Beyond the walls, the storm seemed infernal.

Within the walls, matters seemed none too hopeful.

“Kill them all,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And leave me only their skulls for my counter.”

“No!” cried Norman. “Have mercy, don’t kill us.”

John Omally raised his fists.

Jim Pooley flapped his hands about and began to turn in small circles.

And then the red lights dimmed to black and horrible slaughter began.

Professor Slocombe clapped his hands. “Let there be light!” he commanded.

Light flooded The Beelzepub, dazzling radiant light. The would-be murderers of John, Jim and Norman fell back before it.

The professor stood in the doorway. The Campbell stood at his side.

“Slay them,” said Professor Slocombe. “The two men and the woman also.”

“The woman also?” said the Campbell.

“The evil inhabits her now. There is nothing I can do.”

The Campbell raised his claymore high.

More horrible slaughter began.

Jim Pooley awoke from a nightmare that involved horrible slaughter. Jim yawned and stretched and did easings into consciousness. And then Jim felt knottings in his stomach regions and lay, staring up at his bedroom ceiling.

He had just dreamed all that, hadn’t he?

All that hideous stuff?

Jim issued forth from beneath his duvet[49], swung his legs down to the floor and cradled his face in his hands.

What had happened last night? His memory failed him.

How much had he drunk?

Memories came drifting back to Jim. Well, not so much drifting as elbowing brutishly in. Jim shook his head fiercely, torn between trying to remember and hoping that he never would.

“John,” said Jim, and, “Norman.”

But he recalled that his two friends had also survived unhurt. “I’m really fed up with all this,” grumbled Jim. “I wish it was all over.”

In the not-too-far distance, the bells of St Joan’s Church clock struck nine and Jim took deep and steadying breaths and sought to prepare himself mentally for the big day that lay ahead.

The big FA Cup Final day when Brentford would meet Manchester United upon the hallowed turf of Wembley.

Jim Pooley’s hands began to shake. He couldn’t do this, he really couldn’t. The responsibility was all too much. Best to do a runner now, slip away, come back when it was all over with a tale about losing his memory. That would be for the best. No one would hate him for that.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said John Omally, “so please stop thinking it right now.”

Jim turned in considerable surprise. “John,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

“I slept the night upon that instrument of torture which passes for a sofa in your sitting room cum dining room cum why-do-you-never-dust-it!”

“Oh,” said Jim. “I don’t remember. My thoughts are all confused.”

“Well,” said John, flexing and clicking his shoulders and doing stretchings of the neck. “On with your lucky suit, Bertie, we have a match to win.”

Jim surveyed the lucky suit that hung from the mantelshelf on its hanger. “I really don’t want to do this,” he said.

“I know you don’t, and who can blame you? But it’s all going to come to an end today, one way or the other. And if it goes our way, which I have every confidence that it will, you and I will be wealthy men. You still have the betting slip, I trust?”

Jim’s hand slipped under his pillow and found the betting slip. “He’ll never pay up,” he said.

“He’ll pay,” said John. “The professor will see to that.”

“And if any harm comes to the professor?”

“No harm will come to him. Now pack it in, Jim, tog up in your tweeds and I’ll treat you to breakfast at The Plume.”

Norman took breakfast at Madame Loretta Rune’s in the company of Mr H.G. Wells and an ill-washed youth named Winston.

Crockery tinkled with the tune of the knife and the fork. Polite conversation was to be heard between Japanese tourists come to view the wonders of Brentford, a salesman travelling in tobaccos and ready-rolled cigarettes, a heavy-metal rock band, Stub’n, whose tour bus had broken down on the flyover, and a pair of teenage runaways who were making their way to Gretna Green. All in all, your usual group of b. & b. clients, with the possible exception of those at Norman’s table.

“So they nearly topped ya, gov’nor,” said young Winston, tucking into bacon, eggs, fried bread and tomatoes, all at the very same time. “The Dark One’s ’enchmen. Nearly ’ad your liver and lights.”

“It was close,” said Norman, “and very scary indeed.”

Mr Wells made tut-tut-tuttings. “You have no one to blame but yourself,” said he.

“I know,” said Norman. “I know. But you will be able to sort it all out, won’t you?”

Mr Wells did noddings of the head.

“And you will stay to watch the match before you travel off through time? We can drive there in my van, take the Time Machine with us in the back. I have seats in the executive box – bought them from Omally, cost me a fortune – but I’d love you to be there. My treat. My way of saying thanks for everything.”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Mr Wells. “I’ve become quite a – what is the word? – fan of Brentford United over the last few months. Do you really think they are going to win?”

“I’m quietly confident,” said Norman. “Fate leads the willing, but drives the stubborn.”

“You’re a rare ’n, gov’nor,” said Winston. “Gawd pulp me pud if you ain’t.”

“It ain’t rocket science,” said Pippa, fluttering her eyelashes and trying to pay attention.

“It’s very important,” Neville told her. “Changing a barrel correctly, it’s an art.”

Neville stood with Pippa and Loz in the cellar of The Flying Swan. “I don’t want anything to go wrong, it’s very important to me,” said the part-time barman.

“Nothing will go wrong, Nevvy.” Loz stroked Neville’s cheek. “And you’ll only be away for a few hours and most of Brentford will be at the match with you. There won’t be much custom anyway.”

“But I’ve never done anything like this before,” said Neville.

“What, been to a football match?”

“Actually, no. But I mean I’ve never missed a lunchtime session.”

“You go and enjoy yourself,” said Loz. “Cheer the team on.”

“It’s something I just don’t want to miss,” said Neville. “Brentford haven’t played at Wembley since nineteen twenty-eight, when Jack Lane, who now runs The Four Horsemen, led them to victory. I doubt it will ever happen again.”

“You go,” said Pippa. “Have a good time. Bring us back some candyfloss or something.”

“Thank you,” said Neville, and he put his arms about the shoulders of Pippa and Loz and kissed each one in turn upon the cheek. “Keep the champagne on ice,” he said. “I think this is going to be a day that all of us will remember.”

“Now remember, Jim,” said Omally as he and Pooley munched their breakfast in The Plume Café, “you must show no sign of your nerves to the team. They’ll be nervous enough as it is. You must display supreme confidence, spur them on to victory.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Jim, forking a sausage into his gob.

“Oh, and this is for you. I picked it up from your doormat when we left your place.” Omally delved into his pocket and brought out an envelope, which he handed to Jim.

Jim looked the envelope over. “The professor’s handwriting,” he said. “‘For the attention of James Pooley. Not to be opened until five minutes before the match.’ It will be the tactics for the game. Should I open it now, do you think?”