Free Waiting for Godalming by Robert Rankin Page A

you happy.”
    God’s wife looked. “Oh no it doesn’t,” she said. “But if you made me another one, I could wear the pair as earrings.”
    “I give up,” said God. “I give up.” And God put on His over-robe. “I give up and I’m going fishing.”
    “Fishing?”
    “Never mind!”
    God left, slamming the door behind Him. God’s wife looked down on the Earth. “Well,” she said, “I suppose it’s an improvement on that stupid black hole thing He made for me last year. But it needs a bit of tidying up. It needs a woman’s touch. The Ford Fiesta can go for a start. And as for you …”
    God’s wife peered down at the grinning Man.
    “What you need is a wife.”
    The grinning Man ceased grinning. “I’d rather keep the Ford,” he said.
     
    “And you probably know the rest, chief. Adam gets a wife. The wife gets tempted. Original sin. Adam gets kicked out of paradise and it’s another ten thousand years before the Ford Fiesta is invented. And they never sort out the problem with the inner sill on the wheel arches.”
    I whistled two bars of “Mean Woman Blues”.
    “You get the picture now, chief?”
    “I do. So I’ll tell you what I think. I think I’ll put the other case on hold for now!”
    “I think you’ve made the right decision there, chief. And it’s really nice that you made it of your own free will, without me having to mention the threats and everything.”
    “Threats? What threats?”
    “Oh, just the threats that God’s wife made, regarding what she’d do if you didn’t find her husband within twenty-four hours. The most unpleasant but suitably spectacular death, followed by the eternity of hellfire and damnation. But as you’ve made the decision of your own free will, I won’t have to mention them at all.”
    “Thank goodness for that.”
    “You haven’t got a hope, you feeble-minded sod.”
    “What was that, Barry?”
    “I said put on your hat and coat and let’s go and find God.”
    “OK, Barry, let’s have a little action.”

6
    Icarus Smith returned the cassette tape and address book to the relocated briefcase and departed from the Station Hotel. Following Hollywood’s example, he then placed the briefcase in a left luggage locker at the station. Put the key into an envelope, addressed this to himself, stuck a stamp upon it and popped it into the post box on the corner.
    Having, of course, first assured himself that it was a
real
post box. Well, you never know.
    “Right,” said Icarus, when all these things had been done. “First stop, Wisteria Lodge, home of Professor Partington. If I am to find this Red Head drug, or at least some clue as to its hidden location, the most logical place to begin my search would be there.”
    And who could argue with that?
     
    Wisteria Lodge was a grand old Georgian pile. It stood tall and proud with its heels dug into Brentford’s history and its head held high towards the changing of the times.
    Because, as is often the case, certain additions had been made to the building over the years.
    To the original Georgian pile had been added a Victorian bubo, an Edwardian boil and a nineteen-thirties cyst.
    At the rear, work was currently in progress to construct a monstrous carbuncle.
    Icarus stepped up to the front door and gave the knocker a knock. He waited a while and then knocked again, but answer came there none. Icarus became aware of the many keyholes in the front door and proceeded to the rear of the building.
    The scaffolding was up, but the builders were absent. It was, after all, the afternoon now and builders rarely return from their lunches. Icarus tried the back door and found it to be unlocked.
    To some this would be encouraging, but not to Icarus, who reasoned that an unlocked door is a likely sign of occupancy.
    “Hello,” called Icarus. “Anyone at home?”
    There didn’t seem to be.
    Icarus entered the empty house and closed the door behind him.
    He stood now in a hallway that could have done with a lick