That had to be it.

“We’re the new bar staff,” said the first clone.

“I’m Pippa,” said the second clone.

“And I’m Loz,” said the first.

“Bar staff,” whispered Neville.

“Bobby from the brewery sent us,” said Pippa.

“To pep the place up.” Loz looked all around and about. “It’s a bit of a dump, innit?”

“It serves,” said Neville, straightening his shoulders and his clip-on bow tie. “It’s a traditional hostelry.”

“We’ll soon liven it up,” said Pippa. “Do you want to show us how those beer-pump thingies work?”

Neville groaned, internally. He was no misogynist, was Neville, he wasn’t anti-women or anything. Nor was he one of those fellows who avowed that “a woman’s place is in the home”. Oh no, Neville had always considered that women should be treated as equals. They should be allowed to go out and work. Nay, they should be encouraged to do so. Let them pull their weight and do their fair share of the graft, rather than loafing about at home watching daytime TV and breeding babies. Let them work if they so wished.

But not in a bar.

And certainly not in his bar.

And then there was that other thing. That other thing that Neville never spoke about. That personal thing. That private thing. That thing about him and women. That thing about his problem with women.

That, pure and simply, they terrified him.

Neville had never been a ladies’ man. He lacked the confidence, he feared rejection, he feared for his performance, sex-wise, feared, that he might be scorned and laughed at. So he kept his distance. He worked in an environment where he was safe, where there was a sturdy counter between him and the world of women. And where the world of women did not encroach too freely.

Certainly women drank in The Swan, but they were far outnumbered by men. And it was usually men who bought the women drinks, so Neville could remain uninvolved.

“Hello,” said Loz. “Anybody home? You seem to have drifted off somewhere, Mr Neville.”

“No,” said Neville, doing further straightenings. “I’m fine. A lot on my mind. A very responsible job, keeping bar. A lot of technical details.”

“I’m sure we’ll soon figure it all out,” said Pippa and she leaned forward across the bar counter, her breasts provocatively caressing the polished bar top. And Loz did likewise and Neville took a big step back.

Colliding with the optics.

“Have you worked in a bar before?” he enquired, clinging to his dignity as a drowning man will cling to the matchstick of proverb.[32]

Loz shook her beautiful head. “Not behind one,” she said, “but we’ve danced in lots. We’re pole-dancers.”

“You don’t look Polish,” said Neville.

Loz looked at Pippa.

And Pippa looked at Loz.

And both laughed coquettishly.

Neville clutched at his heart.

“So do you want to show us how these pump thingies work?” Pippa asked once more.

“And should we take our tops off now, so we can all get the feel of things for the lunchtime session? Mr Neville? Are you all right? Wake up, Mr Neville.”

“Are you all right, John?” asked Jim Pooley, looking up from his office desk, upon which rested the morning’s copy of the Brentford Mercury and tapping the ash from his smoking Dadarillo into the ashtray shaped like a football boot. A cup of tea steamed at his elbow and a smile shone out from his face.

“I’ve just come from the Cottage Hospital.” John sat himself down in the visitor’s chair before Jim’s desk and availed himself of Jim’s cuppa. “I think I’ve managed to talk them out of suing, although those town councillors were pretty surly. But no one seems too badly hurt, except for Mr Ratter, who fell on to a casual observer in the crowd.”

“Didn’t that cushion his fall?” Jim took back his tea and sipped at it.

“The casual observer blacked Mr Ratter’s eye.” John re-availed himself of Jim’s tea.

“Harsh,” said Jim. “But you’re all right?”

“I wasn’t in the box when it collapsed. I was being interviewed by constables Mild and Meek, who were making enquiries regarding the Voices of Free Radio Brentford.”

“You denied all knowledge, of course.”

“Of course. They said they’ll be coming back later to speak to you about it.”

“You didn’t put me in the frame?”

“Of course I didn’t. I think we can expect a visit from the Health and Safety people also. I’ll do my best to keep them at arm’s length.”

“If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” said Jim, but he said it with a certain brightness in his voice, with a certain unfailing cheerfulness. He took his teacup from John’s fingers, but found it was now empty.

“Still,” said John, turning the newspaper towards himself and running an eye across it, “you seem perky enough. ‘Bertie’s Boogie Bees’, eh – you’re making a name for yourself.”

“My name isn’t Bertie, but I know what you mean. I’m really beginning to enjoy this, John. It’s a great old game, this football lark.”

“The shopkeeping victims of the executive-box catastrophe might not agree with you, what with them also having had their shop windows broken and their premises looted and everything.”

“These things happen,” said Jim, puffing contentedly on his Dadarillo. “There’s nothing new about football hooliganism.”

“There is in Brentford.”

“Then it’s a cross we’ll have to bear. You could suggest to them that they get shutters for their windows.”

Omally made a face.

“You already made the suggestion?” said Jim.

“The club is paying for these security improvements,” said John. “I had no choice. But don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll sue us for compensation or anything. It was an accident, wasn’t it? And accidents will happen. And I did warn them not to stamp their feet. I’m sure it won’t cost too much to cobble together a few window shutters.”

Jim Pooley ground out his cigarette. “And where are we going to find the money?”

“Perhaps we could get an advance from Norman.”

“I’m not going to be put off,” said Jim, “no matter what. After all the chaos and bloodshed last night I know I should be, but I’m not. We won again, John – ten-two. We’re heading for the record books here. The only way is up.”

“If I wore a hat,” said John, “I’d take it off to you.”

“We’re going to win this thing, John. I feel it in my fingers.”

“Do you feel it in your toes?”

“I do. So you’ll probably want to start making some more calls on your portable phone.”

“Will I?” John asked. “And is there any more tea?”

“You will,” said Jim, “and there isn’t. Firstly you must get on to Hairy Dave and Jungle John, Brentford’s master builders, and have them come and fix the executive box’s floor. And the other thing.”

“Other thing?” John asked.

“We need a new right-winger,” said Jim, “what with Billy Kurton upping sticks and having it away on his toes.”

“Buy a new player?” John all but fell backwards from his chair. “Have you gone insane? We don’t have the money for that.”

“Then you’ll have to find some. Those Siamese twins looked pretty puffed after the match. I don’t think they can take much more.”

“But …” said John. “But—”

“But me no buts,” said Jim. “We’re a team, aren’t we? You said so yourself. Together we will triumph. Here, take a look at this.” Jim rose from his chair and drew John’s attention to a large chart pinned to the wall.

“Nice,” said John. “It covers that damp patch well.”

“It’s a fixtures chart,” Jim explained. “FA Cup fixtures. The team will have to play a lot more than seven games this season, but it’s only the Cup-qualifying games that matter. It works like this.” And Jim proceeded to explain to John exactly how it worked.

Now, if anyone has ever tried to explain to you the rules of backgammon, or bridge, it’s the same kind of thing. It’s even more complicated than the offside rule.