“Exactly,” said Old Pete.

“Yeah, well, thanks for the threepenny bit, gov’nor. And good day to you.”

“Good day,” said Old Pete. “And good luck with your life.”

Winston turned away and ambled off down the road. Silly old duffer, thought he.

“I think the books will balance for a while,” said John Omally. “I thought they wouldn’t, but with the sponsorship money from Sky TV coming in, I think I might treat myself to a new suit, just like your lucky one.”

Jim Pooley sat at his desk in his office and puffed upon a Dadarillo Super-Dooper King. “And what about buying new players to replace our rapidly diminishing stock?” he suggested.

“Do you think really it matters?” John Omally asked.

“Matters?” said Jim. “We have the FA Cup to win.”

“Yes, I know that, but we have the substitutes. And let’s face it, Jim, the team are only winning through the professor’s intervention. You saw what happened on Saturday.”

“I was going to ask you all about that.”

“Oh no, you were not. The professor used some kind of magic to animate the team – you know it and I know it. So it doesn’t really matter who plays as long as he is there pulling the magical strings.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“Then we’re stuffed,” said John. “The ground is lost and the Apocalypse and the End Times begin. Personally, I do not find that prospect appealing. Hence I have faith in the professor’s magical skills and favour the Brentford-winning-the-cup scenario, along with the attendant prosperity that it will bring to our good selves.”

“Should Bob the Bookie pay up on the bet. Which, frankly, I think he will not do.”

“Oh, he’ll pay up, Jim, or we’ll drag him through the courts. That man has taken many pennies from you in the past. It’s only just that you get a few back in return. And even if he doesn’t pay up, you will be the manager of an FA Cup-winning side. There’s a fortune in that. Trust me—”

“I know,” said Jim, “you are a PA.”

John sat down upon Jim’s desk and helped himself to Jim’s mug of tea. “So who are we up against next?” he asked. “We’re in the quarterfinals. Three more games and we’re there.”

“A team called Arsenal,” said Jim. “Ever heard of them?”

Omally shook his head. “They’re not Up North, I hope.”

“London team,” said Jim. “Quite popular, it seems. They’re amongst the favourites to take the cup. Top-division side.” Jim grinned foolishly at John. “Apparently,” he said, “Arsenal have a manager whose name is Arse.”

“I’ll give them a call on my mobile,” said John. “Perhaps after we’ve given the team a sound thrashing they might care to purchase space on our kaftans to advertise for a new manager.”

“I can manage,” said Neville as the brewery drayman rolled an eighty-eight-pint cask of Large down the chute between the open pavement doors and into The Flying Swan’s cellar.

Neville caught the weighty cask, lifted it with ease and stacked it on top of the rest.

The drayman peered down from the sun-bright street above into the shadowy regions below. “Are you all right down there?” he called.

“Fine,” called Neville. “You can drop them in two at a time, if you want.”

The sweating drayman shook his head. He was wearing an Arsenal T-shirt. “I don’t know what you’re on, mate, but if it’s on the National Health, I want some, too.”

Neville did not reply, but awaited further incomings of ale.

He was on something and he knew it. Something that added a string to his bow, put lead in his pencil and even hairs on his chest. And he was loving every minute of it. He’d never felt so alive before, so full of vim and vigour. He was fit as a fiddle and bright as a butcher’s bull terrier.

But his stocks of Mandragora were running dangerously low and Old Pete’s prices were now running dangerously high. That old villain had Neville by the short and curlies (which were now rather long and curly) and Neville knew it.

But he was having the time of his life and he really didn’t want it to stop.

“Neville,” a voice called down to him, but not from the pavement doors. “Neville, Pippa and I are getting lonely up here in the bar.”

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” Neville called back. And to the drayman, “Three at a time now, if you will, I’ve business upstairs that will not wait.”

“Down to the business at hand,” said Professor Slocombe. “You know why I have summoned you here, gentlemen.”

Three men sat in the professor’s sunlit study, tasting whisky. One of these men was not a man, but something else entirely. His name was Mahatma Campbell and what he was was well known to the professor.

The other two were men indeed, young men and as full, in their ways, of vigour as was Neville.

“We are your men,” said Terrence Jehovah Smithers, raising his glass.

“Your acolytes,” said the Second Sponge Boy, raising his in a likewise fashion.

Professor Slocombe toasted his guests. “I hope that I have taught you well,” said he.

“You have, Master.” Terrence drained his glass. “You have schooled us in astral projection and the reading of men’s auras through the opening of our third eyes.”

“Positively Rampa,” said the Second Sponge Boy.

“And you will need all these skills when we meet our adversary.” Professor Slocombe lowered his fragile frame into the chair behind his desk. “The time grows closer. We must be well prepared.”

“Can we not just smash them now?” asked the Campbell. “Put a torch to the Consortium building and burn the blighters out?”

“I have tested their defences.” The scholar moved a pencil about. Without the aid of his hands. “They will not be caught off-guard again.”

“Then when, sir?” The Campbell took possession of the Scotch decanter and poured himself another.

“The day of the Cup Final, that is when.”

“But that is the day,” the Campbell said. “The Day of the Apocalypse – if we do not succeed.”

“We will succeed.” The professor’s pencil rose into the air and spelled out the word “SUCCEED”.

“Regarding the business at hand,” said Terrence, wrestling, with difficulty, the Scotch decanter from the Campbell’s fingers. “What exactly would this business be?”

“It is my understanding,” said Professor Slocombe, “that the tentacles of the Dread Cthulhu and the influence of the being that has raised him from R’leah, our enemy William Starling, are spreading slowly and inexorably across the borough of Brentford. You must be vigilant and watchful – there is no telling who might become consumed and overtaken by the evil.”

“And that is the business in hand?” asked Terrence.

“It is part of it.”

“And the other part?”

“Have you ever heard of a team called Arsenal?” Professor Slocombe enquired.

“All enquiries must be put through the switchboard,” said Ms Yola Bennett, “which is currently engaged. Please call back tomorrow.” She slammed the telephone receiver down and returned to doing her nails.

“Ms Bennett.” The voice of Mr Richard Gray came through the intercom. Ms Yola Bennett ignored it.

She was in a bad mood, was Yola Bennett. She hadn’t seen Norman for ages. He didn’t e-mail and he didn’t phone. And she was certain that he had recently ducked into a doorway when he’d seen her coming down the Ealing Road. Things were not going quite the way that she had planned.

“Ms Bennett!” The voice was somewhat louder now. Yola Bennett flipped the switch with an undone nail and said, “What do you want?”

“And don’t adopt that tone of voice with me, young lady.”

“What do you want, sir?” said Ms Bennett.

“A moment of your time in my office, if you please.”

Yola Bennett slouched from her seat and slouched into the office of Mr Gray. “Yes?” she said, a-lounging at the doorpost.