John Omally wanted out. He wanted to get to Jim. Jim was in danger. Big danger. And John would never be able to forgive himself if something was to happen to Jim. Something that he, John, could have stopped from happening.

The door that led to the fire escape would not be opened. John fought with this door. This was the last door. There was no other way out of The Stripes Bar. The door remained impervious to John’s assault. It was a sturdy door, as were the others, made sturdy to withstand the attentions of the light-fingered gentry who targeted the rear doors of licensed premises.

Regularly.

“Open!” shouted John, kicking at the door.

A curious gurgling sound caused John to turn his head.

A gaunt, black figure looked down upon him.

“Door won’t open,” said John. “Give me a hand, please.”

The gaunt, black figure extended a hand. Clothed in a black leather glove, it was. The forefinger of this hand waggled at John and the blackly hatted head slowly shook.

“Who are you?” asked John. And then a certain coldness entered his being, a certain feeling of dread, of not-rightness. And a smell entered the nostrils of John.

And it was the smell of the grave.

“What is that smell?” asked Councillor Doveston.

“Beer,” said Norman. “Team Special, all the team are guzzling it down.”

And so the team were, and singing, too, a limerick kind of a song about a young girl from St Mawes.

“Not that smell,” said Councillor Doveston. “It’s a kind of electrical smell.”

“Ah,” said Norman, “an electrical smell. Let me have a sniff.” And he sniffed. “Definitely an electrical smell. Ozone, that is – or possibly it’s called Freon – but it’s one of my favourite smells.”

“It’s growing a bit strong,” said Old Pete, “and my sense of smell has been somewhat impaired since I had my nose blown off at Ypres in the first lot.”

“They did a good job sewing it back on,” said the councillor. “I lost a kneecap at Gallipoli, or was it Skegness? Anyway, I put it somewhere.”

“It is getting strong,” said Norman. “It seems to be coming from the equipment on the stage.”

“It’s coming from one of the Beverley Sisters,” said Dave Quimsby. “I can hear things popping in her neck – like transistors, I think.”

“The Beverley Transistors?” said Old Pete. “That doesn’t sound right. Which one is it coming from?”

“Larry, I think. Yes, definitely. You can see a bit of smoke now.”

Old Pete stared. And Councillor Doveston stared. And Mr Rumpelstiltskin stared. And Norman stared. And so did Dave Quimsby.

And so did the lady in the straw hat.

Who hadn’t said anything much for a while.

“That Beverley Sister is on fire,” she said.

And even though she hadn’t said anything much for a while and had indeed uttered only six words now, they were potent words. Or at least one of them was.

And that one was the word “fire”.

“Fire exit,” said John. “Must get out of the fire exit.”

He could have said anything, really, such as “get away from me”, which would have been equally appropriate.

The figure in black plunged forward at John.

“Get away from me!” shouted this man, putting up his fists. The figure was upon him, engulfing him in a terrible blackness. John swung fists, but to his further horror, for horror it was that now filled his being, he found his fists to be swinging at nothing at all.

A cold, black force surrounded him, pressed forward upon him, smothering, consuming. But John could not strike it down. The figure was more like a fog than a man – a stifling, suffocating fog.

“Help!” cried John, but somehow the blackness swallowed up his words.

“Help!” cried someone else. And someone else cried, “Fire!”

Fire! Fire! Fire! The word was repeated by mouth after mouth. And indeed a fire there was.

A Beverley floundered about on stage, smoke issuing freely from the cleavage of her pink chiffon gown. Howard tapped madly at the remote control and the Beverley took to beating at her chest, in the manner once favoured by Tarzan.

“For the love of God,” cried Norman, “put her out, someone.”

“I think the fire extinguisher got broken when it fell on the juggler’s head,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “Throw your beer. Everyone throw your beer.”

“Get real,” said Ernest Muffler, as folk took to panicking all around and about him. “Throwing beer is a last resort, surely.”

“I’ll save you, love,” said Old Pete. “Chips,” he told his half-terrier who, although not having received a previous mention, was nevertheless, as ever, at his side, “go and piddle on the lady.”

Chips slipped his collar and hastened to oblige.

Larry Beverley, however, now appeared to be beyond even Chips’ piddling, even though the dog was a prolific footpath-fouler. Larry Beverley was now well ablaze. She – or possibly it is more tasteful to refer to she as it, considering that there wasn’t really too much of the original she involved – stumbled about on the stage, flaming away like a good’n and bashing into The Rock God’s speakers, setting them afire.

“Fire!” The word was now a scream. And the stampede had begun. Folk did as folk always do in such a situation: panic and put themselves first.

“Don’t panic!” Mr Rumpelstiltskin shinned up on to the bar counter. “Nobody panic,” he shouted. “Everything will be all right.”

“That’s impressive,” said Old Pete, who hadn’t left his barstool, “taking control like that. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.”

“This bar is fitted with a fire-defence system,” shouted Mr Rumpelstiltskin, which lessened the panic, the pushing and the shoving somewhat. “It will come on in just a moment and extinguish the flames.”

“Sprinklers,” said Norman. “Good fire security that. Nobody panic” He joined his voice with Mr Rumpelstiltskin’s. “The sprinklers will kick in in a moment.”

“Better than sprinklers,” said Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “It’s a halon system – American chum of mine put it in.”

“Halon?” said Norman. “That’s not for public places. That gas is deadly if you breathe it in.”

“Panic!” shouted Mr Rumpelstiltskin. “To the exit doors, everyone.”

And he launched himself from the bar counter into the pushing, shoving crowd.

Who had now reached the exit doors.

The exit doors that would not open.

John Omally, swallowed up in darkness, was pressed against one of these very exit doors.

Kicking, stamping, screaming, panicking, the crowd surged towards the exit doors – but only those before the bar counter. John was on his own. On stage now, all three Beverleys crackled and flared. Amps and speakers took fire.

The flames licked at the low ceiling, licked at the halon system.

It was mayhem now. It was fear and horror.

Death by fire or suffocating gas.

Crushed folk were passing from consciousness. The weak were being trampled by the strong.

And …

“Stop!”

A voice rang out above the screams and cries of horror and pain. A single voice that spoke with authority. And something more.

“Stop!”

The crowd seemed to freeze.

And to turn.

And to look.

Towards …

Professor Slocombe.

The ancient scholar stood upon the stage, the flames roaring about him.

“Cease!” Professor Slocombe flung out his fragile arms. A wave of force swept the length of the bar. The flames to either side and behind him froze. Became still. And vanished away.

“And open!”

The exit doors burst from their hinges, flinging themselves away from the building. Folk fled, but somehow in a more orderly fashion. They helped up their fallen comrades, comforted the weak. They fled with dignity.