There was a moment of absolute silence. But this moment was too short to be truly registered by those present, especially because what happened next caught them somewhat unawares and unprepared.

There was a flash, as of lightning, and a sort of a blue arc. It travelled through the base of the Meccano tower, which Norman had neglected to insulate with rubber feet, and it travelled to the brass rail that ran along the edge of the mahogany bar counter. The brass rail that Norman was holding on to. And it travelled to Jim Pooley who was leaning upon Norman’s shoulder and from there to John who was leaning upon Jim’s and from there it travelled every which way, with the exception, so it seemed, of the other tower, to which was connected the light bulb.

And electricity travels fast.

And it travels, also, with vigour.

There is a story, the authenticity of which has yet to be verified, that some years ago a group of Russian scientists drilled a five-mile-deep bore hole in Siberia during a study of plate tectonics. According to this story, their drill bit broke through the ceiling of some underground cavern and a microphone (upon a very long cable) was lowered into the void.

The scientists claim that what they heard, relayed to them from this microphone, was the sound of millions of souls screaming in torment.

The scientists had unwittingly drilled into Hell.

No recording of this hideous cacophony of the damned has ever been played to the general public.

But if it were, then it is odds-on that the sound would be all but identical (although somewhat louder, due to the greater numbers involved) to that which was now to be heard within the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

It was one Hell of a collective scream.

Bodies shook and quivered, eyeballs rolled back into heads, teeth chattered and hair rose upon craniums to such effect that had another casual observer entered the bar at that very moment, he (or she) would have been convinced that he (or she) had entered the Don King lookalike convention.

And sparks flew.

Let us not forget the sparks.

They flew from fingertips and earlobes and privy members, too. And pints of ale bubbled on the bar top and optics shattered and …

Norman found himself barred from The Flying Swan.

Kevin Hurst, the ambulance driver from Brentford Cottage Hospital, offered Neville the bitterest of glares.

“Twice in one week,” he said. “What goes on in this bar? And what is this, anyway – a Don King lookalike convention?”

A thin haze of pale blue smoke still hung in the air of the saloon bar – a saloon bar whose patrons now sat slumped in attitudes of despondency, or lay upon the floor in attitudes of unconsciousness.

Neville, who had escaped electrocution by merit of being on the other side of the bar and consequently touching no one, was hardly able to speak.

Constables Russell Meek and Arthur Mild however, who had lately arrived on the scene, had plenty to say.

“Quietly patrolling, we were,” they told Scoop Molloy, who had his pencil and notebook out, “when we observed the premises illuminate with a fearsome fulguration. Unthinking of our personal safety, we pulled many from the jaws of death. There’ll be medals in this for us, I wouldn’t wonder.”

Scoop scribbled away in his notebook. “Fearsome fulguration. Jaws of death,” said he. “I like that.”

“My mobile phone,” croaked John Omally. “He blew up my mobile phone.”

“And singed my suit,” whinged Pooley.

“It’s what you call a glitch,” Norman explained.

“And how come your hair isn’t standing up?” a lady in a charred and elevated straw hat asked Norman.

John and Jim decided to call it a night. It had been an exciting day for the both of them, and enough was definitely enough.

“I will see you on the morrow,” said John, when they reached Jim’s lodgings.

Jim patted down his hair and cracked his knuckles and licked at his charred fingers. “I thought arresting Norman was somewhat over-zealous on the part of those policemen,” he said.

“They’ll probably let him out in the morning. You have a good sleep now, Jim. I’ll meet you tomorrow lunchtime in The Swan and we’ll discuss what is next to be done with the club.”

“And you can tell me everything that really went on last night,” said Jim. “And don’t think I’ll forget to ask you about it.”

“Goodnight to you, Jim,” said John, heading off for home.

“John,” Jim called after him. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Is it further congratulations you’re looking for?” enquired John, turning back.

“No,” said Jim. “It’s him.”

“Him?” John asked.

“Him,” said Jim. “You, Mr Campbell. Goodnight to you, too. Go along with John.”

“I’m staying,” said the Campbell.

“You’re not staying with me.”

“I’ll be here, outside your door, maintaining the vigil.”

“I’d rather you just went home, thank you very much.”

The Campbell sat down upon the pavement. “Away to your bed, wee laddie,” said he. “I’ll see that no harm comes to you.”

“John,” said Jim, “I don’t like this, John.”

“Humour him,” said John. “He has your interests at heart.”

“But it’s not right. It’s indecent somehow.”

“Goodnight to you, Jim,” said John once more.

Jim Pooley shrugged. “Goodnight to you, John,” said he. “And goodnight to you, Campbell,” he said also.

The night passed without incident, and presently changed into coming day.

Lunchtime of this coming day found John and Jim and the Campbell, who had maintained his vigil outside Jim’s lodgings throughout the night, once more in the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

Neville did not greet his now unbarred patrons with a smile and a merry quip. Neville was very down in the dumps.

“Why me?” he asked. “My only desire is to serve fine ale and maintain a happy bar. What have I done to bring all this down upon me? Have I offended the Gods in some way? Tell me, won’t somebody tell me?”

“You’ve done nothing,” said John, accepting the ale he had ordered and paying for same with the exact amount of pennies and halfpennies. “You’re a good man, Neville. I’m sure you find favour in the eyes of your Gods.”

“I’m seriously thinking about running away with the circus,” said Neville.

“Strike that thought from your mind,” said John. “You are the finest barman in Brentford – probably in the country.”

“You really think so?” Neville preened at his lapels.

“Certainly,” said John. “Do you think you could open a window? It’s still a bit whiffy in here.”

Neville sloped off to open a window.

“He sat outside my place all night long,” Jim whispered to John, turning his eyes towards the Campbell, who sat by the door polishing his claymore with his kilt. “He fair puts the wind up me, John. Couldn’t he be your minder for a while?”

“Take it like a man, Jim,” said John. “You are a man of responsibility now. And there’s a Wednesday-night game coming up. You should be applying your mind to this.”

“I don’t think I’ll survive the season, John. This is all too much for me.”

“You’ll be fine. Let’s take a seat yonder. There are matters to be discussed.”

“Such as what actually happened on Friday night.”

“Oh, that, of course, but first things first. On the strength of the team’s great victory, I think we can bring in some big outborough money. People like to associate themselves with winners. I have one or two ideas that should bring us in a good many pennies.”

“John,” said Jim, “there is something you’re not telling me, something that has to do with the real reason why that lunatic in the kilt is following me around. I demand to be told, John. You’re my bestest friend. Please don’t lie to me.”