“Wasn’t he in Sonic Energy Authority?” Jim asked.

“Not originally – that was Phil ‘Saddle-Sniffer’ Cowan. The Cardinal was the original lead singer with The Gods, so when he split with them due to musical differences they discovered that he’d copyrighted the name, so they changed it to The God Rockers, which wasn’t too good, then later to The Gods of Rock – that was when Mike ‘Damp-Trouser’ Simpson was lead singer. But he died in a freak accident involving a three-in-one hair trimmer and a pot of fish paste.”

“Where is this leading?” Jim asked as he struggled to unload yet another big, dark loud-speakerish jobbie.

“There’s three bands,” said Mr McGregor, taking up his end of same in a single hand and all but heaving Pooley from his feet, “all called The Rock Gods, all doing the club circuits up north. Each band has one of the original line-up. And they’re all Ravis[20].”

“Even this one?”

“This one’s probably the worst. I’ve been with them for twenty years now. I only do it out of schadenfreude. I love to see the looks on the faces of the punters, who’ve usually coughed up twenty quid a head, when the band lurch into their first number and the punters find out just how bad they are. And I like the rioting, too, gives me a chance to keep my hand in with the old martial arts[21].”

“No?” said Jim and he made a horrified face.

“Only winding you up,” said Tim. “They’re a great band. They’ll see you all right.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jim, straining to keep his end of the big, heavy speaker jobbie off the ground.

“As long as their needs are met, they’ll be fine.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Jim continued with his struggling.

“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” said Tim, who appeared to be carrying his end with little more than one finger. “Personally, I find all this ‘pandering to the needs of musicians’ stuff a pain in the backstage[22]. They get above themselves. They all need a good smack in my opinion.”

Jim Pooley’s fingers were now giving out.

“Not much further,” said Tim.

Jim continued with his strugglings. “What exactly did you mean about ‘pandering to their needs’?” he asked, when he could find the breath.

“You’ve not read the riders, then? Your mate Don has the list.”

“I’ve not seen any list. What’s a rider?” Jim had a serious wobble on. “We’ll have to put this down or I’m going to drop my end.”

“Give it here.” Tim took the heavy-looking speaker jobbie, lifted it from Jim’s hands and humped it effortlessly on to the stage. “That’s the last of it,” he said.

“Did you really need my help?” asked the exhausted Jim.

“Not really,” said Tim, “but I enjoy the company and the conversation. Life on the road can be lonely at times.”

Pooley shook his head. “What is on the list?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, all the usual stuff. White African lilies in the dressing room. Three bowls of Smarties, with all the red ones taken out. The services of an acupuncturist and a foot masseur. Canapés, whatever they are, and—”

“Don,” called Jim, across the bar.

It does have to be said that the plain folk of Brentford, the plucky Brentonians, do like an event. And they do like to dress for an event. Especially a star-studded event. And so, all over the borough, folk were togging up in their bestest duds, slicking back their barnets in the case of the gents, and primping about at theirs in the ladies’. So to speak. Shoes were being polished and mothballs plucked from the pockets of suits that hadn’t seen action since the last time a relative died (so to speak, also).

Lily Marlene put her high-heeled sneakers on her feet and her wig hat on her head. Small Dave, Brentford’s pint-sized postman, ironed his man-sized turnups and Soap Distant (Brentford’s resident hollow-Earth enthusiast) took a bit of spot remover to his going-out Wellington boots. Old Pete pinned his 14-18 medals of valour to the breast pocket of his dress uniform and Councillor Doveston stuffed pamphlets into every pocket he possessed. The Campbell tucked a claymore into his belt, a dirk into his sock, a pistol into each of his shoulder holsters and a stun grenade into his sporran.

Neville the part-time barman looked gloomily upon his empty bar. He was still wearing his carpet slippers.

Jim Pooley went home for a wash and a change of clothes.

And the clock ticked on towards the hour of eight.

Which was kick-off time for the Benefit Night.

Omally regarded his wristlet watch. “It’s nearly eight,” he said to Rumpelstiltskin the barman.

“Don’t blame me,” said that man. “I don’t make the rules. I’m not God, you know.”

“I’ll have another pint of something,” said Tim McGregor. “What do you recommend?”

“Large,” said John Omally. “Pour the man a pint, please, barlord.”

“Have you got the opossum?” Tim asked Omally.

“Certainly not,” said John. “I always use a condom.”

“Most amusing,” said Tim, accepting the pint that was drawn for him. “The opossum that Mr Penrose likes to pet in the dressing room before he goes on. It was at the top of the list of riders. Well, under the lady-boy.”

“Ah yes,” said John. “The list of riders.”

“Was that ‘ah yes’ as in yes, you’ve got it? Or just ‘ah yes’, you vaguely remember the list?”

“Ah yes,” said John. “Hello, who’s this?”

A long, thin fellow with an exciting shock of bright red hair had entered The Stripes Bar, looking somewhat lost.

“Can I help you?” John called to him.

“Tom Omally?” asked the man.

“John,” said John. “I think there must be something wrong with my mobile phone.”

“Oh, right,” said the long, thin fellow. “Well, I’ve got the Beverley Sisters outside in my van. Could someone help me unload them?”

Jim Pooley was having a bath. Jim was trying very hard to remain cool, calm and collectable. It wasn’t easy. But then this was John’s responsibility. If anything went wrong tonight, then he, Jim, was not to blame for it. Even though the responsibility for everything that went on with the club now lay with him, John and he were a partnership and this was all down to John.

Jim doodled about a bit in the bath water. He’d play it cool, have a good soak, tog up, slowly stroll down to The Stripes Bar, catch the action, press the flesh, do a bit of networking (Jim had once heard this phrase used), put names to faces (also this one) and if all went well …

Take the glory.

And if all didn’t go well …

Know where to lay the blame.

“Don’t worry,” Jim told himself. “All will go well. John knows how to organise things. Not that I’ve ever seen him organise something like this before, but he’ll be fine. It will all be fine. It will, it really will.”

“They’re dead,” said John Omally.

“That’s not an expression I like to use,” said the long, thin fellow with the exciting shock of bright-red hair. “Resting between engagements is the way I like to put it.”

Tim McGregor peered in through the open rear doors of the knackered old van that was now parked next to his knackered old van. “They do look dead,” he said.

“They’re living legends,” said the long, thin fellow. “They’re the Beverley Sisters. My name’s Howard, by the way.”

“Is that hyphenated?” asked Tim.

“No, it’s Welsh.”

“But they are dead,” said John Omally. “They’re preserved corpses. They’re mummies.”

“I thought they were sisters,” said Tim.

“Technically speaking, they’re not entirely dead,” said Howard, “although I have to confess that he is.” And Howard pointed a long and twiglike digit over the shoulders of the three Beverley Sisters, who sat in their glittering stagewear staring sightlessly into space, towards …