” asked Johnny Boy.
“It means, permitting the passage of heat. The explosive instantly melts anything within the range of the explosion. So there’s no noise, you see. Clever, isn’t it?”
“Silent nite was cleverer,” said Johnny Boy.
“No it wasn’t,” said Icarus.
“Was.”
“Wasn’t.”
“You’d better stand back,” said the captain. “I’m going to light the fuse.”
“Any chance of a light?” I said, pulling out a pack of Camels.
I don’t know about you, but when I’m in a sticky situation that’s testing my nerves and calling my mental health into question, I like to light up a Camel. I find that the mellow Virginia tobacco combined with the special filter, with its most distinctive pack and competitive price, gives me everything I need.
Except, perhaps, for a handgun.
“You can’t smoke in here,” said Sam. “This is a—”
“An office,” I said. “It’s an office. Could be any office. Could be my office.”
“I’m going to have my sidekick switch the light on,” said Sam. “And then we’ll see whose office it is.”
“No,” I said. “Don’t do that.”
But I could hear Sam’s sidekick moving towards where I knew the door must be and I could almost feel his finger as it pushed down hard on the light switch.
“!!!” went the silent explosive.
“My,” said Johnny Boy. “What a very loud silence.”
Light rushed all about me. But not from some bulb on the ceiling. Or a neon tube. Or several tastefully arranged table lamps of the sort you might buy from Habitat.[12] Or any number of Art Nouveau style wall lights with tinted Lalique shades. Or one of those ghastly standard lamps with the big fringed shades that your aunty always used to have standing in the sitting room behind the sofa with the antimacassars on it.
No, it wasn’t from any of those. The light came suddenly rushing through the doorway from a corridor beyond. And then three men came bursting in. Or it might have been two men and a kiddie.
“It’s three,” said Johnny Boy. “Is this your nutty brother, Icarus?”
I shielded my eyes from the light. But it didn’t illuminate the entire room. Just me really, sitting there in a chair. Which could have been anyone’s chair. My office chair, for instance.
“That’s him,” said Icarus. “That’s my brother.”
“Brother?” said I. “Buddy, I ain’t your brother. The name’s Woodbine, Lazlo Woodbine, private eye. Some call me Laz, but none brother.”
“You’re my brother,” said Icarus.
“No, kid, I ain’t. I know you’d like me to be, love me to be, even. Who wouldn’t? It must be every kid’s dream to have Lazlo Woodbine as his big brother.”
“It’s never been mine,” said the voice of Sam Maggot. “But you guys better hold it there. And what the bejiggers did you do to my sidekick? Shit and salvation, he’s melted all over the floor.”
There was a lot of movement then. And I can never be having with too much movement. I mean, take the suffragette movement for instance. What was that all about? A lot of sassy dames with penis envy, running off at the mouth about equal rights for women. Equal rights? They wish. But hey, I’m only kidding about with you. I’m all for women having equal rights. “You’re equal,” I tell them when I’m on a bus, “so move your butt and let me sit down, before I move it for you.”
But anyhow, this wasn’t movement like that. Or even like the other. This was violent movement. A lot of violent movement. Sam had his pistol drawn, but the guy with the soldier’s bearing — not the guy who wished I was his brother, or the tiny dude who looked like Barbie’s[13] boyfriend — the guy with the soldier’s bearing comes in swinging.
He knocked the gun out of Sam’s hand and gave him an evil beating. Sam slumped down right over my lap. A broken man, with three teeth missing and his left ear half torn off. He looked up at me, and I could tell by the expression on his bloodied face that he was pleading with me to step in and save him further punishment.
My reputation as a great humanitarian can often put me in a situation such as this.
I eased Sam carefully down to the floor. Cradled his head in my hands and smiled him one of my winners.
13
Actually I heard this really good joke about Barbie the other day. So if it’s OK I’ll share it with you now, before the violence gets under way. This guy takes his daughter to a toyshop to buy a Barbie doll. And there’s three of them in the window. There’s sporting Barbie, at £9.99. Disco Barbie, at £9.99. And divorced Barbie, at £500. “Why is divorced Barbie so expensive?” asks the guy. “Because”, says the shop assistant, “divorced Barbie comes complete with Ken’s house, Ken’s car, Ken’s furniture, Ken’s etc.” Well, I thought it was funny.