Ricky took his walkman back and put on his headphones once more.

“Could you make me a copy of that tape?” Soap asked.

But Ricky couldn’t hear him.

Soap chatted with the other Gandhis, even the ones who had nothing to say. The ones who had nothing to say said to Soap that they were really pleased to meet him and how John had told them so much about him and what a nice evening it was and had Soap heard their new album? Which was called Armageddon: The Musical and was based on the bestselling novel by the famous Johnny Quinn.

Soap said that he was sure he could remember reading a book by Johnny Quinn, way back in the sixties, but the name of it had slipped his mind.

The evening passed further on and soon became the middle of the night. Soap stifled yawns. It had been a long day, and a hard’n. He peeped at the wristwatch. What was the time?

The face of the watch was a blank and unlit screen.

Soap peered a bit more closely and wondered which button you had to press to get the time up.

“That’s a smart watch,” said Pigarse, leaning far too close to Soap. “Wingarde’s got a watch like that.”

“Has he?” said Soap. “Well, that clinches it.”

“Clenches what?” asked Pigarse. “Bottom cheeks?”

“Very possibly,” said Soap. “But it has to be the same Wingarde. He did have some fancy wristwatch, but I didn’t get to look at it closely. I’d just jumped out of a window and I was hovering in the air.”

“Go on, Soap,” said Omally. “It’s well past the ten o’clock watershed now.”

“Well,” said Soap, “perhaps I should tell you all about it.”

“Let me try your wristwatch on,” said Pigarse.

“No,” said Soap. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“That’s what bleeding Wingarde said. Come on, I won’t break it.”

Pigarse lunged forward to snatch at the wristwatch, but his hand struck something invisible and he fell back wailing and clutching at his fist.

“What did you do to him, Soap?” said Omally. “He’s the drummer, you’ve injured his hand.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Soap shook his head. “He just lunged at me, you saw it and …”

Soap’s voice trailed away. It was the watch. It had to be the watch. What was it Wingarde had said? Lifespan chronometer incorporating personal defence mechanism. That was what he’d said.

“So,” said Soap, “what do we have here?” And he tinkered with the buttons on the watch.

And then there was a click and a bang and a whoosh.

And there was no more of Soap Distant.

The grey-whiskered father looked down at the boy

And reached for his teeth in the glass.

He slotted them onto his old wrinkled gums

And rattled his fingers and crackled his thumbs,

And suggested the lad take a seat by the window.

Because he had questions to ask.

Now tell me, young fellow, the old fellow said,

As the lad spread his feet on the pouffe.

There are things I must know, for my time’s drawing near.

And I’ll be just a memory later this year.

So please do me the kindness to answer me this,

Before you’re away on the hoof.

Just name it, my daddy, the young boy replied,

Ask anything under the sun.

If it’s answers you want, then I’ll speak as I find,

So go right ahead, be assured I don’t mind.

Consider the floor to be yours, as I’ve said,

Spit it out, you old son of a gun.

Thus and so, said the ancient, my question is this—

But the telephone interjected.

And the boy went to answer it out in the hall,

And a large moose’s head that hung there on the wall

Fell down on his father and crushed him to death.

Which is pretty much what we expected!

As Soap had no idea what to expect, he was not particularly surprised when he found himself in yet another empty room. This one, however, differed from the last in that it retained all of its fixtures and fittings. This room had merely been emptied of people. Soap was all alone now in Omally’s dining room. It was cold and dark and somewhat eerie.

Moonlight sidled in through the French windows and fell upon the Crawford faces on the wall, which seemed to view Soap disapprovingly.

“Damn,” said Soap. “Not again.”

And then he fell backwards onto the floor.

Someone had obviously moved his chair, so it wasn’t there to greet his bum upon its future return.

Effing and blinding, as was now his habit, Soap struggled onto the vertical plane. It was not a matter of where am I now? It was a matter of when? The remains of the feast could be seen in the moonlight, so surely it was only a matter of hours.

Soap considered checking his watch. Soap scrubbed around that idea.

“Wooooooooooooooooo,” came a voice from a darkened corner. “Wooooooooo and woe.”

Small hairs rose all over Soap and his face took on a haunted expression. Which, although appropriate, didn’t help too much.

“Woe unto the house of Distant,” went the voice.

Soap stammered out a “Who’s there?”

“This is the ghost of Gunnersbury House.”

“Oh my,” went Soap, a-clutching at his heart. “Oh my, no, hold on there.”

“Hold on there?” asked the ghost.

“Hold on there, I know that voice. Pooley, is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” said the ghost of Jim.

Soap clenched hard upon chattering teeth and sank down into the nearest chair. “Oh, Jim,” he said. “Oh, Jim.”

“It’s very good to see you, Soap,” said Pooley.

Soap squinted into the semi-darkness. “I can’t see you,” he said.

“I’m over here by the window. But I won’t come out of the shadows. You wouldn’t want to see what I look like now.”

“I’m so sorry, Jim. It’s awful.”

“It’s horrible,” said Jim. “Being a ghost. It’s cold and it’s lonely and you hear things in the night. Things that make noises beloooow.”

“Probably the dwarves,” said Soap, shaking away like a good’n.

“It’s not the dwarves,” said Jim. “And calm yourself down, Soap. It’s only me.”

“I’m sorry.” Soap shook and quivered. “I know it’s you, but you’re d—”

“Dead,” said Jim. “But we don’t use the ‘D’ word. Get yourself a drink and pull yourself together.”

Soap found an empty glass and a full bottle and set to correcting the imbalance.

“But what are you doing here?” he asked Jim. “I thought ghosts haunted the places where they, you know, ‘D’‘d.”

“You reach out,” said Jim. “At the moment of death. You reach out to your nearest. I reached out to John. He was here in Gunnersbury House, chatting with Lord Crawford about putting the Gandhis on. I reached out to here and this is where I’ve stayed. I’m stuck here. But John can’t hear or see me and although I’ve been able to put the wind up a few people you’re the first old friend who has the gift, as it were.”

Soap drank up and refilled his glass. “You shouldn’t be here, Jim,” he said. “You were a good man. You should have gone to the good place. It’s not right for you to still be here.”

“I can’t leave,” said Jim. “Not yet. Not until everything’s been put right. And my spirit cannot be at rest until the man who killed me is brought to justice.”

Soap’s teeth rattled against his wine glass.

“Sorry,” said Jim. “The afterlife can get a little gloomy.”

“I think you’re taking it all very well.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve come to terms with it now. For the first couple of years I raged about like a wild man. But it didn’t help.”

“I’ll sort it for you, Jim,” said Soap, “trust me, I will.”

“I rather hoped you’d say that. You know that you were right all along, don’t you? About history being changed while you were belooow? Branson on the banknotes and all that kind of business.”