“Life, the universe, and everything?” said Jim. “The number you’re looking for is forty-two, is it not?”

“Don’t you start,” said Norman. “But I repeat: I sincerely believe that there is a mathematical formula behind everything. And whoever discovers this BIG FIGURE would not only know everything, he’d be able to do everything also and I’ll prove it to you one day.”

“How?” Jim asked.

“From small beginnings come great things,” said Norman, who favoured a proverb. “But the lion never roars until he’s eaten.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Jim.

Norman got a round in. “I will succeed,” he told the assembled company of doubters and he raised his glass in toast. “As surely as one and one make two for most of the time, I will.”

And indeed Norman would – well, he almost would – and with the most alarming consequences.

But Norman’s quest would not be an easy one. Mathematics had moved beyond the blackboard and the abacus. These were the days of the computer. And Norman did not possess a computer. He had considered purchasing one, but even the cheap ones were, in his opinion, expensive … which was why he had decided to construct his own.

Norman was no stranger to the do-it-yourself kit. He had purchased more than a few in the past, before it had dawned upon him that it was hardly “do-it-yourself” if all the pieces had been pre-constructed by someone else. Real do-it-yourselfmg was really doing-it-yourself, from the ground up.

You needed certain components, of course; you couldn’t be expected to mill every piece of metal and hand-carve every screw … which was why God had granted man the ability to create the Meccano set. And with the Meccano set Norman had proved, time and time again, that all things – well, nearly all things – were possible.

And if you happened to pick up a few other little bits and bobs from here and there along the way, well, that wasn’t really cheating.

So, upon this bright and early morning, Norman continued with his incorrect numberings of the daily papers and, once done, he sighed a certain sigh and took to leafing through the uppermost Brentford Mercury on the pile.

A pre-leaf perusal of the front page found Norman viewing the day’s banner headline: COUNCIL TO VOTE ON CLUB’S FUTURE. Norman knew the tale behind this well enough – the sad and sorry saga of Brentford’s football club. From its golden years in the 1920s, when Brentford had twice won the FA Cup, and Jack Lane, the now-octogenarian landlord of The Four Horsemen, had captained the glory boys and hammered home the winning goals on both occasions. Through the many years of hurt, with the team slipping down and down the divisions, until this very day.

With the team having so far failed to win a single match this season, the club in debt to the tune of millions and property developers circling like horrid sharks seeking to snap up the ground, tear down the stands, rip up the sacred turf and build executive homes upon the site.

Norman shuddered. It was a tragedy. A piece of the borough’s precious history would be wiped from the map. It made Norman sick at heart.

“It is an outrage,” cried Norman, with fire in his voice. “An outrage and an abomination.”

“What was that?” Another sonic shockwave struck the shopkeeper’s head, this time nearly dislodging his wig.

“Nothing, dear,” said Norman. “And I’m almost done with the numbering.”

The numbering.

Norman viewed the figure upon the front page of the Brentford Mercury. The figure of the debt. The millions owed by Brentford United Football Club – surely such a sum could be raised if everyone in Brentford dug into their pockets. They’d only need to fork out … Norman’s Biro moved about upon the blank area of newssheet where the theatre review would have been had the Mercury’s inebriate critic, “Badger” Beaumont, got around to filing his report. Norman’s Biro moved and many figures were written (many, too, were crossed out and rewritten). Many more were also crossed out. Norman, for all his love of numbers, wasn’t much of a hand at sums. He really did need a computer. Norman flung the now defunct Biro aside.

And Norman took to leafing again.

Page two had little to offer Norman, other than an advert announcing the arrival of Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique, presently pitching its big top upon nearby Ealing Common. This at least had Norman doing so-so movements with his head, for he harboured some fondness for the circus.

There was also an article penned by local guru and self-styled Perfect Master Hugo Rune, extolling the virtues of Runesthetics, a spiritual exercise programme of his own conception that promised, for a fee, to enlarge that certain part of the male anatomy which teenage boys generally sought to enlarge through methods of their own, sometimes with the aid of tapes rented from the video section of Peg’s Paper Shop.

Norman raised an eyebrow to Runesthetics and then lowered it again. He had once invented a system of his own to further that particular end. It had involved Meccano. And, later, several jars of Savlon.

Norman leafed on. It was, as ever it was, and ever it most probably ever would be, the same old, tired old news for the most part. And for the most part Norman took as ever he had, and probably ever would take, a certain pleasure and comfort in its same old, tired old sameness. Flower shows, fêtes, functions and funerals. And car-boot sales.

And Norman leafed on until he came to the page before last. And there for a while he dwelt, amidst the small ads.

And there Norman’s right forefinger, its nail sorely in need of a nailbrush, travelled down column after column …

Until …

It stopped.

And the shopkeeper took from the top pocket of his brown shop coat, a pocket that was in need of some stitching, a pencil which was, as it happened, not in need of a sharpening. (Norman’s spell in the Navy had taught him, in addition to the importance of a well-polished shoe, to keep his matches dry, his underwear clean and his pencil sharp, for obvious reasons.)

And Norman took up his pre-sharpened pencil and encircled an advert with it:

I HAVE A LARGE COLLECTION OF UNWANTED COMPUTER PARTS AVAILABLE FOR DISPOSAL.

FREE TO FIRST APPLICANT. TELEPHONE THIS NUMBER FOR DETAILS.

Norman read the telephone number to himself and his hand moved in the direction of the telephone upon the shop counter.

“Norman, come!” bawled the voice of Peg from the kitchenette.

And all of Norman moved in the direction of this bawling.

Mahatma Campbell’s limping, which had carried him past Bob the Bookie’s and Peg’s Paper Shop, carried him further up the Ealing Road, past The Star of Bengal curry house and The Flying Swan.

Neville, ever an early riser since that morning when he’d once risen late and felt certain that he’d missed something, viewed the passing Campbell as a shadowy form through the etched glass of The Swan’s saloon bar window panes.

Neville, a practising pagan, demurred the crossing of himself, but said blessed be and ventured to the whisky optic for a measure of golden breakfast.

Of the looks of Neville, what might be said? In the favour of him, much. He was tall and lean and scholar-stooped, with a slim and noble head, the hair of him a-brillianteened and the good eye all a-glitter. Dapperly decked was he in the habit of the professional barlord: white shirt, black trews, black weskit and clip-on dicky bow, plus a very dashing pair of cufflinks whose enamelled entablatures spoke of a Masonic connection. Classic “Oxford” footwear was well buffed, though through personal fastidiousness rather than naval training. A certain spring was normally to be found in his step.

And Neville was the part-time barman of The Flying Swan.