“You know nothing, Mr Handbag. I didn’t fake the will.”
“I know that.” I spat out a wee bit more blood, and what seemed like a couple of teeth. “I know it wasn’t you.”
“I think you know too much, Mr Handbag.”
“I know the truth,” said I. “And I can help you.”
“I don’t need any help. I can take care of everything myself. I’ve got this world under control. Under my control. Do you have any brothers, Mr Handbag?”
“Me?” I said. “No, I’m an only child. They broke the mould before they made me.”
“Well, I have a brother. A very famous brother. Jesus Christ, his name is. And all my life I’ve lived in his shadow. But not any more. Not any more.”
Colin’s finger tightened on the trigger. And I stared into the barrel of my gun.
“No,” I said. “Don’t shoot me. I can help you.”
Colin shook his head. “Just let me ask you one question,” he said.
“Anything,” said I.
“What’s red and white and dressed as a handbag and lies dead in an alleyway?”
And then, believe it.
Or believe it not.
He put my gun against my head and went and pulled the trigger.
16
They say that your whole life flashes in front of your eyes at the moment before you die. Or rather, at the moment when you think you’re going to die. And friends, I have to confess that I was pretty certain at that moment, there in the alleyway, that I was going to die.
And I can tell you, that my whole life did flash right in front of my eyes.
And what a life it was!
I’d truly forgotten many of the great things that I’d done. The noble deeds that I’d performed. The seemingly unsolvable cases that I’d solved. The awards I’d been awarded. The accolades I’d had accoladed all over me. The beautiful women I’d made love to. The fast cars I’d driven. The exotic places I’d seen. The friends I’d known. The laughter. And the joy.
I’d been there. Done that. And bought, not only the T-shirt, but a place in the hearts of millions. I had been Lazlo Woodbine, the greatest detective of them all. And not many people can say that about their lives.
In fact, none can, but me.
So, if this was to be my time, I would face the great unknown with dignity. Accept my fate. Turn a brave face to the ultimate adversity. Go out with a smile on my face and a song on my lips.
“Have mercy!” I screamed. “Don’t kill me.”
But he squeezed the trigger all the same.
And then there was an almighty flash.
And Colin just vanished away.
Huh?
My trusty Smith and Well-I-never-did dropped onto my head, nearly taking my good eye out, and I had the strange sensation that I was now all covered in melted goo.
“Come on,” called a voice that I knew. “Let’s go.”
I raised my battered head and stared dizzily at the spot where Colin had been standing but a moment before.
That spot was now an open manhole and clambering out of this was the lad called Icarus, closely followed by his little dolly chum.
Icarus stared down upon my broken remains and his jaw dropped as slack as a sloe-eyed slapper at a slumlord’s slumber party.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
And I might well have asked him the self-same question. But I chose instead to ask him this: “Whatever happened to Colin?”
“Colin?” said Icarus.
“Colin, the third child of God. He was standing right there on that manhole cover and now he’s just, well, gone.”
“Oh,” said Icarus Smith. And it was the kind of oh that I wouldn’t wear as a Homburg.
“Aaagh! They’re coming after us,” cried the little man. “Do something, Icarus, please.”
Icarus glanced around and about the alleyway. “The dumpster,” said he. “Give me a hand to move the dumpster. You too, brother.”
“I’m not your goddamn brother,” said I. “And I can’t help, I’m all broken up.”
“Never mind.” The kid grabbed hold of the big dumpster wheelie bin thing and with the help of his small companion dragged it over the manhole. “That should hold them,” he said.
“Kid,” said I, “you turn up in the damnedest places. I reckon I’ll thank you this time. And I’ll …”
But I didn’t get to say too much more after that. Because with all the beatings I’d taken and with the broken up bits and bobs and frankly with the stress I’d been under, staring death in the face and all, I lapsed from consciousness and found myself falling one more bloody time, down into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion.
Yes siree.
By golly.
“What’s the news?” said Icarus. He was sitting in a doctor’s office. The office smelled of feet and fish and fear. A fetid fermentation. The doctor had my case notes on his desk. He leafed through them as he spoke to Icarus.
“Your brother is a very sick man,” said the doctor, adjusting his spectacles and doing that thing with his pencil. “He was badly beaten up and has not only several broken bones, but some internal injuries also.”
Icarus nodded thoughtfully. “So when do you think you’ll have him up and about?”
“Weeks. Months perhaps.”
“He can’t be injured as badly as that.”
“It’s not so much the physical injuries. It’s more his mental health that worries me.”
“Ah,” said Icarus. “We share in that particular worry.”
“He seems to think he’s a detective,” said the doctor, buffing his stethoscope up on his sleeve. “He is clearly delusional. Claims that he’s on the biggest case that ever there was. Something to do with the murder of God. Can you imagine that?”
Icarus shook his head.
“And he talks to himself. When he thinks that he can’t be overheard. He seems to suffer from multiple personality disorder. I’ve heard him arguing with an imaginary character called Barry. He blames this Barry for everything that’s happened to him.”
Icarus nodded once again.
“I’m wondering perhaps whether he’s tormented by some childhood trauma,” said the doctor. “I know he’s got a drink problem and a broken marriage and I feel that he’s trying to reach out to his feminine side.”
Icarus nodded, then shook his head, and then he nodded again.
“So I think it would be for the best,” said the doctor, “if you signed this form, committing him to a course of psychiatric treatment.”
Icarus nodded and Icarus grinned.
“Lend me your biro,” he said.
“Now that was just plain mean,” said Johnny Boy, looking up from his drink. “Getting your brother banged up in a loony bin.”
They were sitting once more in the Station Hotel and Icarus hadn’t stopped grinning since they got there.
“It’s not a loony bin,” he told Johnny Boy. “It’s a psychiatric hospital. It will be for the best. He really does need the treatment.”
“You realize”, said Johnny Boy, “that you might just have signed his death warrant.”
“It wasn’t a death warrant. Just a form to commit him to care.”
“And he’s been in that hospital for five days already, which means that his week is nearly up. And if he doesn’t solve his case, by tomorrow, God’s wife is going to punish him big time.”
“But the case is solved. Colin was the culprit and Colin died in an accident.”
“Nothing is solved,” said Johnny Boy. “Take a look over at the barman.”
Icarus glanced over at the barman. The barman wasn’t Fangio, but Icarus hadn’t expected him to be. The barman was the usual barman, the one who wore Mr Cormerant’s relocated watch fob.
But the barman’s true form could now be seen by Icarus. The barman had quills that rose high above his green reptilian head.
“Nothing is solved,” said Johnny Boy once again.
“I’m working on it,” said Icarus. “I haven’t been idle. The men at the Ministry don’t know that Colin is dead. I’ve forged memos using letter headings from Cormerant’s briefcase. I’ve sent them to all departments at the Ministry, closing down the exo-cranial programme. And dismissing all the operatives in hairdresser’s and barber’s shops. And desisting from any further harassment of our good selves. I don’t see what more I can do than that.”