“Five hundred,” said the fellow. “Yours for twenty-five quid.”

Omally nodded once again.

“And secondly?” the fellow asked.

“Secondly, why did you approach me, a perfect stranger, with this offer?”

“Ah,” said the fellow. “Your name is John Omally, is it not?”

Further alarm bells rang in the head of John Omally. “It might be,” he said with caution.

“Lily Marlene there recommended you. She said you’d be popping in.”

“Right,” said John, and he grinned his grin and put out his hand for a shake.

And John left The Plume Café somewhat heavier than he had entered it. Heavy of belly was John Omally and heavy of suitcase, too.

And John strapped this suitcase to the rear rack of Marchant. Mounted up and pleased with his good fortune and business acumen, for he had beaten the salesman down to twenty quid, he cycled away with a smile on his lips and a whistle between them.

And Marchant, appalled by the extra weight of the suitcase, snagged up Omally’s right trouser cuff in its chain wheel and locked its front brake.

Which pitched Omally onto the kerb and wiped the smile off his face.

Neville the part-time barman stood once more within the sanctuary of The Swan’s saloon bar. Behind the counter. In his carpet slippers. Neville pressed a shot glass beneath the whisky optic and drew off a measure of comfort. For Neville was sorely discomforted. Neville was a part-time barman racked with anguish and guilt, deeply shaken by the events that had so recently befallen him.

That he should have had to have been there, in that Godless, soulless council chamber, to witness the selling out of the borough’s heritage. Not only that, but to have had to have signed – Neville’s brain sought words appropriate – that pact with Satan.

And that he should actually prosper from the football club’s destruction.

“I shall give every penny to charity,” said Neville, downing Scotch. But his words echoed hollowly in the otherwise deserted bar. He would not give it all to charity. He knew that he would not. For all of the goodness that Neville had in him, and there was much, it would take a gooderer man than he to give up all that money, to give up the dream of a lifetime: to own The Flying Swan.

Neville hung his noble head. He had done a very bad thing. But what else could he have done? Refused to sign his contract? That would have pleased the Consortium no end. One less batch of shares to hand out. There really had been nothing else he could have done. He had been helpless.

And this sense of helplessness added greatly to the part-time barman’s despair. It was a terrible sensation.

Neville sighed a deep and heartfelt sigh and swallowed further Scotch. What else could he have done? Surely everything that could have been done to save the club had been done. There had been petitions and fund-raising nights and benefits and raffles and auctions and fun-runs and car-boot sales and pub events and—

Neville sighed once again. There had been none of these things. No one in Brentford had done anything. Folk had simply shrugged their shoulders and said “it will never happen” and “it can’t happen here”. But it could and it would. And as the months had passed and it had become more and more apparent that it could and would happen, folk had said, “It is an outrage, someone should have done something.”

But nobody had.

And now, it seemed, it was all too late.

Neville sighed some more and sipped some more of his liquor. And when he downed the last of his liquor he drew himself another.

A brisk rapping upon the saloon bar door stirred Neville from his dismal reverie. The part-time barman swung aloft the counter flap, padded across the carpet upon his carpet-slippered feet and drew aside the bolts. The door swung open to the day’s first patron and this patron was Old Pete.

An ancient geezer was Old Pete,

Of rheumy eye and grizzled chin.

From his Wellingtoned feet to his flat cap of tweed,

He was ragged and dog-eared and going to seed.

He had served at the Somme for his country and king,

And his strides were secured by a circlet of string.

He had canker and gout and Health Service hips,

A stick that was stout and a spaniel called Chips.[5]

“Thirty seconds late in opening,” the oldster observed, pocketing his retirement watch and hobbling past Neville. “The world is ending and there’s a fact for you.”

“My apologies, Old Pete,” said Neville.

“Worth a freeman’s on the house, I would have thought.” Old Pete hoisted himself with difficulty on to his favourite barstool.

“Not in a month that is composed of Sundays all,” replied Neville, returning himself to his place behind the counter and lowering the flap. “What will it be today, Old Pete? Large dark rum, as ever?”

“Large dark rum it is.” Old Pete secured Chips’ lead to a stanchion on his stool that had been especially fitted for the purpose and observed Neville as he went about his business.

“You look the glum Charlie today,” said Old Pete. “Is something troubling you, Neville?”

“Nothing that I would wish to trouble you with.”

“Thank the Lord of the lawnseed for that. I only asked out of politeness.” Old Pete accepted his large dark rum and paid for it with the exact small change. “You need a pick-me-up,” said he, raising his glass of rum and giving it a tasting.

Neville sighed once more, but this time in company. “I need something,” he said.

“Mandragora officinarum,” said Old Pete.

“Pardon me?” said Neville.

“Mandragora officinarum,” said Old Pete once more. “It’s a powerful aphrodisiac. It used to be known as the ‘gallows plant’ because it was believed to take seed from the seminal effluvia that dripped from hanged criminals. I am currently cultivating a crop of it on my allotment patch. It’s said to have magical powers – prolongs active life, increases virility, puts a spring into your step and lead in your pencil, so to speak.”

“I’m sure it does,” said Neville wearily.

“It does too,” said Old Pete. “Do you doubt my words?”

“Oh no.” Neville gave his head further shakings. Old Pete was hailed hereabouts as a veritable fount of knowledge regarding all matters horticultural. What he didn’t know about allotment cultivation, he didn’t know because it didn’t exist.

“Well, think on,” said Old Pete.

And Neville thought on. And this thinking on further depressed him.

James Arbuthnot Pooley entered The Flying Swan.

“Watchamate, Pete, Neville,” said Jim in a cheery fashion.

Old Pete grunted and Neville nodded.

“Oh dear,” said Jim, crossing to the bar and ascending the stool next to Old Pete. “Do I sense an atmosphere of gloom upon this glorious morning?”

“It’s Neville,” said Pete. “His pecker’s playing him up and his legs are giving out. Needs a dose of Mandragora. I told him.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my pecker,” said Neville. “Pint of Large would it be, Jim?”

“It would,” said Pooley, extracting the exact change from his trouser pocket and counting it on to the counter.

Neville drew the perfect pint and presented same to his patron.

Pooley perused the perfect pint, presented same to his laughing gear, took a taste and said, “Ahhh.”

Neville managed a sort of smile. At least the ale was, as ever, superb. He rang up “no sale” on the aged cash register and deposited Pooley’s coinage therein.

Pooley placed his perfect pint upon the bar counter, took out his packet of Dadarillos, removed from it an overlong ciggie and lit up.