Jim took the packet from the shopkeeper’s hand and weighed it in one of his own. “Ten for the price of five,” he said, digging coinage from his pocket. “I do believe that this is going to be my lucky day.”

And so Jim left Peg’s Paper Shop, a packet of Dadarillos in his top pocket and a Sporting Life tucked beneath his right arm, and pressed on about his daily business. His next port of call was The Plume Café, once patronised by Karl Marx, who had by chance penned his later-to-be-discarded script for Manifesto: The Musical at the very window table at which Jim now chose to take his breakfast.

The Plume Café is worthy of description and will receive it in due course.[3]

Jim downed eggs, bacon rashers, Brentford bangers and the inevitable fried slice and, having concluded his repast, dabbed a paper napkin of the gorgeous gingham persuasion about his lips, bade his farewells to The Plume and his hangover and took himself to his very special place.

The bench before the Memorial Library.

It was here, when the weather held to fair, that Jim sat daily to peruse the pages of The Sporting Life and compose the ever-elusive winning Six-Horse Super-Yankee.

Jim took from his pocket the pack of Dadarillo Super-Dooper Kings. For one composing the Super Yankee, one who would be King, the synchronicity was not lost upon Jim.

“I feel certain,” said Jim to himself, “that this really is going to be my lucky day.”

Jim opened the pack, took from it a cigarette of considerable length and placed it in his mouth. He pulled his ancient Zippo lighter from the pocket of his ancient waistcoat and brought forth fire from it. And puffed upon his cigarette.

“A mellow smoke,” said the connoisseur. “Perhaps lacking the coquettish charm of the Wild Woodbine or the aromatic allure of the Capstan Full Strength, but nevertheless …”

He took a deeper draw and collapsed into a fit of coughing. “First of the day,” he managed between convulsions. “Always a goodie, but a killer.”

And then Jim applied himself to the task at hand.

They were here, he knew it. And they were: those six horses that, if correctly deduced to be the winners, could transport the deducer of same from poverty to riches in a few short hours. It all seemed oh-so-simple.

But would that it were so.

Jim puffed some more upon his fag and cast a professional eye down the columns of horses. There were many here that he knew, many that had let him down and thwarted his plans, many others that had sprung from nowhere to aid in the thwarting. But the winners were here. And he should be able to find them – a man of his calibre, a man of his dedication. Jim focused his eyes upon the page and did deep concentratings. Fiercely deep these concentratings were, fiercely deep and intent.

“Vagabond.”

Jim blinked his eyes. Vagabond? Was this the voice of divine inspiration? Which race was Vagabond in?

“Vagabond!”

Jim glanced up. A fellow was peering in his direction – a painfully pale but smartly dressed fellow peering from the open window of a very smart-looking car. A smart-looking car that Jim had not heard pull up at the kerbside in front of him.

“Vagabond!” this fellow persisted.

“I am no vagabond,” said Jim. “I’m an entrepreneur.”

“Entrepreneur, then,” said the fellow. “You’re a local bod, are you not?”

“Born and bred and proud of these facts,” said Jim, adding, “Please go away now, I’m busy.”

“Need directions, local bod, entrepreneur, or whatever.”

Jim peered back at the fellow peering at him. “Why do you peer so?” Pooley asked.

The fellow’s head withdrew through the open window of the smart-looking car and then re-emerged in the company of a stylish pair of mirrored sunspecs. “Light’s a bit bright,” said the fellow. “Better now.”

“I’m so glad,” said Jim. “But please go away.”

“Need directions to the town hall.”

“Why?” Jim enquired.

“Because I don’t know the way.”

“I mean, why do you want to go to the town hall?”

“None of your damned business, nosy vagabond layabout lout!” said the fellow in the mirrored shades.

“Please yourself, then,” said Jim, returning to his concentrations.

“So which way is it?” the fellow demanded. “Speak up, moron: the town hall.”

“Right at the top and then third on your left,” said Jim, smiling sweetly.

“Fine.” The head withdrew. And then the head reappeared. “Is that a Dadarillo Super-Dooper King you’re smoking?” the mouth in this head enquired.

“Actually, it is,” said Jim, smiling even more sweetly than before.

“Splendid,” said the fellow. “Recommend them to your friends. If you have any friends, you loser.”

“What?” exclaimed Jim.

But the window closed with an expensive swish and the car departed soundlessly.

Jim Pooley returned once more to his concentrations. The rude man’s words might normally have upset the sensitive Jim, but not, it seemed, upon this day.

Upon this day, and at this particular moment, Jim felt mighty fine. He generally felt pretty fine, but then he was unfailingly cheerful. But upon this particular day and at this particular moment he felt more than pretty fine. He actually felt exceedingly fine.

Jim took from its packet another Dadarillo Super-Dooper King and lit it from the failing butt of the first.

“I really, truly, truly feel,” said Jim, drawing on this cigarette and speaking through the smoke, “that this really, truly, truly is going to be my lucky day.”

Neville the part-time barman sat with his arms firmly folded and his knees and heels together. He was not, however, sitting where he would have preferred to have been sitting – to whit, at his favourite corner table in the saloon bar of The Flying Swan.

Rather, Neville sat, most uncomfortably, for the seat was hard and his smart shoes greatly pained his feet, in a chair of the utility persuasion in the council chamber of Brentford town hall.

Because Neville the part-time barman was also Neville the part-time councillor.

The lads who frequented the saloon bar of The Swan had put Neville’s name forward (for a bit of jolly) at the last local council elections, and so great was Neville’s reputation for being “a good man” that he had been voted into one of the two seats on the council which had recently become available due to unforeseen circumstances. Whatever those may have been.

Neville now occupied one of these two seats. Most uncomfortably.

Neville’s knowledge of local politics extended little further than a summation of opinions postulated within the confines of The Swan’s saloon bar, generally after what is known as “the Ten O’Clock Watershed” – that time after which men have sunk sufficiently in their cups to spout all manner of opinionated toot with complete and utter conviction. And make many promises that they will never keep. And no one blames them for it in the morning.

Because it’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something.

Neville had accepted his post because of his sense of duty to the borough that he loved in the genuine hope that he might be able to make a difference. He didn’t trust any of the other councillors. They were all up to some kind of no-good, Neville just knew it. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew it all the same. Local councillors were always up to some kind of no-good, always had been, always would be. It was also a tradition, or an old charter, or something. And it went on in every local council up and down the land.

Neville sat and glowered and whistled under his breath. A low and ominous tune, it was, and one that suited the scene.