Professor Slocombe leapt down from the stage.

It was an impressive leap. Old Pete, who had not left his barstool, was mightily impressed by it. For one thing, it was the grace of the leap – it appeared to be in slow motion. And the very scale of the leap, too, for it was a leap that travelled the entire length of the bar.

“Unhand that man.” The voice of the professor rang out once more. Old Pete gazed towards the subject of this command, but could see nothing. Nothing but a curious darkness that seemed to engulf the rear fire door beyond the bar counter.

“Release him, I say.” The professor, his feet now once more upon the floor, upon the unspeakable carpet, raised his hands above his head. And to Old Pete’s amazement the area of darkness at the door appeared to coalesce into the figure of a man. And behind this man another figure appeared – that of John Omally. And John Omally sank to his knees and then fell forward on to his face.

And then Old Pete – and indeed Councillor Doveston, who had also remained upon his barstool, for, being ancient, as was Pete, what chance would they really have had by joining in with the panicking? And also, it had to be said, Norman, who had been cowering and constructing for himself a makeshift gas mask from ale-soaked beer mats – each and all of these three were forced to shelter their eyes from the glare.

It began as sparklets of light issuing from the fingertips of Professor Slocombe. And these sparklets grew into a blinding light and this light swept towards the figure of darkness that now stood defiantly before the professor.

And so the three observers did not see the gush of rainbow colours as the figure of darkness dissolved into absolute nothingness.

John Omally awoke, coughing and gagging, to find himself no longer in The Stripes Bar but in the study of Professor Slocombe, sprawled upon an overstuffed chaise-longue.

John caught his breath and coughed and gagged some more. And then words came to him and John managed, “Jim. Where is Jim?”

“Jim is fine,” said the professor. “Have no worries for Jim.”

“I do.” John tried to rise, but fell back in exhaustion.

“He’s fine,” said the voice of Mahatma Campbell. And John looked up to see this fellow standing framed in the opening of the professor’s French windows. Mahatma Campbell held in his arms the prone and lifeless-looking body of Jim Pooley.

“Jim!” cried John. “What have you done to him?”

“He’ll be fine,” said the Campbell. “I got to him in time.” And he carried Jim to a fireside chair and dropped him into it.

“Careful,” said John, coughing somewhat more.

“I’ll raise Jim to consciousness,” said the professor. “And I think some drinks are called for.” And he rang the little Burmese brass bell upon his desk.

“Drinks,” said John, “and an explanation also. What have you got us into, Professor? That man who attacked me – he wasn’t a man.”

“All in good time,” said the professor.

“Now is the best time there is.”

“Then at least wait until I have awakened Jim.”

Gammon brought drinks upon a tray: a large decanter of whisky and four large glasses.

Professor Slocombe drew Jim Pooley into consciousness. Jim spewed water then took to coughing and gagging.

“A spell of disablement was placed upon him,” said the Campbell as he sampled Scotch and found it pleasing. “A darkster entered his dwelling and pushed his head ’neath his bathwater. I’d been keeping an eye out as you told me to, Professor. I crept up upon it and struck its head from its shoulders with the claymore you’d blessed for that purpose.”

“What is going on here?” Omally demanded to be told.

“When Jim is his old self again,” said the professor.

“I almost am,” said the sodden and shivering Pooley. “I will be when I’ve had a glass of Scotch. And Christ’s cap and old brown dog!” exclaimed Pooley. “I’m naked.”

“We did observe that,” said John, “but I, for one, was too polite to mention it.”

“You?” Jim gawped at the Campbell. “You carried me naked through the streets of Brentford?” Jim covered himself with a velvet cushion.

“I’ll have Gammon bring you some clothes.” Professor Slocombe reached towards his brass bell.

But Gammon was already standing in the inner doorway. “I felt that our nudist guest might feel the need for these,” he said, proffering a set of silk pyjamas and a dressing gown.

The fire blazed away in the fireplace and offered warmth to Jim, who sat before it cradling his glass of Scotch in trembling fingers, well dressed in PJs and a dressing gown, but still in a state of shock and no small terror.

“I am so sorry,” said Professor Slocombe. “I never thought it would come to this. Well, not quite so soon, anyway.”

“Not so soon?” said Omally. “You set us up for something terrible. You betrayed our trust in you.”

“I know it appears that way, but it was not my intention.”

Jim looked towards John. It was quite clear to Jim that something terrible had happened to John also.

“Sorry I missed the Benefit Night,” said Pooley foolishly. “How did it go? Did you raise a lot of money?”

“He’s in shock,” said Omally. “Look what you’ve done to him.”

“I am sorry,” said Professor Slocombe, easing himself into the fireside chair opposite Jim. “The two of you deserve an explanation and I will give it to you. You will not like it, but I will give it to you just the same.”

“What about the team?” Jim asked. “They didn’t get too drunk, did they, John? They’ll be all right for tomorrow’s game?”

“They’re fine,” John assured Jim. “They didn’t get drunk at all. I had the brewery knock up a special batch of non-alcoholic beer – Team Special. The team may have thought they were getting drunk, but they weren’t.”

“You’re a genius,” said Jim. “Where am I, by the way? This doesn’t look like my bedroom.”

“He is in shock,” said Professor Slocombe. “Perhaps we should speak of these matters on the morrow.”

“We’ll speak of them now,” said John. “You have put the life of my bestest friend in danger – and my own, but that is by the by. Tell us what is going on and what you have got us involved in.”

“Indeed. Mahatma, if you would be so kind, would you kindly refresh the glasses of my guests?”

Mahatma Campbell poured Scotch for John and Jim.

“What I am about to tell you,” said Professor Slocombe, “is the truth as far as I know it to be. You may choose not to believe it. Indeed, the Buddha himself said, ‘Doubt everything and find your own truth.’ But I say unto you, I believe this to be the truth.”

“Go on,” said Omally.

“Firstly,” said the professor, “it is essential that Brentford United win the FA Cup. This is what it is all about.”

John Omally sighed, loudly and pointedly. And he coughed a little, too, as he still had a cough or two left in him. “Let me get ahead of you here,” he said. “Are you suggesting that whatever attacked me and attempted to murder Jim has something to do with football?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Oh,” said John. “So what attacked us, demons raised by a rival team? What would that team be, then – Hell United?”

“Hull United?” said Jim. “Are we playing them tomorrow? I thought it was Penge.”

“Why don’t you take a little sleep, Jim?” said John. “I’ll wake you up when all this is over and take you home.”

“It would probably be better if both of you spent the night here,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Better and better,” said John. “Get your head down, Jim, and keep it down until morning. I’ll mind your Scotch for you.”

“I can mind my own Scotch, thank you,” said Jim. “How were The Rock Gods? Were they good?”

“Fair to middling,” said John. “You didn’t miss much. Now please go on, Professor.”