“Morning, Pete,” himself replied. “Morning, Chips.”

The dog sniffed quizzically at the air. His antiquated master did likewise. “Now there’s a thing,” said Old Pete.

Omally plucked a copy of the Brentford Mercury from the bar counter and began to fan nonchalantly at the air. “What’s that?” he enquired.

“Funny how a particular smell can stir a particular memory.”

“Oh yes?” How the miasmal cocktail of wet fish and pomander could stir up anything other than acute nausea escaped Omally.

“Her name was Jasmine,” Old Pete recalled wistfully, “she ran a Bangkok brothel.”

“You disgusting old bastard,” said John Omally, concealing his mirth.

“Of course I could be wrong.” The ancient had another sniff or two and thought to detect the familiar whiff of a large dark rum hovering in the overcharged air. “It might just be ten pound of freshly poached river salmon,” he announced loudly.

Omally spluttered into what was left of his pint. “A large dark rum over here, please, Neville,” he said, wiping foam from his nose.

“Why, thank you, John,” said Old Pete, chuckling wickedly, “most unexpected.” Neville, returning from the freezer, wiping his hands upon his bar apron, drew the old rogue his prize from the bullseye optic.

“Your very good health, John.”

“And yours, Pete.” Omally raised his glass and peered sadly through its now empty bottom.

“Same again, is it?” Neville enquired. “Care to settle up now, would you?”

As if upon cue Jim Pooley entered the Flying Swan. “Watchamate all,” said he.

Pete touched his flat cap, Neville inclined his shining pate, Young Chips woofed non-committally and Omally said, “Good day.”

“Who’s in the chair?” Jim enquired.

“Guess?” Omally proffered his empty glass.

“Ah.” Jim patted his pockets. “I regret that a business transaction has sorely taxed my purse upon this morning,” said he, turning to Omally with what he considered to be a “significant look”.

“We’ll split it then.” Omally pushed his glass across the shining bar top. “Two pints of Large, please, Neville.”

“And a dark rum,” said Old Pete with a blackmailer’s optimism.

“And a small dark rum,” said Omally, “which will be your last.”

Old Pete grinned toothlessly. He knew better than to kill the fish that laid the golden egg. There was always another Friday. “Much obliged,” said he.

The honours were done and Omally called to account. John led his partner away to the privacy of a side table where he split the change and tossed Jim another pound note.

Pooley sorrowfully examined the residue of the day’s wages. “I do not appear to be quids in here,” he observed.

“It is impossible to project a specific return upon working capital,” said John informatively. “For the wheels of commerce to spin freely, their axles must receive constant financial lubrication.”

“You mean paying off that old villain?” Pooley nodded towards Pete, who raised his glass in reply and said “Cheers!” Young Chips, whose hearing was more than acute, made a mental note to visit Jim’s ankle when the occasion arose.

“A mere bagatelle,” said Omally. “Now what about that other bit of business?”

Pooley supped his ale. “Your prediction odds-wise was somewhat over-optimistic,” said he, “but then it is always impossible to project a specific return upon …”

“Touchée,” said Omally, peeling another pound note into Jim’s direction. “I believe I might have short-changed you in error.”

“By another ten shillings, I believe,” replied Pooley.

“Ah, yes.” A ten-shilling note changed hands.

“Thank you, John, but truly, do you honestly believe that this is going to come off?”

Omally nodded. “It is a sure thing, I am telling you.” He drew his companion closer. “And Bob went for it?”

“He made a small provision or two, but, yes, well, he went for it.”

“Wonderful,” said Omally. “Then shortly we will both be very, very rich. Neville!” he called out, “what is the exact time, do you know?”

The part-time barman eye-balled the battered Guinness clock. “Do you mean pub time or GMT?”

“GMT.”

“Eleven twenty-two.”

“Thank you, Neville.” Omally turned to Jim and patted him upon the shoulder. “You honestly have nothing to fear,” said he, “we can now leave it all to the messenger of the gods.”

“The what?”

“The what and the whom. Mercury, the wing-heeled wonderboy.”

“Oh, that lad.”

“That lad,” said Omally. “Now drink up, the next is on me.”

“To Mercury.” Jim raised his glass.

The editor of the Brentford Mercury peered up from the dog-eared reporter’s note-book towards the dog-eared reporter who stood panting breathlessly before his desk, one Seamus Molloy. “Scoop” to his friends. “And this is actually true?” he asked.

Scoop nodded vigorously. “I interviewed the councillors who were at the meeting. Those that were still able to stand, that is. It all ended in a bit of a punch-up. The garda and all. I ran all the way back.”

The editor scratched at his head with the wrong end of his magic marker. Scoop watched in silent fascination as royal blue zig-zags appeared across his employer’s polished cranium.

“You are not pulling my wire, Molloy?” The aforementioned employer squinted towards the desk calendar. Even allowing for a day or two unturned, it was well starboard of April the first.

“I swear not.” Molloy crossed his heart. “See this wet, see this dry …”

“Quite so, but I should take an extremely poor view of this if it turned out to be another Brentford Griffin story.”

Molloy hung his head. “It’s as true as I am standing here, sir,” said he. “Been following the story for weeks now,” he lied.

“Then, it’s … wonderful!” The editor’s voice rose an entire octave. “Wonderful!” He thrust aside his chair and clasped Molloy’s sweaty mitt, wringing it between his own. “Do you realize what this means, Molloy?” he asked.

Scoop’s head bounced up and down; he did indeed. “It cost me an arm and a leg,” he said guardedly.

“We have it.” The editor clenched a fist towards a damp patch on the ceiling. “I have it! The story! The exclusive!” He turned upon the broth of a boy who stood smiling modestly. “The exclusive! And it’s all mine!” He flung out a hand towards the internal telephone. “All mine!” Suddenly he froze. His eyes flashed towards the reporter. His hand hovered over the handset. “Molloy,” he said slowly, “Molloy, you have not given this story to anybody else, have you?”

“Anybody else, sir?”

“You know … them …” The hated words stuck in his throat.

“You mean Fleet Street, sir?”

The editor flinched and made the sign of the cross. Molloy genuflected subconsciously.

“You haven’t, Molloy?”

“Certainly not, sir!”

“Good man! Good man!” Snatching up the receiver the editor dialled six. As his finger described the mystical arc he whispered to himself, as one reciting a catechism, “Twenty years in this game. Twenty long years of flower shows and boy scout jamborees and now, and now …” He paused a moment, a hand across the mouthpiece and stared towards the unspeakable ceiling beyond which, somewhere distant, sat the great proprietor in the sky. “Thank you, God,” he said. “Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed Molloy pushing across the desk a petty cash slip which was in its way as great a work of fiction as any that Harold Robbins had ever come up with. “If I might just have your signature, sir.”

Without even looking, the editor signed away a sizeable chunk of the paper’s financial resources. “All these years,” he continued, “I’ve prayed for an opportunity to do this.”

“Sir?” said Molloy.

“Listen,” said the editor.

“Hello,” said a sleepy voice at the other end of the line, “Print Room.”