“It smells of the grave,” said John.

Jim peeped into a cabinet. “What are they fossils of?” he asked. “I’ve never seen anything like these before. They’re like octopuses, but with wings.”

John shrugged. He had seen something more interesting. At the centre of the terrible room stood a kind of altar, heavily carved with scenes of damnation, tormented forms twisted in anguish, demonic creatures and fallen angels of Hell. Upon this altar there rested a red velvet cushion, and upon this cushion, a thing of great beauty indeed.

It was a gemstone the size of a golf ball. It glittered and twinkled and seemed to radiate a curious light of its own. John cast a covetous eye over it.

Pooley said, “What do you think is in there?”

John turned away from the altar. “In where?” he asked.

“Behind those big doors,” said Jim, pointing to a pair of very big doors set into the furthest wall. Elaborately carved were these doors, with further scenes of Hellish horror. “Strongroom, do you think?”

John approached the doors. “No sign of a lock,” said he. “Let’s have a look.”

Pooley drew back. “I don’t think so, John,” he said. “This place reeks of evil and I have a very bad feeling that something really ghastly lurks beyond those doors.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” And with reckless abandon, John Omally put his weight to the great doors and eased them slowly open.

Beyond lay another room.

And John looked in.

And Jim looked in.

Then John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

And then they both turned hard upon their heels.

And ran screaming in terror for their lives.

Professor Slocombe looked grimly upon the two white-faced and shivering men who sat in the armchairs to either side of his fire. The elderly scholar poured two large glasses of Scotch and pushed these into the trembling hands of his guests.

“What you did was beyond reckless,” he told them. “And I blame you for this.” The professor turned to confront the Campbell, who stood beside the French windows, his hand upon the pummel of his claymore. “To let them slip away from you like that—”

“They left their ales half-drunk,” said Mahatma Campbell.

“Yes.” The professor smiled wanly. “That would probably have fooled me, also.” And he turned back to his ashen guests. “Tell me what you saw,” he said.

Jim’s teeth chattered noisily.

John said, “I don’t know. But it was horrible. Terrible.” And he hid his eyes with his free hand and poured Scotch down his throat with the other.

“You said something about tentacles,” said the professor, “and bat’s wings and eyes.”

“T-t-too much,” stuttered Jim. “Too much to think.”

“I see.” The professor took himself over to one of the burgeoning bookcases and withdrew a slim volume bound in yellow calfskin. He leafed slowly through this and then he held the open book towards Jim. “Is this what you saw?” he asked.

Jim glanced at the page and went “Aaaagh!”

“I thought as much.” Professor Slocombe closed the book.

“What is it?” John asked. “You know what it is.”

“This book,” Professor Slocombe tapped at the volume, “is a first edition signed by the author – with a dedication to myself, I am proud to add. It is the work of one Howard Phillips Lovecraft. The illustration was drawn by the legendary Count David Carson. It is Lord Cthulhu, the Great Old One.”

Jim’s glass rattled against his teeth. “It was a monster from Hell,” he managed to say.

“Not from Hell,” said the professor, “but from a time when the universe was chaos. When God said, ‘Let there be light,’ the Great Old Ones, the lords of chaos and terror, were banished. Cthulhu and his kingdom sank into the ocean depths, where they were to remain for ever – not dead, but forever dreaming, dreaming of their return to rule the world of men. Legend has it that Cthulhu can only be raised by a powerful spell activated by a sacred stone known as the Eye of Utu. But as legend also has it that the Eye is hidden where no man can find it, I am at a loss to understand how Starling achieved his evil ends.

“Most believed Lovecraft to be either mad or possessed of an overly morbid imagination, and Cthulhu and the Eye nothing but myth – a fireside tale to trouble the sleep of children. But it would appear that the sceptics were sadly mistaken, and that what I always suspected to be the case is indeed reality. This William Starling has somehow raised Cthulhu from sunken R’leah and brought him to the very heights of Chiswick.”

“Real bomb,” chattered Pooley. “Real bomb, John, blow the monster up.”

“I’m with you there, my friend,” said John.

“No.” Professor Slocombe raised a slender hand. “You two will not return to that building. I forbid it.”

“That thing is evil.” Jim slurped down further Scotch. “Pure evil. We felt it. I all but pooed myself.”

“I think you did poo yourself a little,” said John, “by the niff of you.”

“Shut up, John. It must be destroyed, Professor.”

“Oh, yes, indeed it must, but that is for myself and the Campbell and others that I can call into service to deal with. You must continue with your work: taking the team on to victory.”

“Forget that,” said Jim. “That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“On the contrary, it matters more than ever. Griffin Park must remain inviolate. The serpent must not be released.”

“Blow up the Consortium building,” said John. “That will sort everything out. Could I have some more Scotch, please?”

“Getting your strength back, are you?” The professor poured John another Scotch.

“Me, too,” said Jim, finishing his.

Professor Slocombe obliged. “We cannot blow up the Consortium’s headquarters,” he said. “It is in the heart of Chiswick – hundreds of people could be killed. It is unthinkable.”

“That creature is unthinkable,” said Jim. “And impossible, too. This is Brentford, Professor, the real world. This kind of stuff does not belong in the real world. The real world is buses and babies and bedtime. It isn’t this.”

“Bedtime?” said John.

“I couldn’t think of anything else beginning with ‘b’.”

“Breasts,” said John. “Boobs, bosoms, b—”

“Shut up, John, this is serious.”

“I know, my friend, I know.”

A brass candlestick-style telephone upon the professor’s desk began to ring. The old man stared at it in alarm.

“Your phone is ringing,” Omally said.

“It shouldn’t do that,” said the professor.

“It’s what they do,” said John. “I had one of my own that did, but Norman blew it up.”

“This one should not ring, John, because this one isn’t plugged in.”

“Ah,” said John Omally.

Professor Slocombe sat down behind his desk, took up the telephone receiver and put it to his ear. Words came to him and the old man’s face became pale. At length he replaced the receiver and his fingers trembled as he did so.

“Who was it?” John asked.

“William Starling,” said Professor Slocombe, pouring Scotch for himself. “The managing director, chairman and owner of the company that calls itself the Consortium. He wishes to have a meeting with me.”

Pooley was staring at the telephone. “How did he do that?” asked the puzzled Jim, “if there are no wires?”

“He wants back what you stole from him.” Professor Slocombe stared hard at John Omally.

“Stole?” And then John’s fingers tightened on his bulging trouser pocket.

“You brought it here,” said Professor Slocombe, “to my house, and I was unaware.”

“It just sort of fell into my pocket. Heat of the moment. He can have it back, I don’t want it.”

“Show it to me, John.”

“Yes, sir.” John fished into his pocket and brought out the gem – the golfball-sized gem that had rested on the cushion upon the dreadful altar in the terrible room. It glistened and flickered; rays of light seemed to emanate from it.