Chief Inspector Lytton put aside his camera. He stood upon the flat roof of a building opposite the cafe. He was a very furious chief inspector. A chief inspector who, not one hour before, had received a telephone call from Prince Charles himself, requesting the reinstatement of Inspectre Hovis and that Lytton pa.s.s on the good news of his forthcoming knight-hood.

Chief Inspector Lytton glanced down at the junior officer who knelt beside him. This officer had his finger poised above the firing b.u.t.ton of an anything--but-regulation police-issue 7.62 mm M134 General Electric Minigun.

'Fire as soon as I give the order,' said Chief Inspector Lytton.

The junior officer, whose name was Constable Ken Loathsome, did a big thumbs up. 'Who eats the lead, Chief?' he asked.

'Two men,' said Brian Lytton. 'A large bald one and a not quite so large gangly one. The large bald one is a serial killer. Twenty-three children. Pulled their still-beating hearts out with his bare hands. And ate 'em.'

'Urgh!' went Ken.

'The not so large, gangly one. He's a much nastier piece of work.'

'Blimey,' said Ken.

'So just make sure you don't miss. Do the job right and you might well find there's a promotion in it for you.

'Right on,' said Constable Ken.

Police Constable Kenneth Loathsome wasn't much of a shot. But then, he wasn't much of an anything really. Distinguished only by a crummy mock-American accent and the desire to shoot people, Chief Inspector Lytton couldn't really have chosen a better man for the job.

It was a little after five of the late-afternoon clock, when two figures, one large and bald and one not quite as large, but gangly, stepped out from The Wife's Legs Cafe and stood upon the pavement. They were shaking hands at the moment Chief Inspector Lytton gave Constable Ken the order to fire.

Ken flipped up the safety cover and rammed his thumb hard down on the firing b.u.t.ton. The 7.62 mm M134 General Electric Minigun did what it did best.

Dispensed 7.62 mm x 51 sh.e.l.ls at the rate of six thousand a minute.

Rapid fire! The constable was hard put to keep the killing end of the mighty weapon trained on anything even vaguely resembling the targets. But at that range, and with such an awesome piece of hardware, you really can't miss.

21.

Hugo Rune took a dozen rounds to the head. The force lifted him from his feet and drove him back through the window of The Wife's Leg's Cafe. Hovis turned in horror, tried to run. Bullets raked across his chest. Riddled him from head to foot.

Somehow Rune was rising. He came forward, his great arms outspread. But bullets rained into him, and he fell across the now lifeless body of Inspectre Hovis. Late of Scotland Yard.

When Constable Ken finally released his trigger finger, twenty-three seconds had pa.s.sed. Two thous-and three hundred rounds had left the minigun. The police had run up a bill for twenty-three thousand pounds in damage claims. And two men lay dead on the pavement.

'So long, suckers,' said Ken briefly. And then he was violently sick.

'Oh my G.o.d,' he continued, and, 'what have I done?'

'You've done a man's job, sir.' Brian Lytton looked upon all that he had made, and found it pleasing.

'Bleeuugh!' went Ken, on to the chief inspector's trousers.

A crowd had already begun to form around the two dead men. Appearing, as if from nowhere.

Those who have read The Book of Ultimate Truths will recognize this as Spontaneously Generated Crowd Phenomenon. Those who have not, will not.

The big men, who had taken cover when the killing started, were now climbing to their feet, dusting themselves down and squaring their shoulders in rugged manly ways.

The wife was already receiving far more comfort than she actually needed.

Chief Inspector Brian 'Bulwer' Lytton smiled an evil smile and led the blubbering constable away down the fire escape.

'You chuck up in the car and you're for it,' said he. 'And you can foot the bill to have my trousers dry-cleaned.'

Prince Charles was taking tea. But not with 'the parson' this time. With Polly and her mum. In their kitchen. He hadn't mentioned to Polly yet about making the phone call to have Hovis reinstated, he thought he'd save that for later. Be a nice surprise for her.

Polly put the kettle on. She never minded doing it at home. Her mum whispered away at her from behind a tea cosy imaginatively fashioned to resemble the head of John the Baptist.

'You know who he looks like?' she asked Polly. 'No,' said Polly.

'Jeff Beck,' said her mum.

'He does not.'

'He does too. My friend Mrs Murphy played ba.s.s for Jeff on "Hi Ho Silver Lining". She showed me this picture. Jeff had more hair then. But the ears are the same.'

'Don't you have a meeting of the Chiswick Townswomen's Guild to go to?'

Prince Charles made that curious jaw movement that he does when he's feeling lost. 'This is a charming kitchen,' he said. 'Are these Hygena units?'

'They're Pogue and Poll,' replied Polly's mum, drying her hands on a dishcloth printed with the image from the Turin Shroud. 'My husband Colin fitted them. They came in a flat pack.'

'Were they difficult to erect?'

'Yes quite. The instructions were in Danish. Happily my husband is cunnilingual.'

'The worktops look very easy to wipe down,' said the heir to the throne. 'Is that a faux-marble finish?'

'No, it's Formica.'

'How interesting,' said the prince. 'And do you have any labour-saving devices?'

'Yes, we have a microwave oven.

'Ah yes.' Prince Charles scratched his ear. 'My friend Mark Knopfler used to sing a song about those. Although I forget how it went.'

'There you are,' whispered Polly's mum behind the Baptist's head. 'I know a balding middle-agedex-muso when I see one.' She took herself over to the table and sat down next to the prince. 'Are you in the music business yourself, Mr...

'Windsor,' said himself.

'Windsor? You're not related to Barbara Windsor, by any chance?'

'Barbara?' The prince adjusted his double-breaster.

'Busty Babs, the loveable c.o.c.kney sparrow. Star of countless Carry On films.'

Charles looked bewildered. He was bewildered.

'Would you care for a slice of Black Forest Gateau, Mr Windsor?' Polly's mum pa.s.sed the plate.

'Yes please.'

'Mr Windsor is my new employer,' said Polly, bringing over the kettle and warming the pot.

'How nice. And did you say you were in the music industry, Mr Windsor?'

'Not really.' Prince Charles suddenly seemed to have cake all over himself.

'But you do know Mark Knopfler. Do you know anyone else? In "the biz", as it were?'

'Phil Coffins,' the prince ventured.

'Not fanciable Phil, loveable c.o.c.kney sparrow and star of countless Phil Coffins films?'

'And Bob Geldof. I met him once.

Polly's mum smiled at the prince. 'Excuse me a mo',' she said. Rising from the table, she took Polly by the arm and guided her back to the cooker. 'He's a real no-mark, this bloke,' she whispered. 'A right name-dropper.'

'Oh, and I know the lead singer of Gandhi's Hairdryer.'

'What?' Polly's mum returned to the table. 'You know Vain Glory?'

'Oh yes indeed. We're very good chums. We share a common interest in steam trains.'

'Get away,' said Polly's mum.

'Truly,' said the prince.

'Vain Glory,' sighed Polly's mum.

'Would you like to meet him?' asked the prince. 'Only he sent me some stage pa.s.ses for his concert tomorrow night. Perhaps you'd like to have them.' He patted at his pockets in search of them, but he only did it for effect, because, as those in the know, know, the royals do not have real pockets, because they never have to carry anything around with them. 'They're outside in the Aston Martin,' said Prince Charles. 'I'll go and get them.' And so saying, that's just what he did.

Polly's mum winked at her daughter. 'Aston Martin and he knows Vain Glory. You've fallen on your feet this time, my girl. This bloke's a G.o.d-d.a.m.n prince.'

Cornelius had finally done with the telling of his epic tale. He didn't think he'd left anything out. He'd told of his search for the missing chapters from The Book of Ultimate Truths and how Arthur Kobold had conned them from him; of his discovery that Hugo Rune was his real father and that mankind was secretly con-trolled by a race of non-humans inhabiting the Forbidden Zones.

Of what happened when he and Tuppe entered one of the zones. Of the MacGregor Mathers and of the time spell and of Hugo Rune. And of Hugo Rune's diabolical stratagems.

He concluded his soliloquy with words to the effect that, bad as the beings in the zones might be, far worse were the consequences of their sudden exposure to an unsuspecting world. To whit, the complete and utter collapse of civilization as any of them knew it.

Something that he personally, did not want on his conscience.

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks just sat there,. the joint still there between his fingers. He hadn't even lit it. His mouth hung wide and his face lacked for an expression.

'Is he still breathing?' Tuppe asked.

'Only just.' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks let out a long low whistle. 'And you two really went through all of that?'

'All of that.' Tuppe nodded vigorously. 'And so here we are.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks stared into the face of Cornelius Murphy. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he said.

'You what?'

'I said, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You know that you're the Stuff of Epics. You get involved in something asincredible as all that, you go through all that you've gone through, and then you quit? You just quit? You b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'It's far more complicated than you think-'

'Oh no it isn't,' said b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

'Oh yes it is,' replied Cornelius.

'Oh no it isn't,' chorused everyone on board the happy bus. For they had all been listening to the tall boy as he told his tale.

'I'm sorry,' said Cornelius. 'But I quit.'

'b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' b.o.l.l.o.c.ks threw up his hands. 'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Get off our bus.'

'No, b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, wait.' Candy dropped down on to the cushions beside Cornelius. 'You know you can't quit really,' she said. 'You can't quit being who you are. Being what you are. And knowing what you know.'

'I can,' said Cornelius. 'And I have.'

'Off,' said b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

'No,' said Candy. 'Cornelius, listen. You have to go on. See it through to the end. You have to. Not just for yourself. But for all of us. For the children.'

Cornelius looked up at the children. They sat before him in a wide-eyed row. A small one with curly hair blinked back a tear. 'Are you going to save us from the bad fairies?' she asked.

The tall boy groaned. He really didn't need this.

The small child scrambled away and Candy said, 'You have to, Cornelius. You just have to.'

'I can't. I just .

The small child returned. Sunlight angling down through the windows caught her golden hair to perfection. She had large tears in her eyes now and she held in her hands ... an ocanna.

'This is my daddy's,' she said. 'Will you take it and stop the bad fairies?'

Cornelius Murphy buried his face in his hands. 'All right! All right! I give up.'

The king was p.i.s.sed again. It was late afternoon after all, and he was the king.