“But I should be with you.”

“I’ll be fine, Jim. All will be well”

Professor Slocombe rose from the bench and he, too, took his leave.

Jim looked towards John. John shrugged once again.

Norman appeared with a trayload of beers. “Circa ninteen-thirty,” he said, “from the first-class bar of the Mauritania.”

“First-class shooting, Sponge,” said Terrence as the Second Sponge Boy strafed the foyer of the Consortium building, bringing down fixtures and fittings that spoke, sang and in some cases chanted of distant classical folderol.

And also the elfish receptionist, who was watching the match on a portable TV.

“A bit harsh on the dwarf,” said Terrence.

“But he was a baddie,” said Sponge Boy.

“Point taken. Shame you shot the TV, too. On to the next level then, is it?”

“The next level, Terrence. Positively Street Fighter Two.”

“A level playing field,” bawled Mr Merkin, “and everything to play for now. Landru across to Denke. Intercepted by Rivaldo, and nicely, too. Down the left wing, and at a most remarkable speed, to Ricardo, across to Beckham. And they’re making another run towards the Brentford goal. But Gein is there – nicely acquired, across to Fish, up that left wing again. And across to Lane and no one’s defending. And yes! Beautiful goal. Brentford equalise, it’s three-all.”

“I’m going after the professor,” said Jim.

John looked towards the field of play. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“But lads,” Norman cried, “I thought we’d go medieval next round. Mugs of mead and all that.”

“And all to play for,” bawled Mr Merkin. “This is the big one. Just listen to the crowd.”

William Starling heard the crowd. “Another goal for Man U,” he said, as he stalked across the posh-persons’ exclusive car park towards the night-black limo that stood awaiting, his chauffeur at the wheel. An electronically operated rear door opened before him and William stepped into the car.

“To the Consortium building?” asked the chauffeur.

“In just a moment.”

Professor Slocombe issued, panting, into the car park.

“Now?” the chauffeur enquired.

“Give him just a moment. His cohorts will join him.”

A moment passed.

John and Jim did issuings.

“Now,” said William and the limousine slid away.

“Go back,” the professor told Pooley and Omally. “I can deal with this.”

“I don’t believe that you have a car,” said John. “Do you number levitation and swift flight amongst your remarkable achievements?”

“I’ll hail a cab.”

“Not necessary,” said John, spying Norman’s van. “We’ll take this one.”

“Second level secured,” called Sponge Boy. “Let’s take the third.”

Up the stairs they went. And down the stairs came Hellish things to greet them. Hellish dark things, darker than dark, of a blackness that had no specific name: the dark and scaly minions of the dread Lord Cthulhu. Sponge Boy and Terrence blazed away, and bullets blessed by the professor and coated with Old Pete’s sacred herbs issued from their weapons at six thousand rounds per minute. Dark things melted into light and were gone.

“Get a move on, John,” shouted Jim. “He’s gone. We’ve lost him.” John, Jim and the professor were squeezed into the front seat of Norman’s van. John was frantically attempting to hot-wire this van.

“It won’t start,” cried John. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Bloody van!”

Norman’s van burst into life and did its brrrm, brrrm, bmmming.

Unnoticed by John, Jim or the professor, a mysterious figure with a large carrier bag scuttled across the car park, opened a rear door of Norman’s van and slipped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

John Omally put his foot down. “Go on, you beauty,” he cried.

The engine of Norman’s van spluttered and died.

“Bastard!” cried Omally.

Norman’s van burst into action once again.

“I recall Norman telling me about this,” said Jim. “You have to shout at the van. It works on road rage, or something.”

“Move on, you *****,” and John Omally’s language took a turn for the deepest blue.

And Norman’s van got a hurry up and hurtled in hot pursuit of William Starling’s limousine.

William Starling was on his mobile phone. “Building compromised?” he was saying. “Intruders now on level ten? Speak up, damn you. I can’t hear your voice above the alarms.”

Alarm bells were ringing in the Brentford Nick. Lights were flashing also upon a sort of hi-tech emergency board that had been installed there by a sort of hi-tech emergency technician who worked for the Consortium.

“Turn that damn thing off,” Constable Meek told Constable Mild. “I’m trying to watch the FA Cup Final here.”

“I’m trying to watch it, too,” replied Constable Mild. “You go and turn it off.”

Chief Inspectre Sherringford Hovis looked up from his viewing of the match. “Which lights are flashing?” he asked.

Constable Mild said, “Emergency ones – it’s the Consortium building in Chiswick High Road. There’s a pink light flashing, too. It has the words ‘TERRORIST ATTACK’ printed beneath it.”

Inspectre Hovis yawned. “Tricky,” said he.

“So what should we do, sir?” asked Constable Mild. “Press the panic button? Alert the lads from Scotland Yard?”

“Well …” Inspectre Hovis suddenly leapt from his seat. “Goal!” he cried.

Jim Pooley fiddled with Norman’s car radio. “Did you hear the word ‘goal’?” he asked. Static fizzings dissolved into the voice of Mr Merkin, live on Five Live.

“Four-three,” he bawled. “Incredible.”

“Four-three to who?” Jim asked. The radio fizzed into static once again.

“Bloody useless radio!” swore Jim.

Norman’s van leapt forward with renewed vigour.

There was a great deal of vigorous gunwork going on at the Consortium building. Black and ugly shapes bulged from black marble walls, minigun barrels rotated and spat bullets by the bucketload. The Campbell hacked down incoming darksters, the going was hideous and fire was beginning to take hold of the building.

Inspectre Hovis took hold of the telephone receiver. “Scotland Yard?” he said. “Sherringford Hovis, Brentford Constabulary, here. We have a Code One at the Consortium building in Chiswick High Road.”

“A code ten?” said the telephonist at Scotland Yard. “That would be a price request, would it?”[52]

“Terrorist attack!” bawled Hovis. “Cross it to Lane, don’t hog the ball.”

“What?” asked the receptionist.

“Don’t let him do that. Foul, referee. That was a foul. What is the matter with you?” said Inspectre Hovis.

“I’m going to put the receiver down now,” said the telephonist.

“No,” said Hovis, “terrorist attack, Consortium building, Chiswick High Road. Send everything you have. Send ZZ9. My God, ref, are you blind?”

“Who is this, again?” asked the receptionist.

“Where is he?” asked the professor.

“Up ahead,” replied John. “I can see him heading on the road to Brentford.”

Now, The Road to Brentford, Bob and Bing never made that one. Which is a shame, because—

“Catch up and run him off the road,” said the professor.

“Professor,” said John, “this is a weedy A40 van. They have a limousine. It’s probably bulletproof.”

Jim Pooley tinkered further with the radio, then took to thumping it. “Stupid piece of rubbish!” he shouted.