A continuation of deductive reasoning puts forth this simple proposition. A new head of Virgin, recognized by Dr Trillby. He has found his wandering son. His wish is to drag him back into the future. But he cannot, because Soap Distant has his personal lifespan chronometer. He wants it back, so he puts out the wanted posters and waits for Soap to reappear. And while he’s waiting he wants to keep close to his son. So he approaches him, chats with him, and as he knows everything about Wingarde it is not difficult for him to convince the lad that he is little less than a guru.

But but but but but but! I hear you say. What about The Voice? If this is The Voice of God in Wingarde’s head, The Voice of God will know.

So, what about The Voice?

Good question.

Very good question.

Very good question indeed.

Acupuncture, absent healing, alchemy and eyeless sight,

Ectoplasm, elementals, OTO and inner light.

ESP and elongation, healing currents, Eckanar,

Flying saucers, flat Earth theories, Order of the Silver Star.

(And that ain’t the sheriff)

Ghosts and temples, Gnosticism, Glastonbury Zodiac,

Mysteries and Meher Baba, magnetism, men in black.

Apparitions, astral bodies, amulets, astrology,

Gerald Gardner, Alex Sanders, Anton L. and Mr C.

(Mr Crowley, that is. The man was a beast)

Loch Ness monster, Hatha yogi, levitation, hollow Earth,

Hexagrams and Kirlian photos, Lobsang Rampa, Patience Worth.

Hare Krishna, Krishnamurti, zelator and neophyte,

Karma karma, Dalai Lama, Church of Satan, Church of Light.

(I Ching. You Ching. We all Ching together)

Avatars and bilocation, Book of Shadows, Book of Thoth,

Doubles, dowsing, dreams and Druids, visions of the Holy Ghost.

Precognition, Vril and Voodoo, succubi and the Golden Dawn,

I’m getting sick of all this hoodoo. I think I’ll go and mow the lawn.

Yee hah.

We gone.

Soap Distant wasn’t mowing the lawn. He was having a bath.

He was ruminating in the tub. Dwelling in the lather. Soaking, sud-sniffing, things of that nature.

Omally had told him that, although the retro library clerk costume and the smudged face make-up did make Soap look something of a character, it also made him look something of a twat. So why didn’t Soap just go upstairs and have a bath, help himself to something from Omally’s extensive wardrobe and then come down and meet the Gandhis for dinner?

And so Soap was having a bath. Ruminating in the tub. Soaking, sud-sniffing—

“I’ve got to work all this out,” said Soap to himself. “Apply the science of deduction. I haven’t got all the pieces yet. But I know I’ve got some of them. I know it’s the men in the black T-shirts. I know they travel through time. And I know they mess around with history. Save rock stars from tragic early deaths, and so on. And now this Wingarde is in charge of Virgin and Virgin virtually own all rock music. It’s all connected and it’s all to do with rock music.

“But what about Jim? Why kill poor Jim? Jim was a friendly harmless soul. An amiable buffoon, really. But he was a good man. A much-loved man of Brentford. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

Soap sighed amidst the suds. “It has to be the music,” he said. “Jim’s share in the Gandhis or something. But I’m sure it’s all down to this Wingarde and his guru. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Getting to the bottom of things is what I do best.”

And with that said, and as he was now all prune-wrinkly from more than three hours in the bath, Soap rose from his perfumed water, slipped on a rather spiffing white towelling bathrobe and examined himself in a mirrored wall tile.

Same death-mask dead-white physog. Same transparent hooter. Same pink hamster eyeballs. Same fibre-optic flat-top.

“Same good-looking son of a tunnel,” said Soap Distant.

Soap rootled about in Omally’s wardrobe, marvelling at the quantity of suits. He selected for himself a black silk number, matching shirt and shoes.

“Black silk shoes,” said Soap, twirling before the mirror-tiled bedroom wall. “Omally knows how to live. But is this me, or is this me?”

Soap concluded that it was indeed he, as black was really his colour. He turned out the pockets of the library clerk’s uniform and came across the golden plastic medallion and the watch.

Now, what should he do with this? Flush it down the toilet? Soap weighed up the pros and cons. Perhaps it would be better just to hang on to it. Use it as a means to meet up with this Leo once again. Soap stuck the medallion into his pocket and strapped the watch onto his wrist.

“Very smart,” said Soap. “Very futuristic”

All dolled up and dandy, Soap made his way downstairs. Sounds of gaiety echoed where they could about the crowded entrance hall. Coming from behind a panelled door, which Soap assumed must lead to the dining room.

Soap thought that he’d make a grand entrance and so he picked his way through the chaos, knocked smartly on the door and flung it open.

The dining room, for such it was, was grand as grand could be.

The walls were hung with portraits of the Crawford family.

There were dudes done up as generals and ladies all in lace.

You could tell they all were Crawfords, for they had the Crawford face.

The furniture was old and rich, of Chippendale persuasion.

The table fairly groaned with grub, as for some state occasion.

A laughing group was gathered round, Omally at the head.

As Soap appeared their laughter stopped and silence reigned instead.

“What a very poetic room,” said Soap. “Er, why are you staring at me like that?”

Omally rose from his chair and pointed a trembling finger at Soap. “Of all the suits in my bloody wardrobe,” he said, “why did you have to choose that one?”

“It’s black,” said Soap. “My favourite colour.”

“It’s my funeral suit,” said Omally. “The one I wore to Jim’s funeral.”

“Oh dear.” Colour rose to Soap’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know. I’ll go and change at once.”

Omally shook his head. “No,” he said. “Forget it, Soap. It does suit you. Keep it, it’s yours.”

Soap Distant stood in the doorway, the now legendary spare prick at a wedding.

Omally beckoned. “Come and sit down here by me and get stuck into this grub.”

Soap took a seat. Omally poured wine and made the introductions.

“This is Litany,” said John, “the most wonderful singer on Earth.”

Soap nodded smiles towards the woman nodding smiles at him. She was slim and svelte and stunning. All in white with eyes of emerald green. Soap was taken at once by her beauty, but also by the thought that surely he had met this woman before. There was something about her that rang one of those little bells that you can’t actually hear but you know are being rung. Somewhere.

“I love the moustache,” said Soap. “Is that a fashion thing?”

“It’s a metaphor,” said Litany.

“Oh yes,” said Soap. “Of course it is.”

“And this is Ricky,” said John. “The greatest Stratster on the planet. He’s teaching me to play.”

“Pleased to meet you, Soap,” said Ricky, reaching for a handshake. “John’s told me all about you. Did you really visit the centre of the Earth?”

“Certainly did,” said Soap. “Although I’ve mislaid the photos.”