To Neville’s right sat councillor Vic “Vanilla” Topping, business partner of Leo Felix, the Rastafarian automotive dealer who ran Jah Cars, the previously-owned-car emporium down beside the canal. Vic was in his forties, about as broad as he was long and dodgy as a day that had no ending.

To Neville’s left sat Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark managed Brentford’s one and only theme bar, which had but recently opened within the chapel that had up until a few months before been Brentford’s one and only Spiritualist church. This had come as something of a surprise to the congregation, who could not for the many lives of them understand how it had been granted planning permission.

The name of this theme bar was The Beelzepub. It was a satanic theme bar.

The Beelzepub catered thus far to a somewhat limited clientele, mostly callow acne-faced youths with a penchant for black T-shirts and a bit of Death Metal. And elderly spinsters who had nowhere to go on a Tuesday night now that the Spiritualist church had closed down.

Exactly who had voted Mr Gwynplaine Dhark on to the local council baffled Neville, but he felt certain that the Powers of Darkness must have had some hand in it.

Neville, whom most who knew him would have sworn did not possess an ounce of malice in him, hated Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

And Mr Gwynplaine Dhark hated Neville.

But Mr Gwynplaine Dhark was democratic.

He hated everyone.

Across the council table sat a further prial of councillors. There was Councillor Doris Whimple, a woman of considerable tweediness who bore an uncanny resemblance to the now legendary Margaret Rutherford; Councillor Arthur Doveston, octogenarian beekeeper and enthusiastic pamphleteer; and Councillor David Berkshire, local librarian and a man of so slight a presence that, should he enter a room, that room would still for the most part appear to be empty.

Neville didn’t notice him for a minute or two, but when he did he nodded a greeting, which was returned by a vague and wistful nod of the councillor’s head.

And that was that for the Brentford councillors: two publicans, a used-car dealer, a lady of the Shires, one ancient and one all-but-invisible librarian.

And all of them, with the exception of Neville, in Neville’s opinion, were up to some kind of no-good.

At the head of the council table stood a grand mahogany chair. It was a heavily carved chair and heavily crested, too, with the badge of the borough – two griffins rampant flanking a pint glass of Large. It was the Mayoral Chair.

The Mayoral Chair was unoccupied.

The Mayoral Chair was always unoccupied.

The Mayor of Brentford did not attend council meetings. He did not attend any meetings at all. The Mayor of Brentford was an ornamental hermit who lived in an oak tree in Gunnersbury Park.

Neville unfolded his slender arms, gave them a stretching, placed his hands upon the table before him and began gently to drum his fingers to the beat of his beneath-breath whistlings. Doris Whimple raised a powdered eyebrow and did tut-tut-tuttings with her pinkly painted mouth.

Neville ceased his drummings. “Should we begin the meeting?” he enquired.

“No can do, old sport,” said Vic Vanilla. “Have to wait for the arrival of his nibs.”

“The Mayor?” said Neville.

David Berkshire tittered, although none of them heard him do it.

Doris Whimple shook her head, releasing lavender fragrance into the morbid air. “The Mayor will not be attending,” she said.

“But surely,” said Neville, “this is a most important meeting.”

“The Mayor will not be attending,” Doris Whimple repeated sternly.

“Oh,” said Neville.

“You know, his nibs,” said Vic, elbowing Neville gently in the rib cage, “the bloke with the bunce.”

“From the Consortium,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

Neville glanced in the direction of the rival publican and received a gust of his brimstoned breath.

“The Consortium,” said Neville and lowered his gaze. He knew well enough about the Consortium, the Consortium that intended to purchase the football ground, tear up the turf and rip down the stands and build their damnable executive homes on it.

Neville took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped open its cover. “It’s now ten-fifteen,” he observed. “This fellow is a quarter of an hour late. Perhaps we can start the meeting without him. Perhaps we can settle this with a show of hands now. I’m certain that none of us really wants to see the football ground go – it is, after all, the very heart of the community.”

“The Church of St Joan is the heart of the community,” said Doris Whimple. Mr Gwynplaine Dhark sniggered. Vic Vanilla shrugged. Neville, who had always considered the saloon bar of The Flying Swan to be the true heart of Brentford, kept his own counsel.

The outer door of the council chamber opened, flooding sunlight into the room. A figure stood, dramatically framed, in the brilliant opening. “Greetings one and all,” said this fellow, striding forward into the chamber.

“Close the door behind you,” called Doris Whimple, which raised a wan smile from Neville. The figure returned to the door, slammed it shut, strode forward once more and came to a halt behind the Mayoral Chair. He carried a slim, black executive case and his face was painfully pale. He glanced from face to face of councillors all, though his glancings were guarded behind his mirrored sunspecs.

Shifty, thought Neville. Very shifty.

“Shufty,” said the fellow. “Gavin Shufty, representative of the Consortium. So sorry I’m late. I asked directions from a local bod sitting on a bench in front of the Memorial Library and the buffoon misdirected me to the council dump.”

Neville managed a bit of a grin in response to this intelligence.

“But no matter.” Gavin Shufty pulled back the Mayoral Chair and seated himself thereupon.

A gasp went up from Doris Whimple, and one would most certainly have also gone up from the aged Concillor Doveston had he not been fast asleep and dreaming of bees.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Gavin Shufty, making as if to rise, “have I committed a social gaffe? Is this someone’s chair?”

“It’s the Mayor’s chair,” said Doris, tinkering with the brooch on her breast, a brooch in the shape of a foxhound savaging a peasant.

“And where is his worship, the Mayor?” enquired Shufty.

“He is not attending this meeting.”

“So, no damage done, then.” Gavin Shufty hoisted his executive case on to the council table and opened it. “Down to business, then. I’ve drawn up the contracts – I’m sure you’ll find them most favourable, if you know what I mean, and I’m sure that you do.” And he tapped at his nose as he said this.

“Contracts?” said Neville. “What contracts are these?”

“For the purchase of the football ground by the Consortium.”

“Oh no,” said Neville. “No, no, no. This meeting is to debate the matter of selling the football ground. It is not a forgone conclusion.”

“Really?” said Shufty. “Then I must have got my figures wrong. Let’s see.” And he drew from his case a pocket calculator of advanced design, which was very possibly powered by the transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter.

Or possibly not.

And tapped at it with his forefinger.

“No, I am correct,” he continued. “The club, which is to say the council, that owns the Griffin Park ground is in debt to the bank to the tune of £1,650,320.”

“No,” said Neville. “Surely not.”

“Oh no.” Gavin Shufty struck his forehead. “My mistake.”

“Phew,” said Neville.

“It’s £1,650,689 – I forgot to take today’s interest on the debt into account.”

Neville groaned dismally.

“Only joking,” said Shufty.

Neville brightened.

“You don’t really owe all that money to the bank.”

“Blessed be,” said Neville.