“Because you are a jumped-up, talentless un-charismatic little nobody who, driven by ruthless ambition, has managed to claw his way to the top of the tree and now occupies the position of absolute control, literally holding our very lives in the palm of his grubby unwashed hand, sir.”

“Correct once again. And how did I achieve this?”

“Popular opinion would sway towards the belief that you sold your soul to Satan, sir.”

“And popular opinion would, upon this rare occasion, be right on target there, wouldn’t it?”

“It certainly would, sir, yes.”

“And so, bearing all this in mind, what exactly do you think I would be up to now?”

“You would be furthering the hideously evil schemes of your unspeakable master, sir.”

“Which are?”

“Too numerous to mention, sir.”

“Yes, well, I do try to keep myself busy. But within the parameters of the present discussion, would you care to clarify my position?”

“You represent, indeed embody, the nexus of power behind the millennial celebrations. It is your job to see that these do not take place on the correct day of the correct year, as he of the cloven hoof would be dead miffed to have peace and love breaking out all over the world.”

“Wouldn’t he just! Go on.”

“And so you, and others before you, have striven to see that the Brentford Scrolls are not recovered and the Days of God are not used to ensure that…”

“Yes, well, that’s pretty much all of it. But somebody has fouled up, haven’t they?”

“I think we’re all agreed on that,” said the form-fetcher, or it might have been the other one, it doesn’t really matter.

“So,” said Fred. “What are you going to do about it?”

“He means you,” said the form-fetcher.

“He doesn’t,” said the other one. “It’s you he means.”

“Oh well. If it’s me,” said the form-fetcher, “I think I’ll just panic and run around like a headless chicken, if that’s all right by you.”

“It’s fine by me,” said Fred. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?”

“You.”

“Could I just run about like that too?”

Fred shook his head.

“Then I suppose that I must put certain wheels into motion.”

“I like the sound of that. Would you care to be a little more specific?”

“Not really.”

“Then I shall tell you both exactly what you are going to do.” Fred took up a fire-iron from the fender and struck the chap who was running around like a headless chicken a blistering blow to the skull. “Firstly I want Brentford sealed off from the outside world. I do not want the media getting in and I do not want the scrolls to get out. What I do want is a professional team in position, to buy off whoever can be bought off and dispose of anyone who can’t. Who has the scrolls now?”

“Professor Slocombe, sir.”

Fred drew a finger across his throat. “He gets this,” he said. “As for the rest of them, use your discretion.”

“I don’t have any discretion,” said the fellow with the dented head. “In fact, I’m a God-damn crazy ape-shit one-man killing machine when I get going.”

“Fine. I’ll put you in charge of the disposing side of it, then.”

“Thanks a lot, sir.”

“Call me Fred.”

“Cheers, Fred.”

“But listen now and hear me well. I want this thing done quickly. Quickly and quietly and efficiently.” Fred stood with his back to the fireplace and rose upon his down-at-heels. And Fred began to tremble. A terrified look appeared on his face and it stayed. A tortured look it was, as of one tormented from within. Muscles twitched and spasmed. Eyes bulged from their sockets. Sweat broke from the pores. “I want those scrolls,” cried Fred in a voice no longer his. “I want them here to rip them and to burn.” The voice was a growl, an atavistic growl, a real bowel-loosening bed-wetter of an atavistic growl. And the lips of Fred turned blue and the tongue of him grew black. And that tongue darted from the mouth and curled all around and about. “Bring the scrolls to me, and bring me more. Bring me the heads of Pooley and Omally.”

The anonymous two were prostrate now, their faces pressed against the cold marble floor. And the floor trembled and shook to the sound of that hideous voice.

That terrible voice.

That eldritch voice.

That voice of the Evil One himself.

“This world is mine!” The voice boomed and echoed. “Mine for another thousand years and I will not be denied it. Nothing and no one will stand in my way. Nothing and no one, do you understand?”

“Oh, we do. We do.” And cowering and trembling, the minions of Fred crawled to the mighty door, clawed it open, pushed on through, flung it shut and ran.

Ran and ran along that Corridor of Power. And the voice came after them, rushing like a great and fiery wind. Ripping at the curtains and tearing at the gilt-framed canvases.

And the two men ran before it.

Ran and ran.

“Nothing and no one.” Howl and shriek and scream.

And howl and shriek and scream.

In another chamber of some power, in Brentford, something small and pink and soft and shiny howled and shrieked and screamed.

And Dr Steven Malone wrapped it in a towel and held it to his chest. “Just two alive,” said he, “but two will do nicely for my purposes. And nothing and no one will stand in my way.” And Dr Steven laughed aloud.

And howl and shriek and scream.

Howl and shriek and scream.

“Will you please turn off that appalling racket?” asked Professor Slocombe.

Brentford’s mayor, the worshipful Puerto Rican Don Juan Lopez Carlos de Casteneda, switched off his ghetto-blaster. “That is not a racket,” he said. “That is my favourite band, the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of Death.”

“And highly derivative they are too,” said the Professor. “I detect the influence of both Slayer and Deicide.”

“Huh,” said the mayor, chewing on a small cheroot.

They sat at the big table in the council chamber of Brentford Town Hall. Curtains of sunlight wavered from upper windows. Rich oak panelling shone with a mellow patina, smoke hung in the air.

John and Jim were there, with several members of the council, hastily gathered, the secretary of the late Mr Compton-Cummings (who knows why?) and Scoop Molloy with his notebook.

“This is all so much shite,” said the mayor, cuffing his copy of the Brentford Mercury. “I am woken from the arms of my lover by a march-past. Peons in the streets are hanging balloons from the lamp posts. Someone has passed word around that I have declared today a public holiday.”

John Omally, up since dawn and busy with it, rolled himself a cigarette.

“Yesterday riots and today we have dancing in the streets.” The mayor threw up his hands and made excitable gesturings. “It is all too much.”

“My dear Don Juan,” said Professor Slocombe, “I will agree that events have proceeded with some alacrity. More alacrity, in fact, than I might have wished for.” He waggled the fingers of his gloved hand beneath the table and John Omally’s roll-up fell to pieces. “But we are gathered here to discuss what may be done and how it may be done.”

“Such as this?” The mayor snatched up a piece of foolscap and took to the cuffing of it. “Proposal to construct the Hanging Gardens of Brentford on the site of the allotments, to be called the John Omally Millennial Tower.”

Professor Slocombe curled his lip. John grinned painfully.

“Beauty Pageants and Beer Festivals, a rock concert in the football ground, who the hell are Devo anyway?”

“Please remain calm.” Professor Slocombe raised a calming hand.

“And I tell you this.” The mayor screwed up the foolscap and flung it aside. “These scrolls that make all this possible. That make these two gringos here,” he shook a fist at John and Jim, “think that they can run all this. These scrolls were dug up on council property. I should take these scrolls.”