“It’s six-all,” said Sam. “Impossible comeback and the ref is blowing his whistle for half-time.”

The Burnley team sat in their top-notch changing room, sucking their oranges and playing their mandolins. Merridew Fairweather waddled up and down before them.

“You clowns,” he shouted, “we could have been thirty goals ahead by now, fiddle-de, fiddle-dum, but you took them for granted. You can’t take these Southern nutters for granted.”

“But the fix was in, Boss,” said John Roddam Spencer Stanhope, the goalie and three-times winner of the Flattest Flat Cap Competition (Northern Chapter). “I thought your brother at The Slaughtered Lamb had taken care of them, as he has done with all the other teams we’ve thrashed at home this season.”

“Hush your loquacity,” counselled Merridew. “We need this win. You go out there and do whatever you have to do – if you get my meaning.”

“What about the ref?”

“He is our referee in residence,” said Merridew. “And he is my other brother.”

The Brentford team did not repair to the changing room come half-time. They apparently chose to remain resting on the pitch.

Jim Pooley downed another pint of water. Some degree of sobriety was returning to him.

“I don’t know how you’re doing it, Professor,” said Jim, “but please just keep on doing whatever you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Jim.” The professor made the face of mock-wounding. “The team are trying their best and playing their hearts out.”

“I particularly liked the way that the English twins managed to kick in that last goal without having any of their feet actually touching the turf,” said John. “The way they just sort of hovered above the ground.”

“Skilful players,” said the professor. “Very light on their feet.”

The folk who watch Sky TV – those toffs in aeroplanes, perhaps – no doubt enjoyed the second half of the match.

Assuming, of course, that they were not Burnley Town supporters.

Those toffs probably enjoyed all the news that followed also. It was Sky News and it was very thorough. The reporter “on the ground” who covered the carnage was an ex-BBC topical news quiz presenter who had just lost his job at the BBC after getting into a spot of bother involving cocaine and hookers. His name was Angus[45] and he had to wear his special Sky News protective helmet and flak jacket. The mass rioting that followed the Brentford victory and culminated in the burning down of, amongst other things, the Stadium of Earthly Delights (which happily resulted in no actual loss of life, although many were hospitalised) made for excellent television.

At three a.m., martial law was declared and a squadron of Challenger tanks escorted the Brentford big bus to a safe point well beyond the city limits.

The moon shone down upon John and Jim, who lazed upon the open upper deck, gazing over their shoulders towards the orange glow in the sky that had up until so recently been the town of Burnley.

“I think we can chalk that one up as another success,” said John.

“Do you want to wake the team and tell them?” Pooley asked.

“Nah, let them sleep. It will be a nice surprise for them in the morning.”

“Where did the professor vanish away to?” Jim asked.

Omally tapped at his nose.

“And what does that mean?”

Omally grinned and his mobile phone began to ring. Words were exchanged and Omally tucked the thing away into his pocket.

“Who was that?” Jim now asked.

“Sky TV,” said John. “They’re offering sponsorship. They want to put their logo on our kaftans.”

Norman numbered-up the Monday morning Mercurys. He ogled the front page and read the headline aloud:

“BERTIE’S BEES BURN BURNLEY –

10-6 VICTORY SPARKS RIOTS.”

Norman shook his head and straightened his wig. Another victory for the team. That put them through to the quarterfinals. Three more wins and they would have the cup.

And on Cup-Final Day, he would have his millions.

Norman gnawed upon a knuckle blackened by newsprint. He would have his millions, but what had he done? He had claimed those patents for his own and sold them to this William Starling, who was the King of Darkness, and who sought to rule the world. And, what was it? Ah, yes, hasten the Apocalypse.

Hasten the Apocalypse?

That was “bring on the bad stuff”.

And if the bad stuff was going to be brought on, it was all Norman’s fault for being so greedy.

But was it really his fault? Norman cogitated once more upon this, as he had been cogitating so frequently of late. Had it really been his fault? Was it not more that he had been put in the frame, as it were?

It had all started with Norman wanting to find The Big Figure. But that had been his idea.

Or had it?

Norman added rackings of the brain to his cogitations. How had he come up with that idea in the first place? Had he actually come up with it himself? A dark thought entered Norman’s head, along with a sudden flash of remembrance. Wavy, wavy lines seemed to move across Norman’s mind and the sounds of harp music accompanied these wavy lines.

And Norman had a flashback.

He was standing in his shop, numbering-up the morning’s papers and thinking about improvements he could make to the better mousetrap he was building – the one that he felt certain would have the whole world beating a path to his door.

And then the shop bell had rung-in a customer.

Except that it wasn’t a customer. It was a pasty-faced young man in dark specs and a suit of lacklustre grey. This young man carried a bulging suitcase. He bid Norman good day and proffered his card:

LUKE SHAW

Sales representative for Dadarillo Cigarettes

A subsidiary of the Consortium

The card was rather grey also and Norman peered up from it and into the matching face of the sales representative.

“I don’t want any,” said Norman. “Goodbye.”

“I think you’ll FIND that you do,” said the young man, with exaggerated politeness. “I think you’ll FIND that you do.”

“I won’t,” said Norman, “whatever you have to offer.”

The young man gave Norman’s shop a good looking over. Well, Norman assumed that he did so, because although his eyes were hidden, his head moved around and about.

“What are you looking for?” Norman asked, following the direction of the moving head.

“Mr Hartnel?” said the sales representative. “Mr Norman Hartnel, not to be confused with the other Norman Hartnel?”

“I’m rarely confused,” said Norman, “although sometimes I get puzzled.”

“But only about THE BIG problems in life, I’m thinking.”

“Actually, yes,” said Norman, “although I’ve found that even the biggest problems have simple solutions, generally involving a Meccano set somewhere down the line. Feather by feather the goose gets plucked, you know.”

“You are a most interesting man, Mr Hartnel. An interesting FIGURE.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Norman asked.

“Like what, Mr Hartnel?”

“Putting very heavy emphasis upon certain words that do not need heavy emphasis putting upon them.”

“I’m from Penge,” said Mr Luke Shaw.

“Ah,” said Norman. “That explains it. I understand that Penge is a very nice place, although I’ve never been there myself.”

“Very nice.”

“Home is where the heart is,” Norman said. “And a boy’s best friend is his mother.”