“My device,” Norman continued, “will de-entropize my sweeties. Reconstitute them. Break them down to their atomic substructure then rebuild from the nucleus up. I hope to have it on-line by the end of the week. Then I shall produce sweeties the way sweeties used to taste, because they will be those very sweeties.”

John Omally grinned. “Perfect,” he said. “Ideal for the millennium. Sweeties the way sweeties used to be.”

“Any chance of doing it with beer?” Jim asked.

“I heard that,” said Neville.

“No offence meant,” said Jim.

“Once the process has been perfected, then I suppose I could do it with anything.” Norman sipped further ale. “Beer, wines, spirits.”

John Omally took out a little notebook and wrote the words The John Omally Millennial Brewery at the top of an empty page.

Scoop Molloy, cub reporter for the Brentford Mercury, now entered the bar. His head was bandaged and his left arm in a sling. John and Jim turned away. As no mention had been made so far of the riots and mayhem, especially by Old Pete, who now had a nice library bench in his back garden, low profiles were the order of the day.

Scoop limped up to the bar and ordered a half of shandy.

Neville, who abhorred such abominations, and cared not for members of the Press, topped it up from the drip tray. Scoop downed it in one. “Same again,” he said.

“Been in an accident, Scoop?” asked Old Pete, trying to keep a straight face.

“A spot of bother, yes.”

“You do have an exciting time of it. Nothing ever happens to folk like us.”

“There was a riot,” said Scoop. “Stone-throwing mobs, baton charges, special forces helicopters.”

“Really?” Old Pete stroked his grizzled chin. “My pension day. I must have missed it.”

“And I missed it too.”

“Then what happened to you?”

“Bloody mad doctor.” Scoop swallowed further drippings as Neville looked on appreciatively. “I got word that something weird had happened at the Cottage Hospital the night before last. And I go around to see the duty physician, Dr Steven Malone. And I say, ‘Hello, my name is Scoop Molloy from the Brentford Mercury.’ And he puts me in an armlock and throws me down his front steps.”

“Occupational hazard,” said Old Pete.

“Yeah, well, I accept that. But I missed the bloody riots and now I don’t have a story for tomorrow’s paper.”

John Omally turned.

And so did Jim.

“Oh yes you do,” they said.

Now we’ve all heard about the Corridors of Power. But their exact location is not altogether certain. Are they in Westminster, or in Whitehall? Or are they perhaps underground corridors, where the real rulers of our country, those beloved of conspiracy theorists, edge and sidle in a low light? And why Corridors of Power anyway? What goes on in corridors, for pity’s sake? Don’t these people, whoever they are, who do whatever they do in these corridors, have rooms to do whatever it is in? Chambers of Power, that’s what they should have.

But maybe they do. And all this talk of corridors is just to throw us off the scent.

Fascinating, isn’t it?

No?

Well check this out.

This corridor was big and broad and high of ceiling. One wall was dressed with enormous canvases, framed in heavy gilt. Biblical scenes most seemed to be. All very Judgement Day. John Martin’s Fallen Angels Entering Pandemonium was there, which was odd, because it should have been in the Tate. And Goya’s terrifying Saturno, which should have been in the Prado, Madrid. And La Chute des Anges by Frans Floris definitely should have been in the Koninklijk Museum, Antwerp. And so on and so forth. Evidently whoever had clothed the walls of this particular corridor with the robes of fine art had ACCESS. And they also had sense enough to keep the curtains drawn on all the windows in the wall opposite. The light was low in this corridor. And it was gentle and the temperature was regulated. This had to be a Corridor of Power!

And so it was.

Two figures appeared through a doorway at the end of this corridor. They were a good way off. A very long corridor was this. The two figures marched forward. In step. Determined. They wore identical grey suits and, given the preponderance of art here, it might have come as no surprise to find they were none other than Gilbert and George.

But they were not. They were just two anonymous-looking blighters you wouldn’t have thought to look at twice.

They stopped before a mighty door. Straightened clothes that didn’t need straightening. Then one or other of them knocked.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, went this knocking as had knockings previous. Although these KNOCKS really echoed. K-N-O-C-K they went.

“Come,” called a voice from within.

And those without pushed upon the mighty door and entered.

The room within revealed itself to be nothing less than a Chamber of Power. There could be no mistake. The furniture, the fixtures, the fittings. The Faberge, the famille, the Fantin-Latours. The ferns, the fiddle-backs, the finery. This was one effing Chamber of Power.

And furthermore.

With his feet up on the fender and a flat cap on his head sat a fleabag of a fellow by the name of Fred.

Fred was filing his filthy fingernails with a piece of flattened flint.

“Friends,” said Fred.

“Fred,” said the friends, fondling their forelocks.

“Forget the forelock-fondling,” said Fred. “Fetch over that form and fill me in the facts.”

One of the anonymous duo fetched over the form and both of them sat down upon it (which must have meant that it was a bench, rather than a piece of paper).

“There’s been a flipping foul-up,” said the form-fetcher.

“Foul-up?” said Fred.

“Foul-up,” said the fellow who hadn’t fetched the form.

“Foul-up?” said Fred.

“Foul-up,” said the first fellow. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”

“Hm,” said Fred. “What are you feckless furtlers on about?”

The form-fetcher unfolded a newspaper and displayed its front page.

BRENTFORD TO HOST MILLENNIAL CELEBRATIONS TWO YEARS EARLY

and it’s official

“Fuck me!” said Fred, and fell off the fender.

The duo hastened to his aid.

“Get off me. Just give me that frigging newspaper.” Fred snatched away the copy of the Brentford Mercury and began to pace up and down, reading as he paced. Words all beginning with the letter F spilled from his mouth but, what with the law of diminishing returns and everything, they will remain unrecorded.

“No!” cried Fred. “No! No! No!”

“I’m afraid it’s yes,” said one or other of his visitors.

“If I say it’s no, then I bloody well mean it.” Fred tore the newspaper to shreds and flung the pieces all about. “We’ve worked too long and hard on this,” Fred shouted. “How could it happen? Tell me how?”

“One of Compton-Cummings’s books escaped the pulping. It fell into the hands of this Pooley chap and somehow he and another chap called Omally located the Brentford Scrolls.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

“Sorry, Fred.”

“Don’t you Fred me, you bastard. I want this sorted and I want it sorted now. Don’t you realize the gravity of this?”

“Well, I do, sir, yes. But it might be helpful if you were just to run through it all one more time.”

“To clear up any confusion that might exist, sir.”

“Which one of you said that?”

“I did, sir.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t him?”

“No, but I was thinking it, sir.”

“Right,” said Fred. “One more time and try to pay attention. First question. Where are we now, at this precise moment?”

“In the Chamber of Ultimate Power, sir.”

“Correct, not just any old Chamber of Power, you will notice. But the Chamber of Ultimate Power. And who am I?”

“You are our worst nightmare, sir.”

“Correct again. And why am I this?”