“A G and T,” said Enid Earles to Tracy the temporary barmaid at The Stripes Bar. Enid was married now, with three kids. She hadn’t married the Mod from Canvey Island, though. She had married the butcher’s lad who had got her up the duff at an offal-rendering convention in Isleworth. She’d put on a lot of weight since her teenage years, but this hadn’t lessened her enthusiasm for dangerous sexual liaisons with strangers.

“What danger?” John spoke closely into the ear of Professor Slocombe. Stevie Wonderbra were making a whole lot of noise now – though good noise it was, all funk and soul and everything.

“That lead girl singer has an Adam’s apple,” Old Pete, now up at the bar for a doorman’s freeman, observed, for although his hearing was ropy, his eyesight was acute.

“Just trust me,” said the professor. “All will be well.”

“But you said Jim was in danger,” said John. “What kind of danger? Real danger? Is someone trying to kill him?”

“Calm yourself, John. No one is going to kill Jim Pooley.”

Hands clapped together in wild applause. Stevie Wonderbra waved and wiggled their hips about.

“That bass player’s legs need a shave,” Old Pete observed.

“Tell me what is going on,” said John to the professor.

“Now is neither the time nor the place.”

“I’m going to Jim.”

“Stay here, beside me. All will be well.”

“Well, well, well,” said Old Pete, drawing out his pocket watch and perusing the face. “Ten o’clock already.”

Now, there are sometimes moments of silence even in the most crowded bar. Generally these occur at precisely twenty minutes past the hour, or twenty minutes to. Why this is, nobody knows, though many have their suspicions. However, upon this particular evening, the moment of silence occurred on the stroke of ten.

And from the distance somewhere came a sound: a dull but powerful thump, it was. It rattled the optics behind the bar.

“What was that?” was the question that issued from many mouths.

“Sounded to me,” said Dave Quimsby, whose very large ears rarely failed him, “to be the sound of a lock-up garage in Abaddon Street exploding. Third from the bottom end.”

Norman heard the words of Quimsby, as indeed did many other folk. Norman turned his eyes upon Old Pete.

“Don’t you turn your eyes upon me,” said the elder. “I told you those computer parts were dangerous.”

Norman opened his mouth to issue accusations but thought better of it and tried once more to open an account at the bar.

Peg was chatting with Scoop Molloy from the Brentford Mercury.

“Yes,” Scoop was saying, “apparently it’s a sure thing. The team’s tactics have been formulated by an international expert. It’s just a matter of the team turning up and going through the motions, really. The Brentford Mercury’s name is going on all the team’s shirts. Cost an arm and a leg, but what publicity, eh?”

Peg viewed the chatty young man. She’d noticed that he had a nice little bum.

Scoop Molloy viewed Peg. He’d always had this thing for fat women.

“You have magnificent tits,” said Scoop Molloy.

“Would you care for a shag?” asked Peg.

“Now, don’t call me crude,” said Old Pete to Councillor Doveston, “but between the two of us, I’d shag that.”

“I do call you crude,” said the councillor. “But what is it that you’d shag?”

“Any one of them,” said Old Pete, pointing a wrinkly paw towards the side of the stage. “The Beverley Sisters.”

“Why are they in wheelchairs?” asked the councillor.

“Saving their legs for the dancing, I expect. I can never remember their names though, can you?”

“Larry, Curly and Mo,” said Councillor Doveston.

“I won’t be a mo,” said John. “I’m just going to check the pumps – can’t have the beer running out, can we?”

“You weren’t thinking of running out yourself, were you, John?” Professor Slocombe asked.

“Perish the thought,” said John and he pushed his way into the crowd.

Stevie Wonderbra had finished their set with a Stevie Wonder number.[26]

Howard wheeled the Beverleys across the stage, set them in a row, adjusted the microphones before them, then climbed down and began to jiggle with his remote control.

John made his way to the door and prepared to take his leave at the hurry-up.

But, to John’s consternation, the door was closed and apparently locked.

“That’s probably a breach of fire regulations,” said John, rattling the door. “No, hang about, this door bolts from the inside, and it’s not bolted.”

John rattled at the door once more, but the door remained firm. It wasn’t going to budge. “Someone’s jammed it from the outside,” was John’s opinion, and he made off in further haste to seek another exit.

“Oh, they’re up,” said Councillor Doveston, “although they do look a bit shaky on their pins.”

“They still look good for their ages,” said Old Pete. “What do you think they must be in years, now? Seventy? Eighty?”

“Eighty at least,” said the councillor. “And do you know,” and he spoke behind his hand, “I seem to recall that I shagged the one in the middle about fifty years ago. I was greatly attracted to her beehive hairdo. I was in the music biz then, you know. I was one of Johnny Kidd’s original Pirates.”

“You too?” said Old Pete.

The door at the other end of the bar was closed, too, and John Omally couldn’t open it. Sounds, however, came from beyond this door. John recognised these sounds: they were the sounds of passion. John put his ear to the door.

“Do it to me, big boy,” he heard the voice of Peg urging.

“Open this door!” shouted Omally.

The sounds of passion died. The sound of a trouser zip being pulled up was faintly to be heard.

“I know you’re out there,” called Omally. “Open the door, this is an emergency.”

Sounds of the door being rattled now came to John and he did some rattling of his own. But this door, like the last, would not be opened.

“Rear door,” said John to himself. “Door leading to the fire escape.” And John was off on his frantic way once more.

“Great to see them once more,” said Councillor Doveston. “They haven’t lost their old magic, have they? They wobble a bit, but they can still belt out a number.”

“So which one did you say you’d shagged?” Old Pete asked. “Larry, was it, or Mo?”

“Not sure now,” said the councillor, “but I recall that she was a bit curly, if you know what I mean.”

Norman, who had given up on getting a drink for himself, was tucking into whatever anyone put down near him. “You have no respect for women,” he told Councillor Doveston.

“That’s true,” said the councillor, “but I display no prejudice. I have no respect for men, either. Bugger off.”

“Women are precious,” said Norman. “Well, some of them are.”

“I respect bees,” said councillor Doveston, “and I’m getting up a petition to save the Africanus psychopathia.”

“That’s the killer bee,” said Norman. “Why would you want to save that?”

“Bees only sting you if you upset them. Here, have a pamphlet. You send me a quid and you can adopt a bee from one of my hives. You get an adoption certificate and everything.”

“That sounds like a sound business proposition,” said Old Pete.

“Would you care for a pamphlet, then?”

“No,” said Old Pete, “but my bog is full of bluebottles. Bung us half a quid and you can have the lot. I’ll even paint stripes on them, if you want.”