“Onward, ever upward,” said Icarus.
“I’m all done,” said Johnny Boy. “Leave me here to die.”
“Icarus will save us, Johnny Boy, don’t fear.”
Icarus gestured with the trusty Smith and Where’s-the-sense-in-going-up-any-higher-why-not-simply-make-a-fight-of-it-here?
“Up,” urged Icarus. “Up.”
But of course, going up has to stop eventually. Eventually you are up and you can’t go up any more. Eventually, you hit the top and when you’ve hit it, you know, just know, exactly where your going up has got you.
They crashed out through a door and onto the tower block roof.
An acre of blank tarmac, relieved only by four of those whirly-whirly-air-conditioning-sucky-out-extractor-fan jobbies that you always find on tower block roofs, along with all the pigeon poo.
Johnny Boy crawled onto the rooftop. “Seventy-two floors,” he wheezed. “But at least we got here at last.”
Icarus staggered onto the rooftop. He whirled around like one of the whirly-whirly things, the gun in his hand and a rather horrified look on his face. “Where is it?” he managed to say. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what, brother? Ooh, the view’s lovely from here. You can see Kew Gardens; look at the sunlight on the glasshouses.”
“Where’s the cradle? The window-cleaning cradle. I thought we could abseil down on the ropes.”
“Now that would have been exciting,” said Johnny Boy, clutching at his heart. “I’d have been right up for a bit of abseiling.”
“We’re trapped.” And Icarus whirled around again.
And got himself dizzy. And fell right over.
Johnny Boy sat on his little bum and laughed. Laughed, that’s what he did. “There’s no way down,” he laughed. It was what they call hysterical laughter. “You’ve got us up here and there’s no way down.”
“Shut up!” shouted Icarus. “I’m thinking.”
“Better think fast, then.” Johnny Boy laughed some more.
“I could soar down,” said the other, making wings with his arms. “I could soar down, like a swan, or a mighty condor, spread my wings and …”
Icarus dragged him back. “Sober up,” he shouted. “Pull yourself together. Be Woodbine. You are Woodbine. He’d get us out of this. He would.”
“You’ll get us out of this, brother. I trust you. You’re my hero.”
“No. I’m nobody. You’re the hero. You’re my hero. Really.”
“You’re not my hero.” A gun-toting demon stepped out onto the rooftop.
“Nor mine,” said his hideous companion. “I only like Carol Vorderman.”
“I don’t like anybody,” said Cormerant, pushing the demons aside.
Icarus raised the gun to fire. But guns have safety catches. Click went the gun. And click again. Icarus fumbled to drop the safety catch, but there is a knack to these things.
Cormerant strode over the rooftop and tore the gun from the hand of Icarus Smith. “Here,” said he. “Why don’t you let your companion here have a go at it?” And he thrust the gun into the limp-looking hand of the man who had once been Woodbine.
“Oh no,” said that man. “I can’t be having with guns. Nasty things, guns. They go off and shoot people.”
Cormerant laughed. “He’s sort of lost his edge, hasn’t he?” he said, and he offered the gun to Johnny Boy.
“I’ll have a go,” said the midget. “But I might need a hand pulling the trigger.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” said Cormerant. “But not for that.”
And he reached down to Johnny Boy, took hold of his head and snapped the little man’s neck.
“No!” Icarus screamed and sank to his knees beside the body. “No, Johnny Boy, no.”
Cormerant turned to his two evil henchmen. “Go back to the car,” he said. “I can handle everything here. Take the car back to the Ministry. I’ll join you later for a nice cup of tea.”
The demons departed, laughing all the way.
“You killed him.” Tears flowed down the face of Icarus Smith. “You callous monstrous bastard. There was no need to kill him.”
“I’m cleaning up,” said Cormerant. “Cleaning up all the mess you’ve made with your interfering. He’s dead because of you. Because you stole my briefcase. You’re the one who has to live with his death on your conscience. But don’t worry yourself, you won’t have to live with it for long.”
“I’ve posted the cassette tape.” Icarus looked up through his tears. “I’ve posted the cassette tape of you torturing Professor Partington. To a newspaper. Along with a signed testimony and one of the Red Head tablets. And I’ve had a chemist analyse the drug and produce gallons of it in liquid form. A friend of mine has it and if I don’t phone him at a specified time today, he’ll pour it into the local water supply. People will see you and your kind for what you really are.”
“I don’t think so,” said Cormerant. “Your friend. Would that be your best friend? Friend Bob?”
“How—”
“I’ve been keeping a careful eye on you. Your best Friend Bob is now sadly deceased.”
“No,” wept Icarus. “No.”
“You should never have messed with me,” said Cormerant. “You don’t know who I really am.”
“You’re a piece of shit,” said Icarus.
“Language,” said Cormerant. “You shouldn’t talk like that to me. You should call me by my official title. You should call me Your Satanic Majesty.”
Icarus stared up at Cormerant. And the face of evil stared back down at him.
“You have seriously fucked with me,” declared the Evil One. “You’ve fucked with my plans. I had that moron Colin right in the palm of my hand. He was mine. And with his father dead and the Earth passed on to him, I would have had it. He would have sold the Earth to me, just to spite his mother. But then you come along. Stupid petty criminal and you fuck everything up. There’s no Hell for you to go to now. But I will make your final moments more hellish than your puny little mind could ever comprehend.”
And the spawn of the pit took hold of Icarus and lifted him from his feet.
“Eyes first,” said His Satanic Majesty. “Eyes plucked out and pushed down your throat, then other bits too, one slowly after another.”
Icarus shook and fought to break free, but you really don’t have too much chance against the devil.
Icarus tried to close his eyes and turn his face away, but the taloned claws pressed in upon his eyeballs.
And once again Icarus found the whole of his life flashing right there in front of his eyes.
And once again he felt it hadn’t been the best of lives.
“Time to suffer, you thieving little gobshite.” And the claws of Hell went pressing in.
“Hey, scumbag,” I said. “Leave the kid alone.”
The creature turned to face me and I could see by the look on his big ugly puss that he didn’t like what he saw.
“And what’s this?” he asked in a tone that I didn’t take to.
“This is where you get it,” I said, cooler than a Carmelite in a coprophiliac’s karsy. “This is where you get what’s coming to you.”
The Beast of the Revelation looked me up and down then up and down some more.
I raised the trusty Smith and Wes Craven’s Nightmare and thumbed back the hammer. “The safety catch is off this time,” I said.
Cormerant let Icarus fall to the rooftop. “You have got to be kidding,” said he.
“Me, buddy, I never kid. This is the final rooftop showdown. This is where you get yours.”
“You dare to point that gun at me, you cringing gutless piece of shit!”
I cocked an eyebrow and smiled him one of my Woodbine winners. “I might not have slept for a week,” said I. “And I may be drugged up to the windows of my stainless soul. And I may have had to adopt a different persona, that of this kid’s brother, in order to cover the scenes where I left the hospital and travelled in the taxi and through the streets and up the stairs and everything. But this is my territory here, buddy. This is my fourth location. The rooftop where the villain gets his and I get all the glory.”