“Ah,” said Jim. “I see. That’s what you’d call a dilemma, isn’t it?”

“Happily though,” said Ernest, rising from Jim’s table and taking himself off to the toilet, “it’s your dilemma, not mine.”

Jim now sat and stared gloomily into what was left of his substandard pint. This really was all too much. All too much of everything. Especially responsibility. Jim’s brief flirtation with responsibility had never led to a lasting relationship. Jim considered that being responsible for himself alone was a full-time job in itself. And one which, of course, left no time for any other kind of full-time job. But to have all this so suddenly and unceremoniously dumped upon his shoulders, even with all of Omally’s boasts of selfless support and the professor pulling the strings, as it were, was, Jim considered …

All too much.

“Those twins lead a most remarkable sex life,” said Omally, placing a newly drawn pint before Jim and settling himself into Ernest’s uncomfortable chair. “I think I might consider joining the circus.”

“I think I might come with you,” said Jim. “I don’t think I can go through with this.”

John patted Jim upon his sagging shoulder. “Perk up, my friend. The first day on the job is always the trickiest.”

“And you would know this from experience, would you?”

John Omally scratched at his curly bonce. “Well, I’ve heard it said,” said he. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually lasted for more than a single day in what they call regular employment.”

“We’re doomed,” said Jim.

“Now don’t start that again. We’re not doomed. We have the professor to aid us. And our own pub, Jim, don’t forget that. And when Neville finds The Swan empty tomorrow night, he’ll rue the day that he bopped us on the head.”

“We might have to cancel the Benefit Night,” said Jim and he went on to explain why.

John gave the matter a moment’s thought. “Have no fear,” said he. “I’ll take care of it,” and he gave his nose a significant tap. “Now, is there anything else that troubles you?”

“Well,” said Jim, taking a big breath. “There’s …”

“No,” said John, putting his tapping finger to Jim Pooley’s lips. “Drink your ale and stop worrying yourself. We’ll come through this and we’ll come out on top. Trust me, I’m a—”

“I know,” said Jim. “A PA.”

“No,” said John. “A Brentonian. And we lads can get through anything.”

Professor Slocombe descended at length from the south stand of the football ground. Behind and beneath the stand, just along from The Stripes Bar, there existed a rude hut constructed of railways ties, daub and wattle, canvas and corrugated iron. To the first and passing glance, this curious dwelling resembled little other than a stack of debris, carelessly discarded. And to the second and third glances also. For this was the way that the Campbell preferred it. For this was the Campbell’s home.

Professor Slocombe knocked upon a section of corrugated iron. It was a “certain” knock. There was a certain pattern to it. The section swung aside, a hand beckoned greeting and Professor Slocombe entered the Campbell’s dwelling. The Campbell closed and secured his secret door.

“Seat yourself,” said he.

The dwelling was spacious within. Remarkably so. And remarkable, too. Many candles lit a single gallery. The undersides of the stand seating above gabled its ceiling. Flagstones paved its floor. And then there was the Gothic. There were tapestries and hunting trophies, shields and claymores and antlered heads. The look of all and sundry of it was one of a Scottish laird’s hunting lodge. Or something to do with Highlander.

A great fire blazed in the rough stone fireplace, but where the smoke went was anyone’s guess.

Professor Slocombe lowered his fragile frame into a crofter’s chair before the fire. Mahatma Campbell decanted a measure of Scotch into a goatskin goblet and placed it in the scholar’s hand.

“If I might say so,” said he, “you took your time.”

Professor Slocombe smiled. The Campbell seated himself in a great chair opposite, took up a poker and gave the fire a stabbing with it.

“You remain most loyal,” said Professor Slocombe. “How many years is it now?”

“Too many.” The Campbell spat into the fire. “But I keep the watch. And if this Pooley is your man, then I’ll keep a watch on him, too.”

“I would appreciate that.” Professor Slocombe tasted the Scotch. It tasted mighty fine. “Jim is a good man. I would not want any harm to come to him.”

“Does he know what he’s dealing with?”

“No.” Professor Slocombe shook his head.

“Then you’re sending him to his death.”

“Not with you here to protect him.”

Mahatma Campbell took up Scotch of his own and threw it down his throat. “One of them was here tonight,” he said, “in this very stadium.”

“No.” The face of Professor Slocombe became grave. “Whilst I was here? I felt nothing.”

“They’re cunning. And new, these – a different breed. Even blacker than the ones before.”

“Even blacker.” Professor Slocombe’s fingers tightened around his goatskin goblet. “I shall have to be more vigilant.”

“You’re vulnerable away from your manse. But wherever you are, I’ll not be far from your side.”

“Protect Jim,” said the professor. “Perhaps you should go to him now.”

“The danger has passed. But they’re watching. You shouldn’t have left it so long. If they take the football ground, then it’s the end for us all.”

“They’ll never take the football ground,” said the professor.

“But you could have stopped all this months ago, paid off the club’s debts. You’ve enough in your coffers.”

“I had to wait. There are certain predestined events that have yet to occur. It is all part of my plan.”

“And this clown Pooley, he is part of your plan?”

“We will only have one chance at this.” Professor Slocombe turned his goblet between his slender fingers and considered the flames of the raucous fire. “You and I both know the date.”

“It’s written into my very soul,” said the Campbell. “To know in advance the date of the Apocalypse is a sombre enough matter by any reckoning.”

Professor Slocombe put a finger to his lips. “Hush,” said he. “Not even here.”

“I can speak here well enough, Professor, there’s none that can hear me but yourself.”

“I would prefer that our conversation remained, how shall I put this, cryptic and enigmatic”

The Campbell spat once more into the fire. “Perhaps in some Hollywood thriller or mystery novel, but I am a plain man and I speak plain words.”

“You may look like man,” said Professor Slocombe, “but you and I both know that you are not one.”

“Be that as it may. But I, like you, am sworn to serve and protect this borough. The forces that seek to destroy it are beyond the ken of the normal Brentonian, who goes about his business in ignorance of their very existence.”

“And that is how it will remain. As it always has been and as it always will be.”

“Secrets, secrets, secrets. It’s always secrets.”

“Magic must always remain secret, the preserve of the few – for good or evil.”

“You should tell the world, Professor, all that you know.”

“And the world would not believe me, but in telling all, my powers would be dissipated. But not so those of our mutual enemy. The King of Darkness thrives upon disbelief. You know that, Campbell.”

“You could at least warn the people somehow.”

“No.” Professor Slocombe arose from his chair, his ancient limbs click-clacking. “The football ground and what lies beneath it must remain untouched. I will play my part in seeing that this remains so. And you will play your part also.”

“As I always have,” said the Campbell. “I am sworn to serve you.”

“I know that. And if we achieve our ends without anyone else being aware of our genuine motives, so much the better. Brentford retains its football ground and a team that might go on to further success. And the Powers of Darkness are forestalled until another day.”