Robert Rankin - Waiting for Godalming

“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.

“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.”