“Curiously that sounds just like a Vespa.”

“Raaaaaaaa!” went John.

“Not bad, but can you do it in A minor?”

“A minor,” said John. “That takes me back.”

“It takes me back also, but why does it take you back?”

“A minor. Blues harmonica. I had a Hohner. It was in A minor. The blues are always in A minor.”

“Perhaps that’s significant. Go on then, do it in A minor.”

Omally did it in A minor.

A lady in a straw hat walked by. “Shouldn’t be allowed,” she said.

John continued in A minor as Pooley settled back against the tree and readied for the off. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes. And soon the dreaming mind of Jim went once more on its walkabout.

Lottery balls went pop, pop, pop and the Blue Peter bloke-who-wasn’t poured out the same old spiel. Jim saw himself in the audience again with his left foot bandaged up. Then there it was again, the breakfast-then-the-bookies-the-bookies-then-the-pub-the-pub-then-home-for-tea

“Back,” commanded Jim. “Go back.”

“Mmmmmm,” went John Omally.

Back went Jim. To his teenage years, the Blue Triangle Club and Sandra of the rhyming slang. Then back to the childhood holidays and school and the headmaster’s room.

“Go back.”

To nursery school, the cradle, the maternity ward, then

WHACK!

And it wasn’t the sound of a door on a wall. It was a WHACK of a different persuasion.

“I’m going,” whispered Jim. “I’m off and going now.”

“Then go with God, my friend,” said John, for this seemed the right thing to say.

And so Jim drifted back.

Streets of houses rose up before him and fell away behind, women in mop caps with babies on their hips, gentlemen with high wing collars, splendid in their sideburns. Hansom cabs and broughams, horses and pony traps, then dandies in coloured waistcoats, fops and dollymops, ladies with pompadours, hoop skirts and silken drawers. Back.

Jim felt heat upon his face. Where was he now? It was hot here. In the distance rude dwellings. Jim thought himself closer. Phew! What a stink! So that’s why they were called rude. But who’s this?

Jim saw him marching over a hill, his robes blowing about him. Brown robes, knotted at the waist, bare legs and sandals. He was clutching something to his chest, something wrapped in a velvet cloth.

The monk marched ever closer.

Jim could see his face now. It was the face of an Old Testament prophet. Noble-browed, wild of eye, with a great beak of a nose, a chin thrust forward.

And on he marched. Right past.

“Hold on,” cried Jim. “I want a word with you.”

But the monk didn’t turn.

He didn’t see Jim.

But who was this?

A hooded rider was coming out of the East, as though borne on the wind. He rode towards the monk, reigned in his horse and dismounted.

“Ho there, holy father,” he cried.

“Out of my way, villain.”

Rather harsh words for a monk, thought Jim, but he stared in awe at the rider. For the rider had now pulled back his hood and his face could clearly be seen.

“I go with God,” declared the monk. “Do not stand in my way.”

“But I am God’s messenger, or rather the messenger of his messenger.” The rider smiled wickedly. “I have something to deliver.”

“I want nothing from you, odorous one. I smell the breath of Satan on you. The sulphur of the pit.”

“Your words are unappealing, monk. What have you in your bundle?”

“I have the Days of God. And God will not be denied them.”

“God may not be denied his days. But I deny you yours.”

“Stand aside, Antichrist.”

“Your days are numbered, monk. Your end is now.”

“Stand aside.”

“Recommend yourself to your maker.”

And then a blade flashed in the sunlight and the searing wind and drove in again and again.

And then Jim saw more. Much more. Horror piling on horror.

And then he awoke with a scream.

Omally was shaking him. “Are you all right, Jim? You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m OK. I’m OK.”

“You’ve a terrible sweat on you.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Did you see him? The monk, did you see him?”

“I saw him all right. I saw everything. It was terrible, John. Terrible.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It was the stuff about me in Compton-Cummings’s book. ‘Surely this is the breath of Pooley.’ An assassin came out of the East with the wind and the assassin was me.”

“You?”

“One of my ancestors. One of my ancestors murdered the monk.”

“Holy Mary!”

“He was sent by the Pope. You see, the Pope couldn’t rescind the papal bull. Those things are supposed to be inspired by God. And God isn’t noted for changing his mind. So the Pope called in an assassin to murder the monk and destroy the Brentford Scrolls.”

“And this assassin was one of your blokes?”

“He looked just like me.”

“And did he destroy the scrolls?”

“No. He tried to blackmail the Pope. Demand piles of gold for the scrolls.”

“So what did the Pope do?”

“He sent an assassin to assassinate the assassin.”

“Bastard.”

“Too right. That assassin was a Mr Scan Omally.”

“God’s teeth and trousers.”

“So then the assassin of the assassin tries it on with the Pope and the Pope gets another assassin to assassinate him. And then this assassin…”

“Does this go on for very long?”

“For years.”

“So who fetched up with the scrolls in the end?”

“One of my blokes.”

“And did he destroy them?”

“No, he buried them.”

“Where, Jim? Did you see where?”

“I saw exactly where.”

“So do you know where they are now?”

“I know exactly where they are now.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s so weird,” said Pooley. “I mean, the thing must have been locked into my genes. Part of some ancestral memory, perhaps. Passed down from father to son from generation to generation.”

“Go on.”

“I must have known all along. It’s the place I always go to, you see. My kind of spiritual haven. I’m drawn to it whenever I want to be at peace and think. I never knew why, but something inside always told me to go there.”

“So where is it, Jim?”

“The bench outside the library. The scrolls are buried in a casket underneath.”

“Would you look at that?” said John Omally. “Did you ever in your life see a bench more firmly cemented into the ground than this lad?”

Jim Pooley shook his head. “But I suppose if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be here for long.”

“True enough. But how are we going to get it up?”

Jim stroked his chin. “All right,” said he, “considering that we have got this far by doing it our way, I suggest we apply our unique talents and effect a speedy and successful conclusion.”

“Well said,” said John. “Go on then.”

“Go on what?”

“Apply your unique talents.”

“Right.” Jim looked the bench up and down and around and about, scuffed his heels upon its mighty concrete base and then stood back with his hands upon his hips and his head cocked on one side. “We will just have to blow the bugger up,” said he.

“Blow the bugger up?” Omally flinched.

“Easiest solution. No messing about.”

Omally sighed. “Jim,” he said. “Exactly how deep in the ground are the scrolls?”

“I give up,” said Jim. “Exactly how deep?”

“I have absolutely no idea. But we can’t blow up the bench in case we blow up the scrolls also.”

“Controlled blast. You know all about explosions, John.”

“Not so loud.” John put sshing fingers to his mouth. “It’s a bad idea. And don’t you think that the sound of an explosion might just attract the attention of passers-by?”

“We could do it at night, when everyone’s asleep.”

John let free a second sigh. “Do you have any more inspired ideas of a unique nature?”

“Yes,” said Jim. “I do. We could tunnel under.”