Russell never went for lunch. He always waited until Frank went for lunch, then he did some tidying up. He really did want to get at those teacups in the sink. But he didn’t want to offend Morgan, so he usually settled for a bit of dusting and rearrangement. Today he had planned to have a go at the religious relics. John the Baptist’s mummified head needed a dose of Briwax and the phial of The Virgin’s Tears had dried up again, so called for a quick squirt from the cold tap (which isn’t dishonest if it’s just “topping up”).

But untrue to form upon this day, Russell put on his waxed jacket with the poacher’s pockets[10] and sallied forth into the streets of Brentford.

The Ealing Road first, he thought. If The Flying Swan ever had existed, then some trace of its whereabouts must remain. That was about as straightforward as you can get. People’s memories tend to be uneven and unreliable, but as Jim Campbell says, “Buildings are the pinions of history.” If a building had once existed, some trace, no matter how small, probably would remain.

Well, it might, for Goddess’ sake!

It’s a very short walk from Fudgepacker’s to the Ealing Road. You just turn right at The Red Lion. Most of the properties are old. Victorian at the very least. There are two pubs there, The Bricklayer’s Arms and The Princess Royal. Further up there’s The New Inn; so that makes three. Not bad in two hundred yards. But this is Brentford. And Brentford has the only football club in the country with a pub on each of its four corners.

Russell reasoned that should there be a gap somewhere, or a new building looking somewhat out of place, there was potential. So he marched up the Ealing Road. He couldn’t trudge, Russell, nor could be plod, marching was all he knew. Or jogging. Well, jogging was good for you, and you have to look after your health.

Russell would have jogged, but he was investigating, so he marched instead.

Past the corner tobacconist’s, and the bookies, and the greengrocer, to The Bricklayer’s.

Russell looked up at the pub in question. It was solidly built. A Victorian frontage, local glazed tile, fiddly bits, window boxes. Dug in, it was. Built to last, and last it had.

“If The Flying Swan really was along here,” said Russell to no-one but himself, “the folk who run this pub must know about it.”

Russell came to an abrupt halt before the door. Because here a great problem presented itself. Russell did not go into pubs. It was quite simply something he did not do. As a non-smoker, the very smell of pubs appalled him. And as virtually a non-drinker, there was little point in him going into them anyway.

Although regular pub-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in pubs and that the heart of a town is its finest tavern, this is not altogether true.

Pub-goers actually represent a tiny percentage of any given town’s population[11]. Curiously enough, exactly the same percentage as regular church-goers. And regular church-goers will tell you that all the most interesting people are to be found in churches (and so on and so forth).

Russell dithered. This was probably all a waste of time anyway, perhaps he could just interview passers-by, get himself a clipboard and tell them he was doing a survey. That would be for the best.

Russell turned to walk away. But then he stopped to pause for further thought. It was no big deal going into a pub. If he came out stinking of cigarette smoke it hardly mattered, his clothes would be going into the wash at the end of the day anyway. He was being a real wimp about this. If Morgan were to find out, he’d never let him hear the last of it.

“Right,” said Russell, squaring his shoulders and taking a breath so deep as might hopefully last him throughout his visit. Up to the door, turn the handle, enter.

Russell entered The Bricklayer’s Arms.

It was really quite nice inside. It didn’t smell too bad. The furniture was all mellow browns and greens, glowing softly in that light you only find in pubs. The saloon bar was low ceilinged and narrow, a few high stools ranked before the counter and on these sat lunch-time patrons: secretaries from the office blocks on the Great West Road, young bloods in suits with mobile phones. A couple of old boys slung darts in the general direction of a mottled board, a number of trophies glittered in a case on the wall. Ordinary it was, what you might expect, anywhere.

Russell approached the bar. The young bloods made him feel somewhat uneasy. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt, they wore professional suits. Perhaps he should go round to the public bar.

“What’ll it be then, love?” The barmaid caught Russell’s eye. And most winsomely she caught it too. A tall narrow blonde of a woman, constructed to Russell’s favourite design. Wide blue eyes and a big full mouth that was full of big white teeth.

The words “a Perrier water” came into Russell’s mind, but “a pint of best bitter,” came out of his mouth.

“Coming right up.” The barmaid turned away, with a sweep of golden hair and a click-clack of high heels. Russell spied out an empty stool at the end of the counter and climbed onto it. Why had he said that? A pint of best bitter? Russell didn’t even like best bitter, Russell hated best bitter. But Russell knew exactly why he’d said it. Real men didn’t drink Perrier water. Blond barmaids liked real men. Russell liked blond women.

“There you go,” said the barmaid, presenting Russell with his pint. He paid up and she smiled warmly upon him. As she brought him his change she said, “Funny you should drink bitter, I thought my luck had changed.”

“Pardon,” said Russell.

“My horoscope in the paper this morning said love may come in the shape of a tall dark stranger.”

“Indeed?” said Russell, warming to the idea.

“A tall dark stranger who drinks the water of life.”

“Eh?” said Russell.

“Only water of life in this place is Perrier water,” said the barmaid. “Still, I’ll keep looking, you never know, do you?”

“No,” said Russell, as she turned away to serve a young man who had recently entered the pub, and who stood by patiently waiting (and listening).

“What will it be then, love?”

“Perrier water,” said the young man.

Russell buried his face in his hands.

“If you’ve had too much, mate, go home and sleep it off.”

Russell unburied his face.

The landlord glared him daggers. “I pop out the back for half an hour and that blonde tart gets all the customers drunk. That’s the last time I hire an ex-contortionist go-go dancing sex-aid demonstrator.”

Russell made a low groaning sound.

“And don’t you dare chuck up,” growled the landlord.

“I wasn’t,” said Russell. “This is my first pint, I’ve only just come in.”

“Well, watch it anyway.”

“I will,” promised Russell, and the landlord went his way.

Russell sipped at his beer. It tasted ghastly. Russell gazed about the bar. It was all so very normal. Everything about Brentford was so very normal. Russell felt certain that it always had been normal, always would be normal.

There had never really been some golden age, when local lads battled it out with the forces of evil and saved the world from this peril and the next. It was all just fiction.

The landlord shuffled by with a trayload of empties.

“Excuse me,” said Russell.

“You’re excused,” said the landlord. “Now bugger off.”

“I wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”

“You might,” said the landlord. “But I doubt if you’d get any answers.”

“It’s about The Flying Swan.”