Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency Box Set

by Douglas Adams

  Dirk could also see the top of a head.

  The hair on this head was dark, matted and greasy. Dirk watched it for a long, uneasy moment before advancing slowly into the room to see what, if anything, it was attached to. His relief at discovering, as he rounded the armchair, that the head was, after all, attached to a living body was a little marred by the sight of the living body to which it was attached.

  Slumped in the armchair was a boy.

  He was probably about thirteen or fourteen, and although he didn’t look ill in any specific physical way, he was definitely not a well person. His hair sagged on his head, his head sagged on his shoulders, and he lay in the armchair in a sort of limp, crumpled way, as if he’d been hurled there from a passing train. He was dressed merely in a cheap leather jacket and a sleeping bag.

  Dirk stared at him.

  Who was he? What was a boy doing here watching television in a house where someone had just been decapitated? Did he know what had happened? Did Gilks know about him? Had Gilks even bothered to come up here? It was, after all, several flights of stairs for a busy policeman with a tricky suicide on his hands.

  After Dirk had been standing there for twenty seconds or so, the boy’s eyes climbed up toward him, failed utterly to acknowledge him in any way at all, and then dropped again and locked back onto the rabbit.

  Dirk was unused to making quite such a minuscule impact on anybody. He checked to be sure that he did have his huge leather coat and his absurd red hat on and that he was properly and dramatically silhouetted by the light of the doorway.

  He felt momentarily deflated and said, “Er . . .” by way of self-introduction, but it didn’t get the boy’s attention. He didn’t like this. The kid was deliberately and maliciously watching television at him. Dirk frowned. There was a kind of steamy tension building in the room, it seemed to him, a kind of difficult, hissing quality to the whole air of the place which he did not know how to respond to. It rose in intensity and then suddenly ended with an abrupt click that made Dirk start.

  The boy unwound himself like a slow, fat snake, leaned sideways over the far side of the armchair and made some elaborate unseen preparations which clearly involved, as Dirk now realized, an electric kettle. When he resumed his earlier splayed posture it was with the addition of a plastic pot clutched in his right hand, from which he forked rubbery strands of steaming gunk into his mouth.

  The rabbit brought his affairs to a conclusion and gave way to a jeering comedian who wished the viewers to buy a certain brand of lager on the basis of nothing better than his own hardly disinterested say-so.

  Dirk felt that it was time to make a slightly greater impression on the proceedings than he had so far managed to do. He stepped forward directly into the boy’s line of sight.

  “Kid,” Dirk said in a tone that he hoped would sound firm but gentle and not in any way at all patronizing or affected or gauche, “I need to know who—”

  He was distracted at that moment by the sight that met him from the new position in which he was standing. On the other side of the armchair there was a large, half-full catering-size box of Pot Noodles, a large, half-full catering-size box of Mars Bars, a half-demolished pyramid of cans of soft drink, and the end of the hosepipe. The hosepipe ended in a plastic tap nozzle, and was obviously used for refilling the kettle.

  Dirk had simply been going to ask the boy who he was, but seen from this angle the family resemblance was unmistakable. He was clearly the son of the lately decapitated Geoffrey Anstey. Perhaps this behavior was just his way of dealing with shock. Or perhaps he really didn’t know what had happened. Or perhaps he . . .

  Dirk hardly liked to think.

  In fact, he was finding it hard to think clearly while the television beside him was, on behalf of a toothpaste manufacturing company, trying to worry him deeply about some of the things which might be going on in his mouth.

  “OK,” he said, “I don’t like to disturb you at what I know must be a difficult and distressing time for you, but I need to know first of all if you actually realize that this is a difficult and distressing time for you.”

  Nothing.

  All right, thought Dirk, time for a little judicious toughness. He leaned back against the wall, stuck his hands in his pockets in an OK-if-that’s-the-way-you-want-to-play-it manner, stared moodily at the floor for a few seconds, then swung his head up and let the boy have a hard look right between the eyes.

  “I have to tell you, kid,” he said tersely, “your father’s dead.”

  This might have worked if it hadn’t been for a very popular and long-running commercial which started at that moment. It seemed to Dirk to be a particularly astounding example of the genre.

  The opening sequence showed the angel Lucifer being hurled from heaven into the pit of hell where he then lay on a burning lake until a passing demon arrived and gave him a can of a fizzy soft drink called sHades. Lucifer took it and tried it. He greedily guzzled the whole contents of the can and then turned to camera, slipped on some Porsche design sunglasses, said, “Now we’re really cookin’!” and lay back basking in the glow of the burning coals being heaped around him.

  At that point an impossibly deep and growly American voice, which sounded as if it had itself crawled from the pit of hell, or at least from a Soho basement drinking club to which it was keen to return as soon as possible to marinade itself into shape for the next voice-over, said, “sHades. The Drink from Hell . . .” and the can revolved a little to obscure the initial s, and thus spell “Hades.”

  The theology of this seemed a little confused, reflected Dirk, but what was one tiny extra droplet of misinformation in such a raging torrent?

  Lucifer then mugged at the camera again and said, “I could really fall for this stuff . . .” and just in case the viewer had been rendered completely insensate by all these goings-on, the opening shot of Lucifer being hurled from heaven was briefly replayed in order to emphasize the word “fall.”

  The boy’s attention was entirely captivated by this.

  Dirk squatted down in between the boy and the screen.

  “Listen to me,” he began.

  The boy craned his neck round to look past Dirk at the screen. He had to redistribute his limbs in the chair in order to be able to do this and continue to fork Pot Noodles into himself.

  “Listen,” insisted Dirk.

  Dirk felt he was beginning to be in serious danger of losing the upper hand in the situation. It wasn’t merely that the boy’s attention was on the television; it was that nothing else seemed to have any meaning or independent existence for him at all. Dirk was merely a featureless object in the way of the television. The boy seemed to bear him no malice, he merely wished to see past him.

  “Look, can we turn this off for a moment?” Dirk said, and he tried not to make it sound testy.

  The boy did not respond. Maybe there was a slight stiffening of the shoulders, maybe it was a shrug. Dirk turned around and was at a loss to find which button to push to turn the television off. The whole control panel seemed to be dedicated to the single purpose of keeping itself turned on—there was no single button marked “on” or “off.” Eventually Dirk simply disconnected the set from the power socket on the wall and turned back to the boy, who broke his nose.

  Dirk felt his septum crunching from the terrific impact of the boy’s forehead as they both toppled heavily backward against the set, but the noise of the bone breaking and the noise of his own cry of pain as it broke were completely obliterated by the howling screams of rage that erupted from the boy’s throat. Dirk flailed helplessly to try and protect himself from the fury of the onslaught, but the boy was on top with his elbow in Dirk’s eye, his knees pounding first on Dirk’s rib cage, then his jaw, and then on Dirk’s already traumatized nose, as he scrambled over him to reconnect the power to the television. He then settled back comfortably into the armchair and watched with a moody and unsettled eye as the picture reassembled itself.

  “You could at le
ast have waited for the news,” he said in a dull voice.

  Dirk gaped at him. He sat huddled on the floor, coddling his bleeding nose in his hands, and gaped at the monstrously disinterested creature.

  “Whhfff . . . fffmmm . . . nnggh!” he protested, and then gave up for the time being, while he probed his nose for the damage.

  There was definitely a wobbly bit that clicked nastily between his fingers, and the whole thing seemed suddenly to be a horribly unfamiliar shape. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it up to his face. Blood spread easily through it. He staggered to his feet, brushed aside nonexistent offers of help, stomped out of the room and into the tiny bathroom. There, he yanked the hosepipe angrily off the tap, found a towel, soaked it in cold water and held it to his face for a minute or two until the flow of blood gradually slowed to a trickle and stopped. He stared at himself in the mirror. His nose was quite definitely leaning at a slightly rakish angle. He tried bravely to shift it, but not bravely enough. It hurt abominably, so he contented himself with dabbing at it a little more with the wet towel and swearing quietly.

  Then he stood there for a second or two longer, leaning against the basin, breathing heavily, and practicing saying “All right!” fiercely into the mirror. It came out as “Aww-bwigh!” and lacked any real authority. When he felt sufficiently braced, or at least as braced as he was likely to feel in the immediate future, he turned and stalked grimly back into the den of the beast.

  The beast was sitting quietly absorbing news of some of the exciting and stimulating game shows that the evening held in store for the determined viewer, and did not look up as Dirk re-entered.

  Dirk walked briskly over to the window and drew the curtains sharply back, half hoping that the beast might shrivel up shrieking if exposed to daylight, but other than wrinkling up its nose, it did not react. A dark shadow flapped briefly across the window, but the angle was such that Dirk could not see what caused it.

  He turned and faced the boy-beast. The midday news bulletin was starting on television, and the boy seemed somehow a little more open, a little more receptive to the world outside the flickering colored rectangle. He glanced up at Dirk with a sour, tired look.

  “Whaddayawananyway?” he said.

  “I ted you whad I wad,” said Dirk, fiercely but hopelessly, “I wad . . . hag od a bobed . . . I gnow thad faith!”

  Dirk’s attention had switched suddenly to the television screen, where a rather more up-to-date photograph of the missing airline check-in girl was being shown.

  “Whadayadoingere?” said the boy.

  “Jjchhhhh!” said Dirk, and perched himself down on the arm of the chair, peering intently at the face on the screen. It had been taken about a year ago, before the girl had learned about corporate lip gloss. She had frizzy hair and a frumpy, put-upon look.

  “Whoareyou? Wassgoinon?” insisted the boy.

  “Loog, chuddub,” snapped Dirk, “I’b tryid to wodge dthith!”

  The newscaster said that the police professed themselves to be mystified by the fact that there was no trace of Janice Smith at the scene of the incident. They explained that there was a limit to the number of times they could search the same buildings, and appealed for anyone who might have a clue as to her whereabouts to come forward.

  “Thadth by segradry! Thadth Mith Pearth!” exclaimed Dirk in astonishment.

  The boy was not interested in Dirk’s ex-secretary, and gave up trying to attract Dirk’s attention. He wriggled out of the sleeping bag and sloped off to the bathroom.

  Dirk sat staring at the television, bewildered that he hadn’t realized before who the missing girl was. Still, there was no reason why he should have done so, he realized. Marriage had changed her name, and this was the first time they had shown a photograph that actually identified her. So far he had taken no real interest in the strange incident at the airport, but now it demanded his attention.

  The explosion was now officially designated an “Act of God.”

  But, thought Dirk, what god? And why?

  What god would be hanging around Terminal Two of Heathrow Airport trying to catch the 15:37 flight to Oslo?

  After the miserable lassitude of the last few weeks, he suddenly had a great deal that required his immediate attention. He frowned in deep thought for a few moments, and hardly noticed when the beast-boy snuck back in and snuggled back into his sleeping bag just in time for the advertisements to start. The first one showed how a perfectly ordinary stock cube could form the natural focus of a normal, happy family life.

  Dirk leaped to his feet, but even as he was about to start questioning the boy again his heart sank as he looked at him. The beast was far away, sunk back in his dark, flickering lair, and Dirk did not feel inclined to disturb him again at the moment.

  He contented himself with barking at the unresponding child that he would be back, and bustled heavily down the stairs, his big leather coat flapping madly behind him.

  In the hallway he encountered the loathed Gilks once more.

  “What happened to you?” said the policeman sharply, catching sight of Dirk’s bruised and bulging nose.

  “Ondly whad you dold me,” said Dirk, innocently. “I bead bythelf ub.”

  Gilks demanded to know what he had been doing, and Dirk generously explained that there was a witness upstairs with some interesting information to impart. He suggested that Gilks go and have a word with him, but that it would be best if he turned off the television first.

  Gilks nodded curtly. He started to go up the stairs, but Dirk stopped him.

  “Doedth eddydthig dthrike you adth dthraydge aboud dthidth houdth?” he said.

  “What did you say?” said Gilks in irritation.

  “Subbthig dthraydge,” said Dirk.

  “Something what?”

  “Dthraydge!” insisted Dirk.

  “Strange?”

  “Dthadth right, dthraydge.”

  Gilks shrugged. “Like what?” he said.

  “Id dtheemdth to be cobbleedly dthouledth.”

  “Completely what?”

  “Dthouledth!” He tried again. “Thoul-leth! I dthigg dthadth dverry idderedthigg!”

  With that he doffed his hat politely, and swept on out of the house and up the street, where an eagle swooped out of the sky at him and came within a whisker of causing him to fall under a 73 bus on its way south.

  For the next twenty minutes, hideous yells and screams emanated from the top floor of the house in Lupton Road, and caused much tension among the neighbors. The ambulance took away the upper and lower remains of Mr. Anstey and also a policeman with a bleeding face. For a short while after this, there was quiet.

  Then another police car drew up outside the house. A lot of “Bob’s here” type of remarks floated from the house, as an extremely large and burly policeman heaved himself out of the car and bustled up the steps. A few minutes and a great deal of screaming and yelling later he reemerged also clutching his face, and drove off in deep dudgeon, squealing his tires in a violent and unnecessary manner.

  Twenty minutes later a van arrived from which emerged another policeman carrying a tiny pocket television set. He entered the house, and reemerged a short while later leading a docile thirteen-year-old boy, who was content with his new toy.

  Once all policemen had departed, save for the single squad car which remained parked outside to keep watch on the house, a large, hairy, green-eyed figure emerged from its hiding place behind one of the molecules in the large basement room.

  It propped its scythe against one of the hi-fi speakers, dipped a long, gnarled finger in the almost congealed pool of blood that had collected on the deck of the turntable, smeared the finger across the bottom of a sheet of thick, yellowing paper, and then disappeared off into a dark and hidden otherworld whistling a strange and vicious tune and returning only briefly to collect its scythe.

  7

  A LITTLE EARLIER in the morning, at a comfortable distance from all these events, set at a
comfortable distance from a well-proportioned window through which cool midmorning light was streaming, lay an elderly one-eyed man in a white bed. A newspaper sat like a half-collapsed tent on the floor, where it had been hurled two minutes before, at shortly after ten o’clock by the clock on the bedside table.

  The room was not large, but was furnished in excessively bland good taste, as if it were a room in an expensive private hospital or clinic, which is exactly what it was—the Woodshead Hospital, set in its own small but well-kempt grounds on the outskirts of a small but well-kempt village in the Cotswolds.

  The man was awake but not glad to be.

  His skin was very delicately old, like finely stretched translucent parchment, delicately freckled. His exquisitely frail hands lay slightly curled on the pure white linen sheets and quivered very faintly.

  His name was variously given as Mr. Odwin, or Wodin, or Odin. He was—is—a god, and furthermore he was that least good of all gods to be alongside, a cross god. His one eye glinted.

  He was cross because of what he had been reading in the newspapers, which was that another god had been cutting loose and making a nuisance of himself. It didn’t say that in the papers, of course. It didn’t say, “God cuts loose, makes nuisance of himself in airport,” it merely described the resulting devastation and was at a loss to draw any meaningful conclusions from it.

  The story had been deeply unsatisfactory in all sorts of ways, on account of its perplexing inconclusiveness, its going-nowhereness and the irritating (from the newspapers’ point of view) lack of any good solid carnage. There was of course a mystery attached to the lack of carnage, but a newspaper preferred a good whack of carnage to a mere mystery any day of the week.