go off on one about potted plants and how Captain Lynch had once told me all about a man-eating variety that lived in the Amazon Basin was tempting.
Oh, so tempting.
But I stayed focused.
And the two men, young men, Dave being the one and the other, I assumed (for no reason other than convenience), to be Barry, to whom Dave had recently spoken upon the internal telephone about oh so many things, escorted between them a scantily clad golden girlie who had about her now a rolly-eyed-staggery-stumblyness of a kind that is so much favoured by a certain type of young female as a late-night-Saturday-town-centre look.
And as I have stated that I would make no further mention of my anger, I will make no mention of it now.
But I wondered, perhaps should I take my chances and have a pop at Dave and Barry? Perhaps I could take them down, as it were, and rescue the golden lovely. But, of course, there was always the chance that Dave and Barry worked out in the gym with the ninja types and were well heeled in the martial skills department. Which meant that they would beat me up and I’d never get a chance to take my shot at the Homunculus. So to speak. Et cetera.
So I let them pass by and then I followed them.
Discreetly.
And they were not, it appeared, heading to the office of the Awful One. They passed by this office and went up a staircase. Towards the roof.
The roof! I thought and I smiled a little, recalling a certain idea that had come to me in the Awful One’s office. The idea that I had considered a long shot, but one that was still in the running.
And so I followed these fellows as they hustled the golden girlie ahead of them up the staircase. And I heard them make lewd remarks regarding her bottom, which were going to cost them dearly when they got theirs. Which they would, I felt confident. Somehow.
At the top of the stairs was a door. And here they knocked and entered. And then I heard a voice cry, ‘Don’t bother to lock it.’ And then some mumbled words.
And I parked my physical self on the stairway, vacated it in my astral and poked my head through the door to see what was what.
And wouldn’t you just know it? Dave was crouched on one side of the doorway and Barry on the other. And they had electric truncheons in their hands. And were obviously lying in wait for me.
Damned cheek!
‘Well, let ’em crouch there till they get the cramps,’ I told myself. ‘I will find another way in.’
But where was in?
What was all this up here?
And so I had a little drift about to see what was what and why.
This was not the open roof. It was a great high-domed conservatory kind of a jobbie, in the grand Victorian style, glorifying in each twiddly bit and the unnecessary fussiness of its design. It was lit by flaming torches held within cast-iron embrasures at regular intervals about the single circular and all-encompassing wall of glass and iron-work – rather out of place upon the peak of this bland tower block of a building, but evidently constructed to serve a particular purpose.
And the purpose it was constructed to serve was all too horribly evident. The circular floor was of marble, inlaid with many precious and semi-precious stones: aquamarine, beryl, chrysoberyl, emerald, sarkstone, heliotrope and tourmaline and lapis lazuli. And wrought into it was the infamous pentagram, enclosed within the double circles, which themselves enclosed the words of power too terrible to be named.
And there were many other symbols and sigils wrought into this floor, symbols and sigils from many cultures, ancient and modern – all points covered, as it were. And at the heart of the pentagram, enclosed within another circle, this one composed of amethyst and sapphire, was the circular altar.
And strapped to this, spread-eagled, was the girlie.
And standing before her, big bad gem-encrusted book in his horrid hands, was Papa Keith Crossbar, the heinous Homunculus.
And he had a wicked old grin on his chops.
And the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed and those two men crouched by the doorway.
My attention was also drawn to a number of television monitor screens that were affixed to the upright structures of the great glazed dome – CCTV. And there indeed was me upon one of these screens, standing sentinel upon the stairs outside the door.
And I did shruggings of my astral shoulders. The Homunculus had probably watched me on screen as I came up in the lift. This was, after all, the CIA building. They did have security.
And I returned silently to my body and sat down upon one of the stairs and had a bit of a think.
And having had it, I marched up the stairs, kicked open the door, took one step forward, two steps back, invoked the power of the Tyler Technique and watched as Dave and Barry leaped forwards to the spot where I had been standing, struck each other mighty whacks with their electric truncheons and toppled both unconscious to the floor.
And their heads did go crack upon that marble, which must have really hurt. Even if they were dead.
And I stepped forward into that great domed wonderful-terrible room. And the Homunculus glared at me big pointy daggers and closed his book and placed it down upon the central altar.
And then he approached me on short stumpy legs and he put out his hand for a shaking.
And he grinned once more and said, ‘Welcome, Tyler, you are right on time.’
And I grinned somewhat in return, but I did not shake his hand. Instead I did something I had never done ever before in my life.
I spat in his face.
‘I have come to kill you, Mr Crossbar,’ I said, in a manner that let him know that I was not kidding around here. ‘Prepare yourself for death.’
And I reached out for his throat.
And do you know what? I never even saw them. But then you never do, do you? You never do see them, because they are all stealth and secret martial arts. Ninjas. Damned ninjas.
All in black and looking cool. They came out of nowhere.
And then-
They had me by the throat.
69
‘Tick tock, kill the clock, said the faerie queen in her flowery frock.’
The Homunculus did a little bit of a jig on his stumpy legs and he wiped my spittle from his chin. ‘Do you know that old nursery rhyme, Tyler? “Tick took, kill the clock”? I can only remember the first two lines. It’s funny what you remember and what you don’t, isn’t it? What sticks with you and stays with you. Because it is those things that stick and stay when we are children that make us what we are when we become adults. Were you loved, as a child, Tyler? Did your mummy love you?’
A ninja loosened his hold on my throat. And I made a gagging, ‘Yes.’
‘How charming. And has that made you a good person, Tyler? Have you lived a good life? Done good things? Made your mummy proud of you?’
‘I’ll thank you to leave my mother out of this,’ I said. ‘This is strictly between you and me. If you’d be so kind as to ask the ninjas to release me, I will carry on with my plan to kill you.’
‘Well, that’s one possibility. And please don’t think that I am simply dismissing it out of hand without giving it due consideration. But I think… no. I think we will go along with my plan, rather than yours. After all, that clock that has ticked and tocked your life away has just a little bit more ticking and tocking to do before it stops for ever. Before everything stops for ever.’
I made a very grumpy face. As well I might, considering the circumstances. ‘Is there nothing I can say?’ I said.
