Laser-guided too, they are. You just lock on and hit the button.

The driver of the black car swung the wheel and pushed his foot to the floor. Soap clung onto whatever he could, as the car took a corner on two wheels alone and swerved into the Ealing Road. Leaving really brilliant skidmarks. Burning rubber all the way.

Behind it came the helicopter. Low to the ground now, a few feet above. In the cockpit the pilot winked at his fellow officer. “Go on,” he said. “Lock on and hit the button.”

The long black car rushed past the Flying Swan.

Behind it came the helicopter.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrm, went the black car’s engine.

Chb, chb, chb, chb, chb, went the helicopter blades.

On went the laser-guiding system.

On went the little telescreen.

Green electric cross-wires focused.

“Keep your head down!” shouted the driver.

“Press the button,” said the pilot.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrm and rev and roar went the car.

And chb, chb, chb, chb the helicopter blades.

The black car passed over the railway bridge, its four wheels leaving the road.

Soap’s head hit the roof and a finger hit the button.

Out of the sky came the missile. Out from the sky and down to the road.

The explosion swallowed up tarmac and pavement, rubber and metal, in fragments and fistfuls.

The helicopter circled through the smoke and flame. Of the black car and its occupants, nothing whatever remained to be identified.

From the deep-hidden realm of Shambhala

To the halls of the lofty Potala.

From the tomes of Debrett

To the domes of Tibet,

You can sit and take tea with the Lama.

He will speak of forthcoming disasters

Like the rise of the new Perfect Masters,

Who are gaining control

Now we’re all on the dole,

And there’s no happy-ever-afters.

So forget about paying the mortgage,

And cancel the milk from today.

Armageddon is coming,

And it’s only four minutes away.

You can dump your two weeks on the Costa

And scrub round your flexible roster.

That new three-piece suite

And that chic place you eat,

And all other plans you may foster.

Cos tomorrow’s been cancelled for ever,

No more knock or the old never-never.

No more Barrett Homes,

And no more Earl’s Court clones.

No more John, no more Ron, no more Trevor.

So tear up that final demand note,

And open the Champagne today.

Armageddon is coming

And it’s only two minutes away.

There’s a jewel in the eye of the lotus

Which is fine if you like those nice motors.

But the bent MOT

Won’t mean sod all, you see,

As the whole world just went out of focus.

And through firestorms and nuke radiation

We will see a new birth of a nation.

Like a Phoenix arise

Spread its wings to the skies,

And for more news stay tuned to this station.

Forget about yesterday’s heroes,

The new ones are coming to stay.

Armageddon is coming,

And it’s only a heartbeat away.

Only a heartbeat away.

Soap’s heart seemed to be beating. He could feel it in his chest. But as he couldn’t actually see his chest, or indeed any other part of himself, he concluded, dismally, that he probably was dead. He could think of no other logical explanation to account for the fact that he now seemed to be floating, in a disembodied form, out of Brentford and up the Great West Road.

“Bummer,” said Soap. “That’s a real bummer.”

“I think it’s pretty impressive,” said the driver’s voice.

Soap sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry you got killed for helping me.”

“We’re not dead, you buffoon.”

There was a whirl and a click and a whoosh, and the car and its driver and Soap appeared out of nowhere at all.

“What?” went Soap, and, “How?”

“Stealth car,” said the driver, winking over his shoulder at Soap. “Latest military technology. Cost me an arm and a leg on the old black market, as you can imagine.”

Soap stared at the driver and the light of realization dawned. “John,” he said, “it’s you.”

“Of course it’s me.” said Omally. “Who did you think it was?”

“I don’t know, I …”

“Ah,” said Omally, turning back to his driving. “The beard. I haven’t had a shave for five years. Not since—”

“Jim,” said Soap. “I heard about Jim. I’m so sorry, John.”

“You might have turned up to the funeral. We sent him off in style.”

“I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Omally swung the steering wheel and the car turned off the Great West Road and in through the gates of Gunnersbury Park.

“So, where have you been?” John asked. “And whatever possessed you to go wandering about in Brentford? You’re a wanted man.”

“Well, it’s all your fault,” said Soap. “If you hadn’t made me stick Small Dave up the back of my coat.”

“Your being wanted has got nothing to do with Small Dave. As you well know.”

“I don’t,” said Soap. “But listen. Thank you for saving me back there, John. You didn’t have to take a risk like that.”

“A friend in need and things of that nature.” The car moved up the gravel drive towards the imposing Georgian pile that was Gunnersbury House.

“What are we doing here?” asked Soap.

“This is where I live.” Omally drew the car to a halt, switched off the engine and tugged the key from the dash. “Come on,” he said. “You could use a drink.”

John climbed from the car and Soap followed on buckling knees. He had all but caught up, when a Godalmighty crash from above had him ducking to his bucklers. Glass and wood rained down on the drive and a television set bounced off the bonnet of John’s car and came to rest in a flowerbed.

“Help!” wailed Soap. “We’re under attack.”

John helped the lad to his feet. “I have guests,” he explained. “That’s just their way of saying hello.”

“Are they loonies?” asked Soap. “Is this a loonybin?”

“The whole world’s a loonybin. Come on, they’re okay.”

The entrance hall of Gunnersbury House might well have been described as a symphony in marble. But only by a lover of Karl Stockhausen. The glorious classical line of the place, with its travertine floor and graceful columns of fine Carrara rising to a Robert Adam ceiling frescoed with Arcadian scenes was buggered all to hell by the chaos of “things” that filled it.

There was a Harley motorcycle, lacking much of its engine. Several stereo systems in various stages of assembly. At least five Stratocaster guitars, leaning against as many amps and speakers. There was a Rock Ola jukebox and a pinball machine and a mountain bike. There were many many cardboard boxes and an awful lot of bubble wrap.

Soap took in as much as he could and the phrase “toys for boys” rolled into his head and out again. “You never married, then?” he said.

“Ah, no,” said John. “I’ve got some booze in the kitchen. Shall we—?”

Soap remembered John Omally’s previous kitchen. He tried to picture it on a larger scale. The thought depressed him somewhat.

“Is it really grubby?” he asked.

“Really,” said John, with an underbeard grin.

“You lucky bastard.”

“I don’t feel very lucky.” John went in search of the booze.

Soap sat down upon a fibreglass stool tastefully constructed from the body-cast of a kneeling naked female. Presently John Omally returned with a champagne bottle and two grubby tumblers. He popped the cork, poured the drinks and handed one to Soap.