And it really hadn’t been the best of lives.
Icarus could see himself as a child, locking his brother in the suitcase and pushing it under his mother’s bed. Tormenting his brother, hiding his teddy, making him play the manic detective in order to find it again. Shuffling up his father’s delivery sheets and dreaming the guilt-ridden nightmares, where only he, Icarus Smith, could put the world to rights.
Icarus saw all this as the taxi’s brakes failed and the cab ran into the long dark automobile.
Into the rear of the long dark automobile.
It was a considerable smash-up, but as the long dark automobile was already ground into the front of another taxi, the long dark automobile didn’t move very much at all.
The demon who had despatched the driver of the other cab looked up from his murderous business and wiped away at the spatterings of blood that sprinkled his terrible visage.
“I think I just shot the wrong bloke, sir,” he said.
And of course it was true.
An innocent man lay dead on the long dark bonnet of the long dark automobile. An innocent man who did bear an uncanny resemblance to Icarus Smith. Could almost, in fact, have been taken for his twin. What are the chances of that happening?
Eh?
“Kill the right one then,” shouted Cormerant. “Hurry up. Do it now.”
“Right one, yes sir.” The demon hastened once more to oblige.
“Out of the taxi.” Icarus was out and dragging the rear door open.
“I’m all shook up,” said Johnny Boy.
“I’m hungry,” said the other. “Are we going to have lunch now?”
Icarus bundled them out of the taxi. “Run,” said he. “It’s the only hope we have.”
“Brother,” said the other, “I’m really not in the mood to run.”
A gun went bang and a bullet parted a Ramón Navarro hairstyle.
“I’ll race you, brother Icarus, come on.”
Icarus ran, and Johnny Boy ran and the man with the parted hairstyle ran as well.
The demons marched behind, quills high and quivering, evil reptiloid faces thrusting forward, nasty nasty mouthparts sucking in the air.
Oh, and guns held high and firing all the way.
The three men ran across the Ealing Road, towards the tower blocks on the other side. They ran across a forecourt area which seemed strangely deserted, considering the time of day, and then they ran between the first two mighty buildings.
Why do they call buildings buildings? Have you ever wondered about that? I mean a building is only a building when you’re actually building it. When it’s built, it’s built. So they really shouldn’t call them buildings, should they? They should be called builts.
“These builts are really high, aren’t they?” said Johnny Boy, as he ran.
“These whats?” Icarus answered him.
“Oh nothing, just a thought.”
“In here,” said Icarus, “quickly.” And he pushed upon a door.
The door was locked.
Icarus fumbled out his little roll of tools.
A bullet ricocheted off the doorpost.
“We’re gonna die,” cried Johnny Boy. “Hurry, Icarus, hurry.”
Icarus hurried.
The lock clicked and the door came open.
Icarus pushed the two men through the doorway. The little one with the terrified expression. The big one with the stupid look on his face.
Icarus slammed shut the door and locked it.
“There,” he said. “We’re safe.”
“There what?” said Johnny Boy. “We’re not safe. Those buggers will shoot the lock off.”
Icarus turned. They were in a corridor, another corridor! It seemed to be all corridors these days. And underground or overground, a corridor looks like a corridor. Except, of course, when it’s a passage, or a hall. But then they’re all pretty much the same when you get right down to it, except for the carpets. And perhaps the lighting; you can do a lot with a corridor if you light it tastefully. Not that you could have done much with this particular corridor. It looked really ill kept. Uncared for. This was an unloved corridor. It did have some stairs leading up from it, which was something, although not really something worth cheering about.
“Up the stairs,” shouted Icarus.
“Up?” said Johnny Boy. “Since when did escape ever lie up?”
“It did the last time.”
“We were underground the last time.”
The sounds of gunfire echoed from without.
“Up it is,” said Johnny Boy, taking a very big breath.
“Brother,” said the other, “you won’t let those beastly things get me, will you? You will protect me?”
“Where’s the gun?” said Icarus.
“Here,” said Johnny Boy.
“Then I’ll hold them off. You run upstairs with my useless brother here and knock on someone’s door. Call the police, or something.”
“And which police would that be? The good police, or the wrong’un police? Should I ask them to send cops without quills? Do you think they’ll understand what I mean?”
“Are you trying to be difficult?”
“No, it’s just …”
The sounds of close-quarters gunfire and the lock exploding from the door put paid to further conversation.
“Up?” said Johnny Boy. “Up it certainly is.”
And so they ran up. First up one staircase. Then another. And they ran along further corridors, knocking on doors and shouting for help. But do you know what? Not a single door opened to them. Not one. And why was that? Was it because the good people of Brentford turn deaf ears to callings for help? No, it wasn’t that. Was it, then, that they were afraid to answer their doors, what with all the shooting going on, and everything? No, it wasn’t even that. If it was anything at all, and it was, it was because, but for the three men running and the demons firing shots, the entire flat block was deserted.
There wasn’t another living soul in that flat block.
And why was that?
Had all the occupants gone out shopping? No. Had they gone on holiday then, a coach outing, or something?
No, not even that.
They had all, in fact, moved. Every last one of them.
Because the tower block had been declared an unsafe structure. It was scheduled for demolition.
Today, actually.
In about fifteen minutes.
Now normally, when a local council decides to blow up one of its flat blocks, this gets on to the news and thousands of people turn up to watch the detonation and cheer as the block comes tumbling down. And the streets get sealed off for half a mile around and policemen stand in their shirt sleeves and smile at everybody and some cherub-faced kiddie who’s won the “Why I’d like to blow up the flat block” competition gets to light the blue touch-paper or press down a plunger of whatever and it’s all a right old carry-on and how-do-you-do.
But not here.
Not in Brentford.
Brentford doesn’t go in for all that hullabaloo.
Brentford does things in a quiet and sedate manner.
In Brentford, the council simply rehouses the flat block’s occupants, in new and finer homes, then calls in the SAS to demolish the tower block with SHITE. So the flat block simply ceases to exist. In silence. In the twinkling of an eye.
Down on the ground level, the SAS were even now setting up the charges and unrolling metres of fuse.
Up on level twenty-three Icarus banged on more doors.
“Perhaps they’ve all gone to the shops,” puffed Johnny Boy.
“Or on holiday, on a coach outing. What do you think, brother Icarus?”
“I think we’re in trouble here.”
“Oh, you’ll get us out of it. You always get me out of every sticky situation.”
Sounds of marching feet came up the stairwell. Sounds of handguns being reloaded. Ugly sounds of sucking breath and grunting.