“And?” said Russell. “And what?” said Morgan.

“And what happened next?”

“Nothing happened next. That’s the end of the story.”

“Neville opened the ark of the covenant, which Norman had dug up on his allotment and The Flying Swan atomized and got sucked into the sky?”

“That’s it.”

“And you were actually there when this happened?”

“Of course I wasn’t actually there. If I’d been actually there, I wouldn’t be here now to tell you about it, would I?”

“I suppose not. But if you weren’t actually there, how can you be sure it really happened?”

“You don’t have to actually be somewhere to know something happened, Russell. I wasn’t actually there when they built Stonehenge. But I know it happened, because Stonehenge is there to prove it.”

“But surely The Flying Swan is not there to prove it.”

“Well, that proves it then, doesn’t it?”

Russell let this percolate a moment or two. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course I’m sure. I can’t see what more conclusive proof you could need. If The Flying Swan was still there, then it couldn’t have happened. It isn’t, so it must have. QED.”

“QED?”

“It’s Latin, it means ‘so there, you bastard’.”

“Incredible,” said Russell. “And when exactly did this happen?”

“A couple of years back.”

“A couple of years back? Then you must have seen The Flying Swan. Did you ever meet Pooley or Omally?”

“Longer ago then. They used old money. Perhaps it was twenty years ago. I’m not sure.”

“I thought you were sure. You said a moment ago you were sure.”

“Sure it happened. I’m not altogether sure of the exact date. But then I’m not altogether sure of the exact date they built Stonehenge. But it’s there and The Flying Swan isn’t and that proves it.”

Russell shrugged. “I suppose it does,” he said. “Although –”

“Although, what?”

“Although, well, I mean I’m not certain I believe all of it. I could believe some of it. Like Neville and Pooley and Omally. But, well, the ark of the covenant, surely that’s just ripped off from the Indiana Jones movie.”

“I think you’ll find it’s ripped off from the Old Testament.”

“Yes, well, I know that, of course.”

“But if you are prepared to believe in Pooley and Omally, you must be prepared to believe in all those adventures they had.”

“Well,” said Russell. “They could just be tall stories, you know. Like urban myths.”

“Urban myths?”

“As in ‘almost true’. Anyone could make the mistake of believing them.”

Morgan took to much head-shaking. “Pooley and Omally are not urban myths. The Flying Swan was not an urban myth. An author called Rankin wrote all about them.”

“Perhaps he was just making it up,” Russell suggested. “To entertain people.”

“Making it up? What, make up a story about The Flying Swan and all its patrons being atomized and sucked into the sky?”

“It’s just possible,” said Russell. “Don’t you think it just possible that this Mr Rankin might have made some of it up? He could have based his characters on real people and set his stories in a real place. But then invented The Flying Swan and all the fantastic stuff. Let’s face it Morgan, no offence meant, but nothing ever happens in Brentford. Nothing ever has happened and nothing ever will happen.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Of course things happen, Russell. They happen all the time. It’s just that they never happen to you.”

“You’re right there,” said Russell.

“And do you know why?” Morgan did not wait for a reply. “It’s because you’re too nice, Russell. You’re too polite to the customers. You work too hard. You’re too damn honest and you never go out and get pissed. You never take any risks. How could anything ever happen to someone like you?”

“I could get run over,” said Russell. “Anyone can get run over.”

“Not you, you always look both ways.”

“Well, I don’t want to get run over.”

“Trust me,” said Morgan. “Perhaps things don’t happen the way they used to happen. But all the things I told you happened, happened. They just did. That’s all.”

Russell sighed. “Incredible,” he said. And rather nicely he said it.

The voice of Frank, the manager, entered the tea room through the Tannoy speaker. It said, “Get back to work, Morgan, and stop winding Russell up.”

Morgan put the cups in the sink. He didn’t wash them up, because it wasn’t his turn. It was Bobby Boy’s turn. But Bobby Boy was off sick. Bobby Boy had a stomach bug caused by drinking from a cup that hadn’t been washed up properly. It had been Morgan’s turn on that occasion, but Morgan had been off sick. Since then things had got a little complicated and now there were an awful lot of cups in that sink. Russell had to bring a fresh one from home every morning. His mother was beginning to pine for the lack of cups. But it wasn’t Russell’s turn to wash up, so there wasn’t much he could do about it. Although he really wanted to.

Morgan and Russell emerged from the darkness of the tea room into the light of description. Russell was undoubtedly the taller of the two, due to Morgan’s lack of height. But for what Russell gained in the vertical plane he lost in the horizontal. Morgan was by far the fatter. And the balder. Where Russell had hair to great abundance, dark hair, and thick (and curly), Morgan had his baldness. And his spectacles. And his moustache.

Russell didn’t have a moustache. Russell was cleanly shaven. Although he had cut himself a few times that morning. On his spots. Morgan didn’t have any spots.

Morgan had perspiration stains beneath his armpits. But no spots. He had once owned a dog called Spot though. It had been a spaniel. But it wasn’t a spaniel any more, because it hadn’t looked both ways and a bus had run over it. Perhaps in dog heaven it was still a spaniel, but not here. Here it wasn’t anything. Except a memory, of course. A happy memory.

Russell had no memories of Spot the dog. He had never met Spot the dog. Spot the dog had met his tragic demise years before Russell had ever met Morgan. In fact, Russell was not altogether sure that there had ever been a Spot the dog. It was just possible that Morgan had made up Spot the dog in order to sound interesting. But, of course, Russell was far too polite to suggest such a thing.

So here they were. The two of them. Russell the taller, the hairier and the nicer. But Morgan without the spots. Both were roughly the same age, early twenties, both unmarried, both working as they did, where they did.

And where was that? Exactly?

Where that was, was Fudgepacker’s Emporium, a prop house in Brentford. On the Kew Road it was, in the deconsecrated church that had once housed the piano museum.

And what is a prop house?

Well.

A prop house is a place you hire props from. Theatrical props. Theatrical properties. For the film and television industries mostly. Things. All sorts of things.

You see, when you make a movie you have to hire everything. You begin with nothing. Nothing but money. Then you hire. You hire a scriptwriter and a director and actors and technicians and sound men. And a best boy, naturally. Where would you be without a best boy? But you also have to hire everything that will be put on the film sets.

Everything.

The carpets, the furniture, the cups and saucers, the fixtures and the fittings. And so all over London there are prop houses. They tend to specialize. Some do guns, some do cars. Costumiers do costumes, of course, because you have to hire all those. And some do antiques. Some do pictures. Some do modern furnishings. Fudgepacker’s?

Well.

Fudgepacker’s does the weird stuff. The really weird stuff. The stuff you couldn’t hire anywhere else.