And I took to shrugging and said that I was no longer in the mood and perhaps I’d make it later. But the high priest said that now really would be the best time. And that he had memorised the bit in the Book that said that I did. So it would probably be better for me if I didn’t try to mess with prophesied Fate. And there was something about the way he said it that suggested he really really meant it.
‘Oh, all right then,’ I said. All sulky. ‘Gather round, oh mighty warriors, and hearken unto me.’
The high priest gave me the thumbs-up to this and winked an eye in my direction.
‘Now is the winter of our discontent,’ I began, ‘when we must fight them in the fields and on the beaches and keep a welcome in the hillside and gird up our loins and ride ’em, cowboy. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Cry God for Harry and the George. And the show’s not over until the fat lady takes tea with the parson.’
And I paused and did noddings of the head. But nobody cheered.
So I continued in a likewise manner, ‘The time is right for fighting in the street,’ I said. ‘War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Oh, and kill everyone and let God sort it out. Geronimo!’
And I stopped there and did some shakings of the head. And one of the golden girlies clapped a little.
‘Oh, listen, fellas,’ I said. ‘I don’t have any great battle speech to give you. Directly above us there is what you will consider to be a mighty tower. And at the very top of this tower sits the Evil One. Except at weekends, when he probably plays golf with the President, or something. But I’m pretty sure we can catch him in on weekdays. And although you don’t understand the concept of days, I will explain it to you. But he’s up there and we’re down here. So the idea is that we get ourselves up there somehow and slay him, pretty much as bloodily as you fancy, really.’
And the golden warriors looked at one another and then they looked at me. And then one of them whispered some words into the ear of the high priest.
And the high priest said to me, ‘He wants to know what an omelette is.’
‘Right,’ I said. And rightly so.
And then I had an idea.
‘Anyone hungry?’ I asked. And all of them nodded.
‘Would you like to try a little top-side tucker?’ And all of them looked rather blank.
‘Food,’ I said. ‘Good food. No cockroaches. Well, possibly some, but they’re not supposed to be included in the dishes. I’ll treat us all to dinner – I’ve still got loads of money.’ And I dug into my trouser pockets and I did still have loads of money.
‘You lot stay here,’ I said, ‘in the Tunnel of the George, because he might appear at any moment to greet you.’
‘You think so, sire?’ said the high priest.
‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. But I will go upstairs, and I’ll bring us back food. Pizzas and Coca-Colas. I’ll get lots. An army marches on its stomach, doncha know?’
And they all looked blank again.
‘Just stay here,’ I said, ‘and I’ll get food.’
‘Do you wish to take a couple of underlings to fetch and carry for you, sire?’
‘No,’ I told the high priest. ‘I’ll be fine. Now, I’m going to leave you in charge down here.’
‘I’m always in charge,’ said the high priest. And he folded his arms rather huffily.
‘Well, of course you are. So exert your authority and make sure that everybody stays put and no one goes upstairs.’
‘Why?’ asked the high priest.
‘Because I say so?’ I ventured.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ said the high priest. And he saluted.
So I saluted back and took myself off and away from the platform at the hurry-up. And up the stairway. But as I didn’t have my big torch, it was rather dark on the stairway and I tripped over a few times and got myself in a right old strop.
But eventually I made it to the concourse and from there to the outside world. Which wasn’t too easy, as someone had nailed back the timber I had prised away to gain entrance.
But I did some petulant kickings and eventually I was out. And I sniffed once more at the New York air. And the New York air smelled rank. And I glanced up at that great building soaring high above, and I knew that he was in that building. The Homunculus, I could feel him. And a hunter’s moon swam in the heavens above that building.
And it was night-time in smelly New York. But I didn’t have a watch, so I didn’t know what time of night-time it was. But it didn’t really matter, because in New York, as in all civilized cities, you can always buy a pizza at any time of the day or night.
I glanced across the street to the parade of shops where I’d purchased all my sub-ground paraphernalia. I figured that if Mr Molesworth was still behind his counter, I’d pop in and sing the praises of his torch and braided cord. Not to mention the dynamite.
Which I thought that I probably wouldn’t.
But all the shops were boarded up. And the boarding all covered in posters.
‘That was a bit quick,’ I said to myself. ‘I was only in that shop yesterday and now it’s closed down, been boarded over and smothered about with posters. They don’t waste any time in New York, do they?’ And assuring myself that clearly they did not, I went off in search of a pizza takeaway. Breathing through my mouth as I did, because New York really ponged.
And I hadn’t got too far before I became a bit confused. Surely I was travelling back towards Times Square, back the way I had come yesterday. But all looked somehow different.
More modern, somehow, more futuristic.
More futuristic? I did groanings. I had done futuristic before. Back in nineteen seventy-seven. On that terrible day when I had entered the parallel world of the alternative reality and been (partially) responsible for the death of Elvis Presley. I couldn’t be having with futuristic. Futuristic was trouble.
And if I was in some alternate reality again, it would be the work of the Homunculus. And it would mean that he knew where I’d been, and had been preparing this to greet me on my re-emergence from the Underworld.
You see, we detectives reason this kind of stuff out. It’s what keeps us a cut above the plain and everyday folk.
So I worried about futuristic.
And I kept a wary eye out for airships that were powered by the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti- matter. And blokes whizzing by on jet-packs.
And I went trudging onward.
And presently I saw neon lights and a great big sign reading ‘PIZZA’.
And I said, ‘Praise the Lord,’ to this and made my way inside. And it did look rather futuristic. But in a downbeat sort of a way. All mod cons, but all mod cons well knackered. There was plenty of neon and plenty of chrome, and we all know deep down in our Fritz Lang’s Metropolis hearts that the future will mostly be Art Deco- looking and composed of neon and chrome. And there was a feisty-looking New York girlie behind the counter. But it was a bit difficult to see too much of her because she stood behind a Plexiglas security screen. And it was somewhat grubby and stuck all over with stickers.
I spied out customers awaiting the arrival of their orders, and these numbered two: a tall Jewish-looking man in black, whose looks made me wonder whether Jewish had come back into fashion – retro-Jewish, a very good look, I thought – and a chap who had all the makings of a professional wino. Much like the bum I had encountered the day before, who had been thrown from his office by the Homunculus. But with slightly less hair and rather more smell. And two fine shadows he cast.
So I gave this fellow a bit of a miss, smiled politely at the Jewish-looking one and approached the counter. To have my way barred by the Plexiglas screen.
‘Hey,’ said the feisty New Yorker. Which I understood to mean, ‘Hello’.
‘Hey yourself,’ I said.
‘Hit the road, ya bum,’ she said. And she smiled at me when she said it.
‘I’d like some pizzas, please,’ I said. ‘Sufficient for thirty people. And I have the money in cash.’
‘Out, ya bum,’ she said. And she pointed to the door.
