The club shop was doing well, though, knocking out many, many team kaftans, but the money coming in was hardly covering all the expenses of keeping the club going.

Such as paying the players.

And there was a big problem with the players.

Before every FA Cup qualifying game, one of them had dropped out, vanished, had it away on their toes for financial or personal reasons. Horace Beaverbrooke had apparently run off with a lady tattooist. And Trevor Brooking, not to be confused with the other Trevor Brooking, had got so fed up with people confusing him with the other Trevor Brooking that he had given up football for life and opened a sports shop.

Or so they said. In Omally’s opinion, they had simply lost their nerve.

The substitutes – Don and Phil English, Barry Bustard and Loup-Gary Thompson – were doing their best, but soon the team would be coming up against the BIG OPPONENTS, the big-league fellows. A bunch of circus performers, no matter how well intentioned and aided by the professor’s magical tactics, could not survive against these.

Omally did sighings. Why did life have to be so complicated?

Norman awoke to find Peg snoring as noisily as ever beside him. Norman made a face of displeasure. He’d been dreaming about Yola Bennett, about doing certain things to Yola Bennett. But Norman hadn’t had any time recently to do these things to Yola Bennett in anything other than his dreams.

Norman’s waking hours had been rather busy.

And Norman’s waking hours had not been happy for the lad.

Norman was feeling bad. Norman was feeling guilty.

He should never have claimed that those inventions he’d discovered on the Victorian computer were his own. He should never have claimed the patents. And he should never have sold the rights on these purloined patents to William Starling.

Norman felt wretched. He was not by nature a dishonest man. He was a good man. But he was also a human man. He was a greedy man. He had clearly done a very bad thing. A truly bad thing, if the future of mankind had anything to do with it.

But had it really been his fault? Norman tried to convince himself that it had not. He had been seeking The Big Figure, hadn’t he? Which was why he’d answered the ad for the free computer parts and assembled the computer in the first place.

Norman did silent sighings. All that fitted, but rather too well. It was as if a hand greater than his own had had a hand in it. So to speak. It wasn’t his doing, it wasn’t just a coincidence – he’d been drawn into all this.

And what of Mr Wells and Winston? Norman was currently forking out his pennies and pounds to pay for their accommodation at Madame Loretta Rune’s. And Mr Wells, posing as Norman’s visiting Uncle Herbert, had become a regular patron at both The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar, running up monthly accounts that Norman was also forced to cover.

And of course, Norman had been spending all of his free time at his allotment shed/lock-up garage trying to fix the Time Machine, which was one reason why he had had no time to see Yola Bennett. Christmas had come and gone now and so had the New Year and what did Norman have to show for all the work he’d been doing on the Time Machine?

Well, not very much, as it happened.

He’d had it all to pieces. In fact, it was now little more than pieces, but how it worked was still a mystery; and to add mystery to mystery, Mr Wells seemed to have no idea how it worked either. Which was rather strange, considering that he claimed to have built it.

As far as Norman had been able to make out, the Time Machine contained no internal mechanisms. There were some levers, but these seemed merely to enter a box which contained …

A sprout.

A sprout, yes!

Norman had examined this sprout. There was nothing immediately “special” about this sprout, although there was definitely something “odd”.

Norman had, upon first taking this sprout up in his fingers, felt an almost irresistible compunction to thrust it into his ear. He had imagined that the sprout was speaking to him. Norman had hastily thrust the mysterious sprout into the half-consumed jar of pickled onions that he had half-consumed and hastily screwed down the lid.

Norman was mystified.

Mystified, guilty, running out of cash and wondering about his wife, who seemed to be spending more and more time in the company of Scoop Molloy, cub reporter from the Brentford Mercury.

Norman did more silent sighings. Why did life have to be so complicated?

Neville the part-time barman awoke with a great big smile upon his face. It was a blinder of a smile and it really lit up the publican’s normally paler-shade-of-white visage. Neville stretched out his arms and brought his hands down gently.

On to shoulders.

Female shoulders.

To Neville’s right there lay a woman. A naked woman.

And to Neville’s left, another one.

Alike, were these, as two peas in the proverbial pod.[34] Naked ladies in Neville’s boudoir.

One naked lady called Loz.

And another one called Pippa.

Neville smiled some more and waggled his toes about. This was all right, this, this being a ladies’ man. He should have got into this kind of thing years ago. Why hadn’t he done that?

The smile faded slightly from Neville’s face. He knew full well why he hadn’t. But he was doing it now, making up for lost time. And in a big way, too. Two ladies. Two bare, naked ladies. And he hadn’t disappointed either of them. He was a Goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus.

Neville made a thoughtful face, although it still had a bit of a grin left on it. He knew full well that it wasn’t him, wasn’t really him. It was all down to Old Pete’s Mandragora. That stuff made Viagra look like spray starch.

And it was undoubtedly addictive. Neville was now downing a packet a day, and Old Pete was upping the price with every delivery. He was even talking about cutting Neville’s supply completely because he had “more important matters on his mind”.

More important matters than Neville’s sex life?

What could possibly be more important than that?

And then there was the other business.

The other business, which involved Young Master Robert, the brewery-owner’s beloved only son. He had further plans to liven up The Swan.

Neville’s smile all but left his face. All but.

Why did life have to be so complicated?

Pippa awoke and her hand brushed lightly against Neville’s todger.

“Stuff complications,” said Neville.

Arising, as one would, to the occasion.

Big Bob Charker hummed an Old Testament ditty. It was the one about Moses riding his motorbike.[35] He steered the big open-topped bus on to the Great West Road and took to the putting down of his foot.

Above Big Bob, Jim Pooley stomped his feet – but lightly.

“I feel a winner coming on,” said Jim to John Omally.

“I’ll bet Bob the Bookie didn’t give you good odds.”

“The man refuses to take any bets from me now, which I’m sure can’t be legal.”

“I’m impressed that he has not dispatched a hit man to rub you out and relieve your body of the betting slip that will shortly be bringing us fortune.”

Jim Pooley shivered. “Not even in jest, John, not even in jest. But he has offered to buy the ticket back from me for a thousand pounds.”

“You told him into which part of his anatomy he could insert his offer?”

“In the politest possible manner. I lay my bets in Chiswick now – but well away from the Consortium building.”

It was John’s turn now to shiver. “That creature we saw there still gives me nightmares. And the thought that Lord Cthulhu’s dark and scaly minions might at any time put in an appearance does little to ease my concerns.”