“Stop that manic laughing, Constable Joe-Bob,” said the face. “And run those two bastards off the road.”

“I certainly will, sarge,” and Constable Joe-Bob put his foot down.

“Faster,” cried Pooley. “They’re gaining.”

“Of course they’re gaining, they’re in a car.”

“Then get off the road.”

“Be quiet, Jim. I’m trying to think.”

“At a time like this?”

“I’m trying to think of an escape route, you buffoon.”

“Sorry.”

John took a sudden left that nearly dislodged Pooley and headed down towards the canal. To the sounds of further tyre-screeching, the police car did likewise.

“This is a dead end,” wailed Jim. “We’re doomed.”

“Hold on tight, Jim.” Omally tugged on the brakes and Marchant slewed to a standstill.

“What now, John?”

“Put your hands up, Jim.”

“What?”

The headlights hit them and the police car swept forward.

“Put your hands up, Jim.”

“Are you turning me in?”

“Just do it.”

Onward came the police car, gaining speed.

Jim stuck up his hands. “They’re not going to stop.”

“I hope not.”

“What?”

Roar of engine, onward-rushing car.

Cut to Pooley’s frightened battered face. Cut to manic policeman behind wheel. Cut to long shot of car rushing forward. Cut to John’s face, Jim’s face, policemen’s faces. Bonnet of car, spinning wheels – then “Jump!” Omally pushed Jim to one side and flung himself to the other.

Slow-motion shots now, the two men rolling to either side, the car bumper smashing into Marchant. Then a shot from below of the car passing slowly overhead, pushing the bike before it. And going down and down and down

Into the canal.

Great plumes of spray, and spouts and splashes. Then fade to black.

“Sandra’s crotch,” said Jim.

“You’re not wrong there,” said John.

Omally climbed slowly to his feet, then helped Jim to his. Pooley’s knees offered little support and the lad sank down onto his bum. “What do we do now, John?”

“Make our getaway, that’s what.”

“But they’ll drown. They might be rogue policemen but we can’t let them drown.”

“What do you take me for, Jim? The water’s only two feet deep.”

“But they might be seriously injured.”

“Then we’ll phone for an ambulance.”

Sounds of coughing and spluttering and cursing now issued from the darkness below.

“Let’s go,” said Jim.

John gazed into the black. “Poor Marchant,” he said.

From the canal bridge to the Butts Estate is a pleasant five-minute stroll. But it’s a long twenty minutes when you’re limping. Omally helped his chum along the broad oak-bordered drive towards the Professor’s house. From tree to tree the two men lurched, keeping to the shadows. They passed the door of Dr Steven Malone, but as yet they did not know it.

Ahead, lit by the golden haze of gaslight – for so remain the street lamps of the Butts – there rose the house of the Professor. A glorious mellow Georgian job, the Slocombe clan had owned it since it was built. High casement windows, chequered brick, a tribute to the mason’s craft.

They halted at the garden gate, and waited a moment. Neither man knew why, but it was something they always did before they went inside. Then, taking up a breath apiece, they entered.

And stepped as through a veil that separated one world from another.

The moonlit garden was a thing of rare beauty. The heady fragrances of night-blooming orchids burdened the air. Chrysanthemums, like brazen hussies, swayed voluptuously, while snowdrops peeped and gossiped. Ancient roses showed their faces, craning for attention. Everywhere was colour, everywhere was life.

Ahead light showed through the great French windows and the fragile form of the Professor could be seen from behind, bent low over some ancient book upon his desk.

“Come on, Jim,” said John, hoisting his sagging companion. “We’re here now and we’re safe.”

As John reached out a hand, the French windows opened of their own accord and the Professor swung round in his chair. “Welcome, my friends,” said he.

John waggled the fingers of his free hand. Jim managed a lopsided smile.

The Professor’s face took on a look of concern. Blue twinkling eyes narrowed, the nostrils of the slender nose flared, the merry mouth turned down at the corners. “Set him into the chair beside the fire, John,” said the ancient. “I will ring for assistance.”

His mottled hand took up a small brass Burmese temple bell and jingled it. John helped Jim onto the chair and then himself onto a Persian pouffe.

Firelight danced in the grate. The Professor’s study, with its tall shelves crammed with leathern tomes, its lifeless creatures under high glass domes, its noble furniture and priceless rugs, was silent and was safe.

Presently the Professor’s aged retainer, Gammon, appeared, clad in antique livery and bearing a silver tray. On this reposed a ship’s decanter containing brandy, three glasses and a small medicine chest.

“Please see to our wounded friend, Gammon,” said the Professor.

“Certainly, sir,” the other replied.

Jim squawked and moaned as Gammon tested limbs, felt ribs, cleaned wounds and applied Band Aid dressings. “Superficial, sir,” said Gammon as he left the room.

“What does he know?” grumbled Jim.

“A very great deal,” said the Professor, pouring brandy.

“Thanks very much,” said John, accepting his.

“And thank you too,” said Jim. “And say thank you to Gammon for me. I really appreciate this.”

The Professor settled himself back behind his desk and viewed his visitors through his brandy glass. “I feel you have a tale to tell,” said he.

“And then some,” said John.

“A bit of a bar fight, nothing more,” said Jim.

John looked aghast.

“Difference of opinion,” said Pooley. “You should see the other bloke.”

Professor Slocombe shook his head, his mane of silky hair white as an albino bloater. “Come, come, Jim,” he said. “That is not what your aura says.”

“My aura is probably drunk. I certainly wish I was.”

“Jim got beaten up by the Garda,” said John. “And all on account of a book.”

“A book?”

“Brentford: A Study of its People and History.”

“By Mr Compton-Cummings.”

“You know of it?”

“Indeed, I did a small amount of research for it. And I had him suppress certain passages.”

“Not nearly enough,” said Jim, holding out his empty glass.

“You mean he left in that bit about you and the great wind from the East? I told him to delete it.”

“Oh,” said Jim, as the old man gave him a refill. “Well, thank you very much.”

“It was another passage entirely,” said John. “One about…” He looked furtively around before whispering words into the Professor’s ear.

“Idrophrodisia?”

“You don’t want to know what it means.”

“I know exactly what it means.”

“I don’t,” said Jim.

“The publishers called in all the copies of the book and pulped them,” said John. “Except Jim got one in the post. The police were very anxious to get it back.”

“Exactly how anxious?” the Professor asked.

“They were prepared to kill us,” said John.

“They killed John’s bike,” said Jim.

“Somewhat over-zealous. But I suppose, considering the nature of the allegations…”

“There’re photos as well.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. But you got off lightly.” The Professor pointed towards John’s shiner.

Omally fingered his eye. “That was Jim. We had a slight contretemps over a theological matter.”

“I see.”

“Actually,” said John, “while I’m here, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Ask away.” Professor Slocombe refilled John’s glass, then his own.

“Mine too,” said Jim, as his was somehow empty again.

“The Brentford Scrolls,” said John. Jim groaned.