Free Waiting for Godalming by Robert Rankin Page B

of paint, or a big French kiss of paper. Plaster had been ripped away from the walls and holes driven through the laths. Icarus stepped carefully over the rubble-strewn floor and made his way towards the front rooms.
    These he found to be elegant and well proportioned. But utterly utterly trashed. Antique furniture smashed and broken, doors wrenched from hinges, marble fireplaces levered from the walls. Holes driven into the ceilings, floorboards torn from the floors.
    Icarus surveyed the terrible destruction.
    “It would seem”, said he, “that the men from the Ministry of Serendipity have done some pretty thorough searching here.”
    Icarus now stood in what had once been a beautiful dining room. He righted an upturned Regency chair that still retained all of its legs and sat down hard upon it.
    “But did they find what they were looking for?” he asked himself.
    “Not if their language was anything to go by.”
    Icarus turned at the sound of the voice and all but fell off the chair. In the doorless doorway stood a tiny man. He wasn’t just small, he was tiny. He had more the appearance of an animated doll than a human being. In fact, it was almost as if a ventriloquist’s dummy had been conjured into life.
    Clearly this effect was one that the wee man sought to cultivate. For he had slicked back his hair and powdered his cheeks and pencilled lines from the corners of his mouth that met beneath his chin. He wore a dress suit, starched shirt with black dicky bow and patent leather shoes. And he leaned upon a slim malacca cane and eyed Icarus with suspicion.
    “So what’s your game?” asked the miniature man. “What are you doing here?”
    “Are you Professor Partington?” asked Icarus, rising to his feet.
    “Of course I’m not. You know I’m not. I’m Johnny Boy, I am.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Johnny Boy. My name is Icarus Smith.”
    Johnny Boy cocked his head on one side. “Icarus Smith?” said he. “So what are you, Icarus Smith? You’re not a wrong’un, like those monsters from the Ministry.”
    “Wrong’un?” said Icarus, recalling the expression from the cassette recording. “Just what exactly is a wrong’un?”
    “You wouldn’t want to know and you’d better get out of that room real quick if you know what’s good for you.”
    “Are you threatening me?” Icarus Smith approached the tiny man.
    “No, I’m just giving you some sound advice. If you want to hang on to your sanity, I’d advise you to get out of the room before the four o’clock furore starts.”
    “The four o’clock furore?” Icarus glanced down at his watch; it was almost four o’clock.
    “Starts at the front door there. Goes up the stairs. Then all of that room goes all over the place.”
    “What are you talking about?” Icarus peered over the small man’s head along the hallway towards the front door and then looked back into the ruined dining room. “What do you mean, it goes all over the place?”
    “Trust me, you wouldn’t want to know. Just go out the way you came in and we’ll say no more about it.”
    “I have some questions to ask,” said Icarus.
    “And I have no answers to give.”
    “Were you a friend of the professor?”
    “Oh,” said Johnny Boy. “That’s how it is, then, is it?”
    “What do you mean?”
    Johnny Boy looked up at Icarus. Tiny tears were forming in the small man’s eyes. “You said
were
. The professor’s dead, isn’t he?”
    “I’m afraid so,” said Icarus. “The men from the Ministry tortured him and he—”
    “I don’t want to know.” Johnny Boy pinched at the tears in his eyes. “Just go away, will you? You’ll find nothing here.”
    Icarus placed a gentle hand upon the small man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m truly sorry.”
    Johnny Boy shrugged away the hand of Icarus Smith. “Go, before it’s too late for you.”
    “What do you mean? I …” Icarus paused. “There’s a child,” said he. “Standing behind you, beside the