Fawkes got a hand against Gordon’s face. Gordon squeezed his eyes shut. Fawkes’s palm was crushing Gordon’s lips painfully. Gordon stuck out his tongue and Fawkes snapped his hand away, yelling in disgust. Gordon tried to press his advantage, but the Creature of the Black Lagoon suit was making it difficult. Fawkes stumbled and flailed, and his elbow whacked against Gordon’s chin. Gordon cried out and dropped to his knees, cradling his face. Fawkes stood over him, too out of breath to say anything. Ignoring the pain in his chin, Gordon lunged at Fawkes’s leg, wrapping his hands round the left knee.

Gordon held on as Fawkes cursed and staggered back. He weathered the storm of slaps that fell upon his head. One of them clipped his ear – it really hurt – but he didn’t let go. Fawkes turned, tried to pull his leg free. Gordon’s grip slipped a little, but his fingers tightened again like a vice round Fawkes’s ankle. He was dragged a few centimetres across the floor every time Fawkes took a step.

“Let go of me!” Fawkes screeched.

“No,” Gordon gasped.

Fawkes overbalanced and fell and, like a ninja, except slower and with less co-ordination, Gordon crawled on top of him. He was sweating badly now. The suit was way too hot to fight in. Fawkes struggled, tried to turn over on to his back to push him off, but Gordon let his body go limp, and he lay on top of him.

Fawkes’s breath came in ragged wheezes. “You may…” wheeze, wheeze, “think you’ve…” wheeze, “won, but…” wheeze, “you’ll never,” really long wheeze, “escape.”

Gordon focused all his attention on staying as heavy as possible, and gasped. “Your time is…” gasp, “over, you…” gasp, “you utter…” gasp, “utter nutball.”

“Ar…” wheeze, “… gento will…” wheeze, “tear your soul into…” wheeze, “tiny little bits.”

“Your friend is…” gasped Gordon, “already in handcuffs…” gasp, “and your reign of…” gasp, “terror is at an…” gasp, “end.”

Fawkes shook his head fiercely. Gordon nodded insistently. They lay there like that for some time.

When Skulduggery Pleasant and Susan DeWick found them eight minutes later, Gordon was sitting astride Fawkes like an oddly dressed cowboy riding an exhausted and flattened-out horse.

The Cleavers arrived to take Argento into custody, and a pair of Sensitives talked to the main body of guests, convincing them they’d had a nice, if slightly boring, night, and that nothing unusual had happened.

The writers who knew the intricate details of Fawkes’s deal could not be dealt with in the same manner, so they were instead threatened with terrible and gruesome deaths if they spoke a word of this to anyone. According to Skulduggery, threats worked just as well as psychics.