I sniffed at the air. And the air smelled good. None of that taint from above. There was a golden purity down here. Living here would be as near to living in Heaven on Earth as surely was possible.

This and many other such thoughts, some supportive and others contradictory, blustered about in my head, bumping into each other, big ones elbowing smaller ones aside, mad ones rising to prominence, then getting all dashed away. And I had to sit myself down upon a golden pavement and take a few breaths to steady myself. Because a man could well go mad with all this thinking and I didn’t want that to happen, not now I’d come this far.

And I had travelled far and no mistake from my upbringing in Ealing and Southcross Road School. Being a detective with my brother Andy. Being with The Sumerian Kynges. Meeting Lazlo Woodbine. And meeting Elvis also. Although I didn’t want to dwell too long on that.

It had been a very strange trip and I knew now that it was nearing its end. That my journey through life, a life that had ticked and tocked and ticked itself away, was coming to an end. I knew that I would find what I wanted here and with it I would defeat and destroy the Homunculus. I just knew that I would do this, though don’t ask me how I knew.

And so I set out for the palace. And the palace was not too difficult to find. I reasoned that it would probably hold the best, most prominent position in the city and be the biggest, grandest building there was. So I returned to my dangling braided rope, shinned up it a bit and took a good look all around.

And it didn’t take too long to spy out a vast building of enormous and imposing grandeur. Which just had to be the palace, really. And so, shinning down, I set out in its direction.

As I strode along through the ancient streets, I did wonder one thing, amongst all the others. And that one thing was, I wonder what happened to all the people?

Would I come across skeletons in regal robes seated about a grand table in the royal dining room? I wondered. And might there be a skeleton waiting to greet me around the next corner?

And might there be ghosts?

Now that was a thought, ghosts. If God smote this city, and it was a pretty dead cert that he had, then did He smite all the people in it straight to Hell? Or did He doom a few to wander for ever throughout the sunken city, bewailing their foolishness in falling out with the Almighty?

And that sent a bit of a chill up me. Because this wasn’t then just a sunken lost city of gold. This was a cursed sunken lost city of gold.

And I might now be one of the cursed for entering it.

And I had to have another sit down and take a few more deep breaths. And I helped myself to a bit of special chocolate, because I reasoned that my energy levels might well have fallen somewhat, which might account for all this gloominess of thought.

And after I’d had the special chocolate, all of the special chocolate, and washed it down with a bottle of special glucose drink, I felt a lot more chipper. Quite bouncy, really. In fact, more than just a little hyper.

And I pressed on with a goodly spring in my step.

And soon reached the gates of the palace. And these gates were golden, which came as no surprise to me. And also open, which came as a bit of a surprise. Although I’m not entirely certain why I’d thought they would be closed. Probably so that I could dramatically fling them open, I suppose. And so in order to have just one more thing to remember, I edged the gates closed and then I flung them dramatically open. Nearly taking both my arms out of their shoulder sockets. Because they were most heavy gates.

And then I entered the courtyard and then I entered the palace of the King, of King Georgius, who had struck the deal with Satan and created the first Homunculus. How many centuries back? Well, many more indeed than I could clearly recall being told of.

And within, all was gold.

I spied out tables and couches and settles and settees. Vases and knick-knacks and whatnots stacked in threes. Plates and pans and flowerpot stands and fixtures and fittings and a great big throne.

And all of these were of gold.

And there were tapestries and tabards and tablecloths and toiletries and tambourines and tricycles and tubas and trumpets, too.

And these too all of gold.

And I sat down upon the King’s throne. And I felt suddenly sick. Because it was too much. It was all too much. It was too much gold. More gold than the human mind was ever intended to see. Gold is precious because it is pure and because it is not commonplace. But a golden city, where everything is gold, was simply too much. And frankly it made me feel rather poorly. And so I sat in a slump on the King’s golden throne and buried my face in my hands.

And then I heard the voices.

And that did make me worried. Because, let’s face it, when you start to hear the voices, you know you’re in really big trouble, mentally.

But hear the voices I did. And I heard the voices chanting. It sounded to me like a Latin chant, which would probably be about right for a place like this. But as I listened more carefully to these chanting voices, I came to realise almost immediately that they were not the product of madness. They were the product of real people chanting. Real people? Or the ghosts of real people?

I huddled on that throne and I listened. It really did sound like Latin.

Wennem clennum wendos.

Wennem clennum wendos.

Ukenem siewott iken sennun.

Wennem clennum wendos.

Well, that’s what it sounded like to me. It was definitely Latin, and once more I fretted that I’d never been taught Latin. At a time like this, a working knowledge of Latin would have come in very handy.

And the chanting voices drew closer.

And everywhere I could hear the sounds of marching, charging feet (boy!).

And something told me that these sounds were not the sounds of ghosts, but indeed the sounds of men. But men? And here? Here in this sunken world? My sunken world?

‘Oh dear me,’ I said to myself. ‘It’s their sunken world I’m in.’

And that really upset me.

And it worried me also, because the chanting was becoming ever louder and the marching, charging feeters were growing closer and closer. And it seemed very likely that they were marching and charging to this very throne room. And that if they were and if they found me here, trespassing, as it were, they might not take to me altogether kindly.

Of course, there was always the chance that they might. That they might welcome me eagerly and ask me to marry the present King’s daughter, if there was one. But this thought did not cross my mind. Because sometimes, when I’m really up against it, I can be just plain pessimistic.

But whatever the case might turn out to be, I shinnied right out of that big throne and scuttled around behind it and hid myself from view.

But peeped out a little from the side, to see what was going on. And presently people entered the throne room, marching, charging and chanting.

Wennem clennum wendos (they went).

Wennem clennum wendos.

And I beheld these underground folk and they were, frankly, gorgeous.

Their complexions, their clothing and their hair colour shouldn’t have surprised me. It was all-over gold. And I could see that their eyes were golden, too. As were their tongues. And although they presented by this colouring a most alien appearance, it was one of such striking beauty that I found my eyes popping wide and my lower jaw dangling down.

And they marched and charged and chanted. And then they stopped. And I beheld, in the midst of them, that they carried aloft a saintly statue of a grinning man of benign appearance. And although the golden folk who carried this statue wore the robes of olden days, this statue appeared to be attired in twentieth-century clothing. Or indeed an impression of it, as a child might draw a house from memory. But the face of the statue was well crafted. The grin was a big one, which exposed a goodly array of teeth, and the eyes were crinkled and friendly.