“What has a string vest got to do with anything?” asked Councillor Doveston.

“Well, Evelyn Waugh invented the string vest, didn’t he? While he was at the Somme. Or was it the hammock?” The casual observer scratched at his head. Casually.

“It was another author who invented the hammock. Some thriller-writer chappie.”

“Dashiell Hammock?” Rumpelstiltskin suggested.

“Could somebody please serve us? I’d like to open an account,” said Norman. “A pint of Large for me and a—”

“Nose bag for your horse?” asked the casual observer, casually observing Peg.

To any observer, casual or otherwise, Jim Pooley was clearly in distress. He appeared frozen into his bathwater.

A knock came at Jim’s door.

“Enter, please,” called Jim. “And please help me.”

The door swung open and a certain blackness entered Jim Pooley’s rooms.

The jugglers wore black, and gold, and silver, too. Leotards they wore, and little pom-pommed slippers on their feet. They’d made it through the window and down the fire escape and as the Count Basie Orchestra left the stage (after an encore, which was an old George Orwell number) to riotous applause, the jugglers were doing what they did best. Or, at least, what they did second best, for they were accomplished installers of double-glazing during weekdays.

Juggling. Of course.

“I’ve never been a big fan of juggling,” said Barry Bustard, circus fat-boy and Bees substitute, to Don and Phil the conjoined twins (who were drinking doubles[25]). “Too much danger of stuff falling on you.”

“Depends what’s falling on you,” said Don.

“Or who,” said Phil.

“It’s why I never travel by air,” said Barry.

“No, that’s because you’re too fat to get into a seat,” said both Don and Phil.

“That, too, but aeroplanes crash. I went to America once to tour with Barnum’s circus. I didn’t take a plane, though. I was smart, I went by ship.”

“How did the tour go?” Phil asked.

“No idea, I never got there.”

“Why?”

“Because the ship sank.”

“You’d have been better off going by plane, then.”

“No, I wouldn’t – the ship sank because the plane fell on it.”

A fire extinguisher fell on the head of one of the jugglers.

“I thought he was being somewhat overambitious there,” said Councillor Doveston to Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “Do you have any objection to me handing out a few pamphlets while I’m here?”

“I’m beyond caring, me,” said the barman. “I really do think I’ll join the circus.”

“Have any of you seen Jim Pooley?” asked Professor Slocombe.

Jim Pooley looked up at his potential rescuer. “Thank God you’ve arrived,” said he. “I am stuck here, and most indecently, too. Who …”

Jim’s look became a stare. This stare became a look once more. It was a look of horror.

Something black, blacker than black, loomed large over Jim. It was all shadows and darkness and a strange smell came to the nostrils of Jim.

It was the smell of the grave.

“I …” said Jim. “Oh dear God, help me, someone.”

A voice spoke unto Jim, but in a language Jim did not understand. If he had been able so to do, then he would have known the words that were spoken.

Those words were: “There is no help for you.”

Then the figure of darkness plunged forwards.

And forced Jim’s head beneath the cold bath water.

John Omally was back upon the stage. “A big hand for the jugglers,” he said, as a couple of chaps from the windscreen-wiper works who knew first aid (because they’d been on the course, because it got you off work and you got an extra five pounds a week for being a safety officer) fanned at the face of the unconscious juggler and offered him a glass of water (they hadn’t paid much attention while on the course).

“Next up,” said John, “is another local band. They’re going to be big – and I should know, as I have lately become their manager. Please give it up—” (John had heard this expression used upon a Yoof TV programme) “– for Stevie Wonderbra.”

And John Omally left the stage.

But not, as in the case of Elvis, the building.

Professor Slocombe caught John’s attention as he left the stage. “John,” said the professor, “where is Jim?”

“Skiving off,” said Omally. “Went home for a bath, leaving me to do all his work for him. You should give me his job, Professor. I wouldn’t say a word against Jim, of course, he’s my bestest friend, but the responsibility is too much for him. Perhaps we could draw up a contract and—”

“Silence.” Professor Slocombe put his finger to his lips and John fell silent. “I believe Jim to be in danger,” the professor said.

“Danger?” said John. “Jim?” said John. “What danger? What can I do?”

“Just carry on with what you are doing. I will attend to what must be done. The evil is amongst us here, I believe.”

“Evil?” said John, recalling the conversation that he had overheard between the Campbell and the professor. The one he had really been meaning to pluck up enough courage to ask the professor about. “What evil is this?”

“I will be keeping an eye upon you,” said Professor Slocombe. “You have nothing to fear.”

“Me?” said John, “I have nothing to fear?”

Jim had only known true fear on one previous occasion.

And that had involved drowning.

It was when Jim had, as he told it, fallen off the pier at Brighton.

Jim had been a teenager in the days of the Mods and the Rockers. Jim had gone to Brighton with his teenage sweetheart Enid Earles to have one of those dirty weekends that Brighton is famous for. Jim had really loved Enid Earles. They’d been at Grange Junior School in South Ealing together and had met again at The Blue Triangle Club on the night Jeff Beck played there. Jim had thought that it would take a lot of persuading to get Enid to go down to Brighton with him. Jim had called upon all of his powers of persuasion to assist him. And Jim being Jim, and being the big romantic that he was, he had even bought Enid an engagement ring from Mr Ratter’s jewellery shop in the High Street.

In case it was needed.

Enid, however, had gone remarkably willingly. Somewhat too remarkably willingly, as it happened. Enid had really been up for a dirty weekend in Brighton.

Although, as it turned out, not necessarily with Jim.

They had taken an evening stroll upon the pier, which was a very romantic thing to do, in Jim’s opinion. Enid had imbibed somewhat too freely of Babycham in the pier bar. And there had been this young hobbledehoy from Canvey Island there with his mates, and they had been Mods – Ivy-shop loafers, parkas, the whole business. And they had come down on their motor scooters.

Jim and Enid had come on the train.

And there had been some unpleasantness in the bar.

And there were a lot of Canvey Island Mods and only one of Jim.

And the Canvey Island Mod squad had thrown Jim off the end of the pier.

And Jim couldn’t swim.

And Jim had sunk beneath the waves and the last thing he’d seen was the face of Enid, laughing at him. The Canvey Island Mod was kissing her neck.

And the fear of impending death had been so great.

And the water had been so cold.

And Jim had woken up in the back of an ambulance.

But there was no ambulance now to wake up in.

And Jim’s head was beneath the cold bath water.

And there was no breath left in the lungs of Jim Pooley.

And he could see once more the laughing face of Enid Earles.