They were visible to Leo alone and, although he had considered the possibility of exorcism, the truth of the matter was that Leo rather enjoyed their company and revelled in the wickedness and depravity which he was oft times encouraged to inflict upon others.

But then, of course, he was a newspaper editor.[14]

On this particular Thursday lunchtime Leo sat at his desk, in his now less box-crowded office, munching upon a bread roll containing lettuce, celery, tomato, cheese, little boy’s bottom parts and Thousand Island dressing, no salt or pepper, when a knock-knock-knock came at his door and a man called Soap came striding in.

“Good day to you,” cried Soap, a-waving his photographs. “I have them here, so let’s get into action.”

Leo Justice looked up from his eating. To the left and right of him, although unseen by Soap, the arch demons Balberith and Gressil, who played the roles of “The Lord” and “The Magnificent” respectively, when in residence, also looked up. And Leviathan, Prince of the First Hierarchy of Hell and currently at the controls, as it were, peered out through Leo’s eyeballs and moved his mouth about.

“Your mother darns socks in hell,” said the voice of Leviathan.

“Pardon me?” said Soap, who hadn’t seen The Exorcist and so didn’t fall about in hysterical mirth.

Leo coughed and regained control of his vocal chords. “Who are you?” he wanted to know.

“I am Soap. Soap Distant. Traveller belooooow. The man who placed the flag of the realm in the planet’s beating heart.”

“Then why are you dressed as a library clerk? And is that make-up you’re wearing?”

“I wish to remain incognito for the present. And it’s just a bit of blusher to add a spot of flesh-tone. And the eyeliner rather highlights the pinkness of my pupils, don’t you think? Your woman outside gave me a quick makeover. She was still worrying at those wires. I advised her to give them a miss. The Information Superhighway is just a road to nowhere, I told her. She seemed to agree, because she said I was to tell you that you could stuff your job and she was off to join the raggle-taggle gypsies for a life of romance and rheumatism.”

“Come sit upon my knee, dear boy,” crooned the voice of Leviathan, who, as “Leo Baby”, swung both ways.

Soap arched an eyebrow, bridged his nose and did an underpass job with his mouth. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

“State your business,” said Leo.

“I have the photographs. The proof of my travels belooooow. Taken with the old box Brownie. And in colour, not black and white.”

“Thrill me with them,” said Leo, raising a languid hand and sweeping the clutter of his desktop to the floor. Bottom-part sandwiches and all.

Soap strode over to the desk and dealt a hand of photos.

“That’s the west pier, Atlantis. And that’s one of me with a monk at the Temple of Agharti in Shambhala. Eating bat.”

“Eating bat?” said the voice of Leviathan. “Isn’t that a euphemism for—”

“No,” said Soap. “It’s just bat. The wings were a bit stringy. But when in Rome—”

“Bugger the senate?” said Leviathan.

“Possibly,” said Soap. “I’ve never understood the Italian football league.”

“What’s this one?” asked Leo.

“That’s me in the cave of the Gibberlins. See all that gold? Makes Fort Knox look like a boot-sale, doesn’t it?”

“Do you have any of Hell?” asked Leviathan.

“They didn’t come out,” said Soap.

“They never do.” And Leviathan laughed, spraying Soap with a projectile vomit composed of black frogs, safety pins, fish hooks and threepenny bits.

“Pardon me,” said Leo, wiping his chin. “Got a bit carried away there.”

“Well,” said Soap, picking frogs from his lapels. “I think you’ll agree that these photographs prove my claims to be true. Shall we discuss contracts and a six-figure advance?”

“How about a six-fingered advance?” said Leviathan. “Without the rear-guard action.”

Soap folded his arms, creased his brow and put a tuck in his top lip. “Now just you see here!” he said, in the way that you do when you do. So to speak.

“What, here?” asked Leviathan, revolving Leo’s left eye. “Or here?” He made the right one roll into his head.

“That’s an impressive trick,” said Soap, who was never above the awarding of praise. “I had an uncle once who could poke the end of a contraceptive up his nose and then cough it out of his mouth, and then he would pull on each end in turn, like using dental floss. Said it kept his sinuses clear. It used to get him chucked out of a lot of restaurants, though.”

Leviathan mulled that one over. “I’d like to meet your uncle,” he said.

“He moved to Milton Keynes,” said Soap. “Opened a nasal floss shop. But, as I was saying … Just you see here! I don’t have time to waste! I want action and I want it now!”

“And you’d like a contract and a six-figure advance on the strength of these photographs?” The voice was Leo’s. The tone was unbelieving.

“Certainly,” said Soap. “And on the tale I have to tell and the skill with which I’ll tell it. So to speak.”

Leo laughed and Leviathan laughed and Balberith laughed. And so did Gressil. Laugh, laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh.

“Are you laughing?” Soap was heard to ask.

“We are,” said Leo. “Which is to say I am. Kindly sling your hooky-hook, Mr Distant.”

“How about five figures, then?”

“No, you misunderstand. This is not a matter for negotiation.”

“Four,” said Soap. “As long as the first one’s a nine.”

“No,” said Leo, laughing once again.

“Three, then. As long as the first one’s a ten.”

“No.”

“No?” said Soap. “You’re saying no?”

“I would like to say yes,” said Leo. “Truly I would. But I regret that for the moment I cannot. You see, yesterday I sold the newspaper. I am no longer in a position to commission features.”

“Sold the paper? What?” Soap was aghast. Agape and a-goggle and a-gasp. “You’ve sold the Brentford Mercury. To who?”

“It’s to whom, actually. To a major news group, as it happens. The major news group. Virgin News International.”

Soap’s mouth became a perfect O. His bum an asterisk. “You have sold the Brentford Mercury to Virgin? You have prostituted the borough’s organ?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Leviathan.

“Have at you, sir!” Soap raised his fists.

“Calm your jolly self,” said Leo. “What is all this fuss?”

“You’re part of it!” Soap shook a fist. “You’re part of this evil conspiracy, this changing of history!” He shook another one. “I was going to close my eyes to it and let Inspectre Hovis sort it out. But now—” Having no more fists to shake, Soap shook his feet instead.

“That’s impressive,” said Leviathan. “St Joseph of Cupertino used to do that. Mind you, he was in league with the Devil.”

“Out, demons, out!” shouted Soap, who was nearer the mark than he knew.

“I could still offer you a job,” said Leo. “A vacancy has just come up for a wire-worrier.”

Soap’s leap onto the desk had a definite Dougie Fairbanks Jnr feel. Which certainly lived up to Soap’s self-appraisal on his CV. The trip and plunge forward, however, owed more to the work of the immortal Buster Keaton.

“Ooooooooooooooh!” went Soap, as he fell upon Leo.

“Oooooooooooooooh!” went Leo, as he fell beneath Soap.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Leviathan, who objected to falling under anyone other than a paid lady wrestler with a hairlip and a dandruff problem.

And there’s fewer of them about than you might think.

Soap punched Leo on the nose.

And Leo went for the throat.

Back in the more sedate and chat-things-out-in-a-pub-kind-of-world where most of the rest of us live, John Omally emptied another pint of Large down his throat.