Waiting for Godalming

17

“Come on, Laz, we have to go,” said Icarus breathing hard. “There’s wrong’uns after us. Come on.” The resident patient had his arms out for a hug. Icarus shook him by the shoulders. “There’s no time. Hurry.”

“Come on, Mr Woodbine,” Johnny Boy tugged at the patient’s leg. “We need you, we do. Come on.”

“I want to give my brother a hug,” blubbed the man who once was Woodbine.

Johnny Boy’s mouth became a perfect O and then an inverted U. “He’s lost it,” he gasped. “He’s not working in the first person any more.”

Icarus grasped the weeper’s hand. “They’ve done something to him. They’ve drugged him up.” He gave the hand a squeeze. “Come with me and hurry now,” he said.

Johnny Boy scampered over to the doctor’s desk.

“What are you doing?” Icarus glanced to the door. Marching footstep noises were coming from the corridor.

“We can’t go out without his trusty Smith and Wassaname.” Johnny Boy rooted around in the desk drawers. “Got it,” he said. “Oh, and this.”

“What’s that?”

“The spectremeter.”

“Bring that!” said Icarus. “And come on.”

They didn’t leave through the melted door hole, they left via the window. Windows are always good in movies, good for busting through. All that splintering glass in slow motion. It never fails to excite.

“You could have leapt right through that window,” puffed Johnny Boy, as he and Icarus dragged the bewildered brotherly type across the hospital lawn.

“It was easier just to open it.” Icarus yanked and pulled. “Come on, Laz, you can go faster than that.”

“I need my bed,” blubbered the stumbler. “I haven’t slept for a week. I can’t keep my eyes open. Take me home to Mum, Icarus. Tuck me into my cosy bed and send me off to the land of sleepy-byes.”

“What a wimpy little voice.” Johnny Boy pushed as Icarus pulled. “Do you think he’s trying to reach out to his feminine side?”

SMASH and CRASH went the window behind them as two demons burst through. Splintering glass in slow motion, in a manner which failed to excite Icarus.

“To the taxi,” cried the lad. “Keep up, Mr Woodbine, please.”

The cabbie was chatting with a passer-by. “You go along the Road to Morocco,” he said, “turn left at the Road to Rio, right at the Road to Mandalay, straight along the Road to …”

Icarus came puffing up.

“Ah,” said the cabbie. “You’re back. I was just telling this gentleman how you—”

Icarus gave the cabbie a head-butt.

The cabbie fell down in a flustering heap.

Icarus dragged open the rear door of the taxi and thrust the blubbering stumbler inside. “I’m relocating your taxi,” he told the groaning moaning cabbie, who was lying on the ground. “I won’t do any harm to it. You can have it back a little later.”

Icarus swung open the driver’s door and keyed the cab’s ignition.

Johnny Boy hastened into the taxi, slamming the door behind him.

The cabbie staggered to his feet. “Stop, you bastard!” he managed to shout, as the tyres of his cab burned rubber and Icarus swerved away.

“You bloody bastard,” roared the cabbie. “I’ll …”

But then two demons knocked him once more from his feet.

“Bloody, bleeding …”

Doors slammed shut on the long dark automobile.

“My taxi, my taxi.” The cabbie dragged himself once more into the vertical plane.

And was promptly run down by the long dark automobile.

The passer-by looked on, as the two cars roared away into the distance.

“I suppose I’ll never know how you get to Xanadu now,” said he.

“Put your foot down, Icarus,” shouted Johnny Boy. “They’re coming after us fast.”

Icarus put his foot down. “Keep Laz awake!” he shouted back. “Don’t let him fall asleep.”

“Zzzzzz,” went the sleeper.

SMACK! went the hand of Johnny Boy. “Wake up call for Mr Woodbine.”

The new evil chauffeur looked much like the old one, as may well have been mentioned before. But if not it will be now. He had the same evil-looking face, with that same business with the chin and the unusual birthmark above the right eyebrow which resembles the Penang peninsula. He even wore the same cufflinks.

So no further description is necessary.

“Faster,” cried a voice behind him. It was the voice of Cormerant, and it was an angry voice. Cormerant sat in the car’s rear seat, flanked by a deuce of demons. Hideous monsters the pair of them were, but not quite so hideous as Cormerant. There was something even worse about him now. A fearsome energy. Sparkling oil-beads of colour ran up and down his quills. His cruel reptilian eyes appeared lit from within. His scaly features glistened and the horrible insect mouthparts chewed and sucked.

Icarus chewed upon his bottom lip. “Where to, Johnny Boy? Where should we go?”

“You’re the relocator, relocate us.”

“Somehow I thought you might say that. Do you fancy a left at the top of the road here, or a right?”

“Definitely a left.”

“Right it is, then,” said Icarus.

They’d done the Chiswick High Road and the Chiswick Roundabout and now they were hurtling along the Kew Road at the bottom end of Brentford.

“Surprisingly little traffic for this time of day,” said Johnny Boy. “Keep awake now, Mr Woodbine.” SMACK!

Icarus spun the taxi right, through red lights and up into the Ealing Road. The long dark automobile was definitely gaining. It swerved right after them, mounting the safety island, shattering one of those little jobbie lights that drunks so love to sit upon and scattering several pedestrians into the bargain.

“What is all that about?” asked a scattered pedestrian called Pooley.

“Nothing to do with us, my friend,” his friend called Omally replied.

SMACK SMACK SMACK went the hand of Johnny Boy. “I can’t keep Mr Woodbine awake,” he shouted to Icarus.

Icarus leaned over and opened the glove compartment. It was full of gloves (they always are) but nothing else. Strapped to the floor was the medical kit that cabbies always carry. It’s a tradition, or an old charter or a City of London Commercial Vehicle Regulation number 432, or something. Icarus ripped the kit from its mount and the box fell open, showering him with hundreds of small plastic sachets filled with glistening white powder.

“I always wondered how cabbies managed to work such long hours under such stressful conditions and still remain so unfailingly cheerful,” said Icarus. “Here, give him some of this.” And he flung several handfuls of plastic sachets over his shoulder.

“But surely this is …”

“Just pour a bag or two up his nose. That should keep him awake.”

BASH went the bumper of the long dark automobile into the taxi’s rear end.

“Oh!” went Johnny Boy, lost in a sudden snowstorm.

Icarus swerved the taxi off the road and up onto the pavement.

Shoppers and strollers and dog-walking debutantes screamed and dived for cover.

The long dark automobile mounted the pavement, bringing down a lamppost.

Johnny Boy knelt on the slumberer’s chest and emptied sachets of white stuff into his nose.

“I’m going to try to lose them in the back streets,” Icarus shouted. “Do your thing with the spectremeter again when we’re out of sight.”

“He’s still not waking up,” Johnny Boy shouted back. “And I’ve poured at least a quarter-pound of this stuff up his hooter.”

“Then give him the missing three-quarters. In for a penny, in for a pound.” Icarus signalled right and then turned left at the football ground.

Brentford football ground is rightly famous. Not only because Brentford normally contributes at least four of its players to every England World Cup squad, but because it is the only football ground in the country which has a pub at each of its four corners.

The four pubs in question are the Copper Beeches, the Golden Prince-nez, the Sussex Vampire and the Mazarin Stone.

Out of these, the Mazarin Stone is undoubtedly the best for a pub lunch. Run by one Reginald Musgrave, inheritor of certain West Sussex estates and a manor house at Hurlstone, it serves many an illustrious client and it was here that the famous Brentford naval treaty was signed, which officially ended Britain’s war against Spain. Built on the site of the original Priory School, it boasts two ghosts, a veiled lodger and a creeping man, and its upper rooms are available for parties and wedding receptions. There’s karaoke every Tuesday night and a raffle on Sunday lunchtimes.

“Get ready to use the spectremeter,” shouted Icarus.

“Aye aye, captain. Oooh, I feel really odd. It’s good odd though, not bad.”

Johnny Boy tugged the spectremeter from his pocket and smiled stupidly at it. “This is a really nice spectremeter,” he said. “This is the nicest spectremeter in all the world.”

“Turn it on then, please.” Icarus glanced into his mirror. Johnny Boy now resembled a miniature snowman, but at least the sleeper was starting to stir.

“Whoa!” he went, jerking upright. “Oh yeah! Wow! God do I feel great. Wow! I mean, hey!”

“I love you, man,” said Johnny Boy.

“I love you too,” the other replied.

“We’ve lost them, boss. Which way did they go?” The evil chauffeur peered through his tinted windscreen.

“I hate them!” Cormerant rocked in his seat. “Find them! Kill them!”

One of the demons peered through a tinted rear window.

“There.” He pointed. “There they go, down there.”

The chauffeur tried to reverse the car, but there was a dustcart coming up from behind and the back roads of Brentford are narrow.

“Get to the top end of the road!” bawled Cormerant. “Cut them off. Get to it.”

“You got it, sir.” The evil chauffeur put his foot down.

“Drive!” roared Cormerant. “Drive!”

“That’s my brother driving,” said a foolishly grinning individual with a lot of white stuff round his hooter. “He’s my hero, my brother, I love that man.”

“I love him too,” said Johnny Boy.

“When we were kids,” said the foolish grinner, “he used to lock me in a suitcase and push it under our mum’s bed.”

“I never did,” shouted Icarus.

The taxi scraped along a row of parked cars, sending up a glorious shower of sparks.

“You did too. And you used to hide my teddy and leave clues around the house that I’d have to follow so I could find him again.”

“Lies, every bit of it.” Icarus knocked an old boy off his bike. “Sorry,” he called through the window.

“There, he’s said sorry,” said Johnny Boy. “He wants you to forgive him.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said the foolish grinner, putting his arm around Johnny Boy’s shoulder. “I love him. I forgive him. It really got to me though, that suitcase. Gave me a real terror of cases. Suitcases, briefcases, handbags, shoulder bags, duffel bags, pormanteaus, dressing cases, pigskin valises, steamer trunks, sea chests, Gladstone bags, overnight bags …”

“You sure know your luggage,” said Johnny Boy.

“Buddy, in my business, knowing your luggage can mean the difference between …”

“Go on.”

“I don’t know. Could we stop off for some lunch, do you think? I’m getting really hungry. We could have a walk in Kew Gardens afterwards. It’s really beautiful there. Watch out for that lady with the pram.”

“Sorry,” called Icarus, out of the window.

“And there’s a long dark automobile blocking the street ahead.”

Icarus put his foot on the brake and swerved the taxi around.

The woman, who was picking up her baby from the road, fled screaming as Icarus performed a remarkable U-turn.

You can do that, you know, in a taxi. They have virtually the smallest turning circle of any wheeled vehicle; cabbies are always proud of telling people that. But then cabbies have so many things to be proud of. They’re wonderful people, are cabbies.

And of course, they never use drugs. Especially whatever weirded-out mixture it was that Icarus had found.

Icarus put his foot once more to the floor and the taxi took off at the hurry-up, through the maze of roads that was back street Brentford.

It rushed up Abbadon Street, along Moby Dick terrace, turned left into Sprite Street and right into the Ealing Road once more and passed the Flying Swan again.

“That cabbie you head-butted was quite right about his directions to the Flying Swan,” said Johnny Boy. “They do have the knowledge, those boys.”

“I love taxi drivers,” said the grinner, giving Johnny Boy a hug. “And I love you and I love my brother Icarus.”

“Nice,” said Johnny Boy, licking his snow-covered fingers.

Icarus turned left at the Mazarin Stone and they passed the football ground once more.

“After them! Faster, Faster!” Cormerant made taloned fists.

“I’m doing my best, sir,” the chauffeur said. “But it’s a bloody labyrinth round here and those taxis have virtually the smallest turning circle of any wheeled vehicle. And they are, of course, driven by highly skilled professionals who have the knowledge and never use drugs.”

Cormerant smote the chauffeur on the back of his smartly capped head. “Drive after them. Faster, you buffoon.”

“They’re going down there!” A demon pointed as the taxi came momentarily into view.

“No,” said the other demon. “There. They’re going down there.”

“No, they’re coming up there,” said the chauffeur. “No, hang about, you might be right.” The long dark automobile raked along a row of cars on the other side of Mafeking Avenue.

“I think we’ve lost them,” said Icarus. “Switch off the spectremeter.”

“Off?” said Johnny Boy.

“Yes, switch it off.”

“Oh,” said Johnny Boy. “I hadn’t got around to switching it on yet. Mind out for that wheelchair.”

“Sorry,” called Icarus, out of the window.

“I don’t think he’s ever really sorry,” said the grinner. “Our dad was in the removal business, you know.”

“I didn’t,” said Johnny Boy. “Go on.”

“Icarus used to shuffle up his delivery schedules.”

“I never did. Will you switch on the spectremeter? Please?”

“And our dad couldn’t read very well, so he used to deliver all the furniture and stuff to the wrong locations.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“Perhaps I did have this switched on all the time,” said Johnny Boy. “Is this off or on?”

“I don’t know,” said the grinner, suddenly ceasing to grin. “But I seem to have double vision. I can see two of you now.”

“And I can see two of you.”

“There!” shouted one of the demons. “They’re coming straight at us. Smash into them.”

“It’s two cabs,” said the chauffeur. “Driving side by side.”

“Well smash into both of them.”

“Get out of the way!” shouted Icarus. There was a taxi in front of him now.

“Is that us?” asked Johnny Boy, climbing up. “That looks like the back of Mr Woodbine’s head.”

“What, the Mr Woodbine?” asked the erstwhile grinner. “Lazlo Woodbine, private eye? The world famous detective? Is that really him, do you think?”

“I’m backing up,” said Icarus. “I’m going to go another way.”

“There’s a taxi coming behind us now, really fast.”

Smash went something into something.

No it didn’t.

“They went right through us,” said the chauffeur. “Like ghosts.”

Cormerant made tighter fists. “They’re using the bloody spectremeter. Just smash into every taxi you see, we’ll get the right one sooner or later.”

“Whoa!” went Johnny Boy. “We just went right through ourselves. Or rather, ourselves just went right through us. Or was it …”

“Far out,” said the grinner, grinning again. “I’m tripping out here, man. So, like I was saying. Our dad got into real trouble with the company he worked for, because he kept delivering stuff to the wrong locations. And eventually they sacked him. And then he was on the dole and we couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments on the house and we had a nice house and he had to sell it and get a tiny one instead. And it was all the fault of Icarus and I was going to tell Mum, but Icarus said he’d lock me in the suitcase if I did and never let me out.”

“He’s making this up,” said Icarus, desperately swerving to avoid an oncoming taxi which turned out to be driven by himself.

“I never told Mum, but Icarus used to have nightmares. He’d wake up screaming that he could put everything back in the right places.”

“Shut up!” shouted Icarus. “Shut up, or I’ll throw you out of the taxi. You’re no good to us like this. Pull yourself together. Be Lazlo Woodbine again.”

“You want me to be Lazlo Woodbine? How could I be Lazlo Woodbine? That was him in the other taxi, wasn’t it?”

“That was you in the other taxi.”

“Johnny Boy said it was Lazlo Woodbine. When are we going to have lunch?”

Icarus Smith glared over his shoulder. “You’ve got to help us,” he growled. “You are Woodbine. The greatest detective of them all. You tell him, Johnny Boy.”

“Stop being horrid to your brother,” said Johnny Boy.

“Oh no!” shouted Icarus. “Look out.”

Something smashed into something else.

No it didn’t.

Yes it did.

The long dark automobile ploughed head on into the taxi, mashing up its bonnet to oblivion and bringing the ‘Oh no’ing driver through the windscreen in slow motion amidst the shattering glass.

The driver crashed down onto the bonnet of the long dark automobile.

“That’s him,” shouted Cormerant. “Get out and shoot him dead.”

The demons hastened to oblige.

One took hold of the crash victim’s bloody head and twisted it around.

“Kill him!” shouted Cormerant. “I’ve suffered enough of this young man.”

The demon did as he was told.

And shot the young man dead.