The Cerean tugged once again upon Pooley’s elbow, and Jim, who would not have released his grip for all the Lapsang Souchong south of the Yellow River, dragged the barman forward for a second time.

“AAAAAAAAAGH!” the part-time barman reiterated, as his cobblers smote the beer engine anew. All thoughts of darts teams and barred captains were suddenly driven from his head and he howled in pain and did his utmost to free himself of Pooley’s maniacal hold.

The Swan’s patrons, momentarily stunned by the first cry, were emboldened by the second. Tempers had been growing more and more frayed during the evening and this altercation offered a fine opportunity for giving vent to pent-up emotions. The crowd began to advance upon the threesome, and Omally was in the vanguard. With a Gaelic cry which would surely have put the wind up King Billy himself, Omally made a grab at the Cerean.

The darkly-clad figure shook him off as if he were but a speck of dandruff upon his finely-tailored shoulder. Omally tumbled to the deck, cursing and spitting. Several members of the Swan’s drinking elite laid powerful hold upon Pooley, with the result that Neville, who was rapidly giving up all thoughts of potential parenthood, found his good eye crossing once more.

The ensuing mêlée was notable for many things, not least the extraordinary display of divided loyalties. One faction was definitely pro-Neville, being firmly of the belief that Pooley had attacked the barman, and that the man in black was attempting to restrain him. Another took it that Neville, whose behaviour that evening had not exactly been exemplary, had gone for Pooley, and that the man in black was one of the brewery’s dark forces, assisting in that loyal patron’s expulsion from the Swan. A third, which counted but one in its number, and this a son of Eire, was of an entirely different opinion altogether.

It must be stated that other factions existed also. These were formed either from fellows who felt that now was as good a time as any to end some personal vendetta, or from those who by their very natures necessarily misinterpret any given situation. Their participation was notable mainly for its enthusiastic and seemingly indiscriminate violence.

Young Chips, who could smell a nigger in a woodpile even with his nose bandaged, set immediately to work upon the Cerean’s ankles.

Pooley had by now, under the welter of blows, lost hold upon Neville’s apron, and, as the part-time barman lapsed from consciousness and sank gracefully behind the bar, found himself being borne once more towards the doorway. Towards the very doorway, in fact, where John Omally now stood, brandishing a beer bottle.

“Leave hold,” roared the Irishman. Pooley’s mouth opened and closed and a lip reader would have covered his eyes at the obscenity.

The Cerean squared up to the obstacle in his path and raised his left hand to strike. Omally swung his bottle and, it must be reasoned, more from luck than judgement, struck the villain a devastating blow to the left armpit.

As he lost his grip upon Pooley, several of the pro-Neville brigade fell upon the barman’s attacker with relish.

The Cerean staggered towards Omally, who, having the advantage of fighting upon home territory, stepped nimbly aside and tripped him through the Swan’s open doorway and into the street.

Outside, parked close to the kerb, stood an automobile that was a collector’s dream. It was ink-black and gleaming, a showroom piece. The handbook had it down as a nineteen-fifty-eight Cadillac Sedan, the deluxe model. In the driving seat sat a man of average height, wearing an immaculate black suit. He bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance and favoured a creosote aftershave. It took him but a moment to leave the car and gain the pavement, but by then the chaos of flailing fists which now filled the Swan was spilling into the street.

The pro-Pooley faction, who knew a brewery henchman when they saw one, and who were currently occupied in assaulting the one who was rolling about clutching at his armpit, saw another quarry and wasted little time in taking the opportunity to vent their spleen.

Archie Karachi, who ran the Star of Bombay Curry Garden next door to the Swan, was a man who knew a race riot when he saw one. Thrusting a vindaloo-stained digit into his telephone dial, he rang out a rapid nine, nine, nine. Being also a man of few words, and most of those Hindi, his message was succinct and to the point. “Bloody big riot in Swan,” he bawled above the ever increasing din, “many men injured, many dead.”

The blue serge lads of the Brentford nick were not long in responding to this alarm call. With the station grossly over-manned, as befits a district with a low crime rate, what they craved was a bit of real police action. A bit of truncheon-wielding, collarbone-breaking, down to the cells for a bit of summary justice, real police action. Within minutes, several squad cars and a meat wagon were haring along the wrong side of Brentford High Street, through the red lights, and up the down lane of the one-way system, bound for the Flying Swan. Within the wheel-screeching vehicles constables were belting on flak jackets, tinkering with the fittings of their riot shields, and drumming CS gas canisters into their open left palms with increasing vigour.

What had started out as a localized punch-up, had now developed into wholesale slaughter. The numbers involved in the mêlée had been swelled significantly by the arrival of a gang of yobbos from the flatblocks opposite. Those crop-headed aficionados of the steely toecap had been met head on by the students of the Brentford Temple of Dimac Martial Arts Society, who had been limbering up for their evening’s training schedule with a fifteen-mile run. Neither of these warrior bands having the slightest idea what all the fuss was about, or which was the favourable side to support, had contented themselves with exercising their respective martial skills upon one another. Although this did nothing to ease the situation, to the crowds of onlookers who now lined the opposite pavements and crammed into every available upstairs window, it added that little extra something which makes a really decent riot worthwhile.

With sirens blaring and amber lights flashing, the squad cars slewed to a halt at the rear of a war-torn Cadillac. This development was wildly applauded by the onlookers, many of whom had thought to bring out stools and kitchen chairs, that they might better enjoy the event. As hot-dog men and ice-cream sellers, who have an almost magical knack of appearing at such moments, moved amongst the spectators, the Brentford bobbies went about their business with a will, striking down friend and foe alike. With every concussion inflicted the crowd hoorahed anew and, like the season-ticket holders at the Circus Maximus in days gone by, turned their thumbs towards the pavement.

To the very rear of this scene of massacre, pressed close to the wall of the Flying Swan, two bearded golfing types watched the carnage with expressions of dire perplexity. “Gather up the map,” said John Omally. “I feel that we have pressing business elsewhere.”

Easing their way with as little fuss as possible through the Swan’s doorway, they passed into the now deserted saloon-bar. Deserted that is, but for a certain part-time barman who now lay painlessly unconscious in the foetal position behind the jump, and an old gentleman and his dog, who were playing dominoes at a side-table.

“Goodnight to you Pooley and Omally,” said Old Pete. “You will be taking your leave via the rear wall I have no doubt.”

Pooley scooped up the map and stuffed it into an inside pocket. “Offer my condolences to Neville,” he said. “I expect that it is too much to hope that he will awake with amnesia.”

“You never can tell,” said the ancient, returning to his game. “Give my regards to Professor Slocombe.”