“No!” said Jim, turning to the team. “Is this true?”

Heads nodded sombrely.

“The bastard,” said Jim. “The evil bastard.”

“We’d like to stay,” piped Admiral Theodore Peanut. “We’d really like to win the match for you, Boss, but …”

Jim Pooley sighed. “It’s not your fault,” said he, reaching down to pat the midget’s tiny shoulder. “I should have known. This Starling made attempts upon the lives of John and me. He was thwarted and forced to swear that he would never do so again. But it all makes sense now, why we lost Brentford players before each match. He swore not to harm John and me, but—”

“He snuffed out the team,” said John in an appalled tone.

“The circus folk substituted and so he bought out the circus,” said Jim.

“So they’re dead.” John Omally, although made of sterling stuff, found his knees now trembling. “Alf and Dave and Ernest and all of them.” John’s voice trailed off.

“Or maybe he just put pressure upon them,” said Jim, “like he has here. Told them to get out of town, or else.”

“Let’s hope so,” said John.

Jim slumped down upon a bench. “It’s all over,” he said. “Starling has won.”

“We really would like to help,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut.

Jim waved a hand. “You’ve all done your best,” said he. “You have all done wonderfully, every last one of you, and I thank you for it. I can hold nothing against you. You must put your loved ones first. Go now. Go to your loved ones and go with my blessings.”

“Thank you, Boss,” said Admiral Theodore Peanut.

And with that, the circus folk left the changing room, each in his or his/her own special way.

Leaving Jim alone with John.

“We’re doomed,” said Jim. “This time we’re really doomed.”

John slumped down on to the bench and gave Jim’s shoulder a pat.

“We’re finished,” said Jim, and there was a tear in his eye.

John put an arm around his best friend’s shoulders. “You did your best,” he told him. “You really did, Jim. It’s not your fault. Everybody tried their hardest – you, the professor, the circus performers – but Starling outsmarted us. Big business, Jim. Big business and big, big money. An undefeatable combination.”

“But there must be something we can do, John. It can’t just end like this.”

“We can’t play without a team, Jim. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

Jim’s head slumped further and then it jerked up. “We could,” he said. “We could do something.”

“What?” Omally asked.

“Get the lads together, all the lads from The Flying Swan, and you and me – we could make up a team.”

John looked hard into the eyes of Jim and then John shook his head. “Can’t be done,” said he. “It’s against the rules. You can’t field an entirely new team in the second half.”

“Perhaps if I asked the referee nicely,” Jim suggested.

John squeezed Jim’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, “but it was a nice try. I’m afraid that nothing short of a miracle is going to help us. We’d need God himself to walk into this dressing room right now.”

The dressing room door swung slowly open.

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

And then the both of them looked …

At Norman.

Norman stuck his head around the dressing-room door. He had dyed his wig the team colours. “Hello, lads,” said he. “How’s it going? Two-all, eh? Pretty good going. But I just saw the Brentford team getting on to the bus.”

“A miracle?” said Jim. “We’re doomed.”

Jim Pooley returned, in the company of John, to the pitch-side Brentford bunker bench/dugout jobbie. Jim would dearly have preferred to run far, far away. And then some more. But he knew that he could not. He owed a duty to the Brentford supporters, the thousands of them who had grown from the few when the season began.

The atmosphere in the great stadium had changed somewhat since the end of the first half. Word had clearly got around regarding the Brentford team’s departure – spread, no doubt, by William Starling. The Manchester supporters were thrusting their down-pointing thumbs in the direction of the Brentford fans and chanting, “Lo-sers, Lo-sers, Los-ers.” The Brentford fans appeared to be practising Primal Scream Therapy. Jim put his hands over his ears. This had to be the very worst day of his life.

Professor Slocombe joined Jim and John. Jim looked up hopefully into the old man’s face, but it was a face that was drained and grey. Professor Slocombe shook his head.

Across the pitch, upon the bench of the opposing team, William Starling raised a champagne flute in mocking toast to the men he had defeated.

Upon the field, the Manchester United players made victory signs, did walking-that-line swankings and turned the occasional somersault. With no Brentford team to play the second half, they would clearly win by default.

Up on high in the commentator’s box, Mr Merkin hollered into his oxygen-mask microphone. “Well, I told you that this was likely to be an FA Cup Final unlike any other,” he bawled, “and given that most remarkable first half, I think you’ll agree that so far it has been. But now there have been even more remarkable developments. Word has reached me that the entire Brentford team has quit the match and left the ground. The referee is on the pitch now, and yes, he’s signalling. He’s giving the Brentford team one minute to come on to the pitch or they will forfeit the game.”

“Professor!” shouted Jim, trying to make himself heard above the mad cacophony. And hunching his shoulders, too, as beer cans and toilet rolls began to rain down upon him. “What can we do?”

“Nothing, Jim. I’m sorry.”

“Should I go and speak to the ref?”

“If you think it might help.”

“I’ll do anything,” shouted Jim. “All these supporters – everything we’ve been through – we can’t just let everybody down now.”

Jim rose from the bench. The Brentford supporters catcalled and hurled abuse and the Man U fans did likewise. Amidst a hailstorm of empty beer cans, small change and the occasional seat-back, Jim made the walk of shame across to the centre of the pitch.

The referee addressed him sternly. “Are your team returning to the field of play?” he asked. “They have thirty seconds left to do so.”

“They’ve been taken sick,” said Jim. “The lunch. Food poisoning. We suspect that it was deliberate. I request a rematch at a later date.”

The referee glared at Jim and Jim saw the darkness, the terrible darkness filling the whites of his eyes. “Twenty seconds,” he said. “No team, you forfeit the match. That is final. That is that.”

“But,” said Jim, “please. I beg you. Please.”

“Ten seconds,” said the ref. “Nine … eight … seven … six … five … four … three … two …”

A mighty cheer suddenly went up – a mighty cheer that came from the throats of the Brentford supporters. So mighty was this cheer that it nearly had Jim off his feet.

Jim looked towards the dark, dark eyes of the referee. They were gazing widely beyond Jim towards the players’ tunnel beneath the south stand.

Jim turned and stared and Jim’s mouth fell hugely open.

Footballers were jogging on to the pitch. But they weren’t the circus performers. They were complete strangers to Jim. They were short and stocky, with short-back-and-sides haircuts and old-fashioned Brentford United strips, the shirts tucked into shorts that all but reached their ankles. They jogged forward with military precision.

Jim gawped at these footballers. “What is going on here?” he asked.

Mr Merkin bawled further words into his oxygen-mask mic. “Now this is beyond belief,” he bawled. “Brentford are apparently attempting to field an entirely new team for the second half, which is in absolute defiance of all the FA rules.