“And the Apocalypse?” the Campbell asked.

“Postponed,” said Professor Slocombe. “Indefinitely.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

“I enjoin with your hopes.”

John Omally zipped up his trousers. As the bog in The Stripes Bar had been flooded – something to do with Billy Bustard, apparently – John had slipped out to make his ablutions elsewhere.

And he had been doing so against this old pile of corrugated iron and debris beneath the south stand when he’d heard these muffled voices.

And so, whilst peeing, he had pressed his ear to the corrugated iron and overheard a certain private conversation.

And now he heard the words, “Goodnight to you, Campbell.”

And John Omally made it away.

Lightly and upon his toes.

John Omally for once didn’t sleep at all well. He slept alone, in the bed that was his own, which at least made a change for him. But he slept most uncomfortably. John Omally had much on his mind.

He was puzzled and disturbed by the conversation he had overheard between Professor Slocombe and Mahatma Campbell. What had that all been about? The Apocalypse? The King of Darkness? Things that were blacker than black? Something beneath the football ground that had to remain undisturbed? And what had he, Omally, got Jim into? Mahatma Campbell was to protect Jim – from what? The blacker-than-blackers?

Omally had considered having it out with the professor, but that would have taken more nerve than even he possessed. Omally revered the ancient scholar, and trusted him also. But if Jim was being used as some kind of pawn in some cosmic good-versus-evil game, then John could not be a party to that. Jim was his bestest friend.

John Omally just didn’t know what to do.

And when folk just don’t know what to do, they always do one of two things: the wrong thing, or nothing at all.

John decided on doing the latter.

Because John, like Jim, now had responsibilities. And to John, these were probably even more irksome than they were for Jim, for while Jim was at least responsible for himself, John was totally irresponsible. Although basically a good man, John Omally did do a lot of things that were not entirely good. They weren’t terribly bad, but they certainly weren’t good, either.

“I’ll try harder,” said John, as he fought to get some sleep. “And I’ll work hard, I really will.”

And then the thought of all the work that lay ahead of him kept him even wider awake.

He’d taken on a lot here. Certainly he hadn’t taken it on out of a spirit of altruism. Rather, he had to admit – at least to himself, where no one else could hear him – that he had done it from greed, for the many potential pennies that might be made if the unlikely event of Brentford winning the FA Cup was to occur. There was Jim’s bet with Bob the Bookie, for one thing. And even if the team didn’t succeed, there would be the profits from the Omally-improved Stripes Bar, and the Omally-improved gift shop, and countless other nice little earners that were sure to present themselves to the aspiring entrepreneur who had a hand in running a football club.

But now …

But now it was a case of right here – right now.

John had to organise a Benefit Night for the following evening and fill The Stripes Bar up with folk who were prepared to dig deeply into their pockets for a worthy cause that all considered lost. John took some comfort in the fact that he had made a single telephone call that evening, from The Stripes Bar, and it might just be that this telephone call would prove its worth upon the following morning.

But it was all rather scary, this responsibility lark.

And so John Omally did not sleep comfortably in his bed and did not greet the morning with a smile.

Norman did.

He was up with that lark that always gets up early, because Norman had a phone call of his own to make – to the Patent Office. Norman had all these plans that he’d painstakingly copied from those that had appeared on his computer screen, and Norman meant to find out whether any of the marvellous Victorian inventions pictured in these plans had ever received a patent.

Because if they hadn’t …!

Norman hoisted the bundle of newly delivered Brentford Mercurys on to his counter, took out his reproduction Sword of Boda paper knife, cut away the twine bindings, pressed apart the waxed brown paper and exposed the day’s front-page news.

“A hard rain’s gonna fall!” exclaimed the shopkeeper, in no small surprise, as he read the headline: BRENTFORD DESTINED TO WIN FA CUP.

An hour later, Neville read this selfsame headline and the text that was printed beneath it. And Neville the part-time barman ground his teeth and loosened an expensive filling.

And at approximately the same time, Bob the Bookie viewed the front page of the Brentford Mercury and did grindings of his teeth, loosening an even more expensive filling.

And shortly after that, Jim Pooley, a man for whom sleep was becoming little more than a precious memory, also read this headline and the text that was printed beneath it. Jim read it whilst sitting in his office and wondering what he should be doing with himself for the day. And Pooley smiled hugely unto himself and said, “Nice one, John, you’re certainly doing your job.”

“Your job,” said Lily Marlene as she turned up her well-lashed eyes from the newspaper towards the customer who now stood before her counter in The Plume Café, “is apparently personal assistant to Brentford’s new manager, ‘a gentleman’ – and I quote from the Mercury – ‘who is employing a revolutionary approach to the beautiful game, honing the team to perfect fitness and investing them with a will to win that will make them unbeatable this season’.”

“This is apparently the case,” said John Omally, smiling his winning smile.

“All rather sudden, isn’t it?”

“Grasp the nettle,” said John, miming the grasping thereof. “Seize the moment and things of that nature, generally.”

“And yet the last time we met, you were buying dodgy fags off a dodgy salesman.”

“All above board,” said John. “Would you care for a few packs to put behind the counter?”

Lil shook her peroxide head, showering John with pheromones. “And I quote,” she continued, “‘Mr Omally is organising a fund-raising Night of the Stars, a charity auction with A-list celebrities and live music from “name bands”. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.’”

“Stripes Bar tonight,” said John. “It will be my honour to act as your escort, if you would deign to grace this auspicious occasion with your divine presence.”

“John,” said Lily Marlene, “this is one bash I wouldn’t miss for the world.”

“Splendid,” said John. “I’ll be round here at seven-thirty to drive you there myself.”

“I didn’t know you had a car.”

“I don’t,” said John, “but I’ve got a big whip.”[13]

“A whip-round?” said Mr Kay of Kay’s Electrical Stores in the High Street. “Naturally I’m aware of the concept. It’s just that I’ve never actually …”

“For the club,” said John Omally, who now stood before Mr Kay’s counter. “Every tradesman, and woman, is putting in. I’ve just come from The Plume – Lily is offering her support.”

“Oh,” said Mr Kay, and he sighed. “Lily,” he said, in a sighing voice.

“It’s called sponsorship,” John continued. “You get to have your establishment advertised upon the team’s shirts. That’s the kind of advertising that money just can’t buy.”