“Well, I’m happy,” said John. “What about you, Jim?”

“The sanity clause worries me,” said Jim. But as few around the table were big Marx Brothers fans, the remark received the contempt it deserved.

“All right,” said John. “We’ll sign.”

“Does someone have a pen, please?” asked Jim. “I lent mine to Pigarse and he never gave it back.”

“I’ve lent it to my dad,” said Pigarse. “He’s using it for art.”

“I’ll buy another tomorrow,” said Jim.

Litany took from her briefcase a slim black leather box. In this was an elegant silver stylus. “You may use this,” she said. “But there is just one thing.”

“And that is?” John asked.

“You have to sign it in blood.”

“Blood”, said Norman of the corner shop, “is what it’s all about.”

He didn’t say this in the Flying Swan, however, because he wasn’t in the Flying Swan. Norman said it in his kitchen workshop, where he was working on his horse.

Now it might have been a coincidence that he said the word “blood” at the very same moment as had Litany. Or it might have been a synchronicity, or even a fateful foreshadowing.

But say it he did and he said it again. “It’s all in the blood,” said Norman.

As this was Wednesday half-closing, Norman had had the entire afternoon to work on his horse. And he had been putting considerable effort into it. Unaware that Pooley had given up the horses, Norman continued with his project, determined to have it finished by Friday, in keeping with his life-in-little-movies principle and looking forward to turning up on Jim’s doorstep on the Saturday to give him his big surprise.

But it had been a difficult afternoon for Norman. What with all the magnifying glass work and the tweezer work and the splicing the genes together with really small bits of sellotape work. But the saucepan was back on the stove now and the contents were bubbling nicely.

Norman had also done some splicing with his copy of the Gandhis’ tape. He’d spliced it into a loop, so he could play it continuously while he worked. The magical music just made him feel so well, so alive, so healthy. It made him feel ready to take up any challenge and win win win win win.

He wiggled his bum in time to the tune and gave the saucepan a stir. “I think I’ll just pop up and have a bath,” said he, “while this lot comes to the boil.”

Norman went over to switch off the tape and then thought better of it. It would be nice to hear the music while he bathed. He turned up the Gandhis full blast and danced out of the kitchen.

“This time,” he said, “I’ll make me a winner. This time I’ll go for the big one.”

“We’re going for the big one this time,” said Litany. “And it’s a rock ’n’ roll statement.”

“Ozzy Osbourne did it,” said Pigarse.

“War Pigs,” said John.

“War Pigarse,” said Pigarse.

“Yes,” said Jim, “but blood. Real blood. My blood.”

“Only enough to sign your name,” said Pigarse. “My dad once squeezed blood out of his piles and onto a canvas for art. Saatchi bought it for his collection.”

“Your dad has an enterprising bottom,” said Jim, “but I don’t know much about art.”

“Do it for me,” said Litany, smiling at Jim. “You’re not afraid to, are you?”

Jim took the stylus. “I’m not scared,” said he.

The actual thumb-pricking and the wincing and the fussing and the coming all over faint and the dipping the stylus into the blood and the puffing, the blowing and the gulping at pints afterwards wasn’t all that rock ’n’ roll. But eventually the task was completed. The contracts were signed and Litany tucked them away in her briefcase.

And then she raised her glass. “To success,” she said.

“To rock ’n’ roll,” said John.

“To Apocalypso music,” said Jim.

“To art,” said Pigarse.

“To Jim,” said Ricky.

And so on and so forth.

“And now,” said Litany. “Let’s talk business.”

“Yes,” said John. “Let’s do.”

“Oh, just one thing before we start,” said Ricky. “I have to give you this.” He handed John a folded piece of paper.

“What is this?” John asked, unfolding it.

“It’s the bill for these clothes. Jim told us to dress down a bit. No leather strides and so forth. So we all went out and bought these God-awful suits. If you could let us have the money back out of petty cash it would be helpful.”

“Oh,” said John and, “Ah.”

“And I’m going to need a new amp,” said Ricky. “Mine’s really fucked.”

“And a whole new wardrobe of stage clothes,” said Pigarse. “And designer stuff, not rubbish. And I need a new set of skins for my drums.”

“And I need a new mic,” said Litany. “And our van’s knackered too.”

“A proper tour bus is what we need,” said Matchbox Finial. “Mercedes do a great one. I’ve got a catalogue here.”

“Right,” said John and, “Yes, indeed.”

Litany smiled once more upon John. “I know that we’re going to work really well together,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll grow very close. It’s such a relief to be signed up with professionals. You wouldn’t believe the idiots who’ve offered to manage us in the past.”

“You’re right there,” said Pigarse. “Remember that moron who thought he’d get away with recording us live on a mixing desk and knocking tapes out in his mate’s back kitchen?”

Litany laughed and Ricky laughed and Dead Boy laughed as well.

“Whatever happened to that bloke?” Matchbox Finial asked.

“I took him for a little drive into the country,” said Pigarse. “They haven’t found all of him yet.”

Gandhi members laughed some more.

“Most amusing,” said John Omally.

“Glad you think so,” said Pigarse.

Gladness was the rage in Norman’s bathroom. Kit was off, the tub was full, the bubbles overflowed. Norman had his own personal brand of bubble bath. He had created it himself.

The bubbles smelled great and they really got the dirt off, though it didn’t do to soak in them too long. Norman had once forgotten to pull the plug out after bathing and the next morning he had discovered that the bubbles had eaten through the enamel of the bath and right down to the iron.

But, with the bubbles gnawing him clean and the music belting up the stairs and filling the room with good vibrations, Norman sank into the scented water and felt most glad all over.

Down in the kitchen workshop the brew made bubbles of its own. Great big bubbles heaved and popped in time to the Gandhis’ music. Really beautiful bubbles, they were. Really really beautiful.

“Really beautiful strings,” said Ricky, back in the Swan. “I saw them in Minn’s Music Mine the other day, but I couldn’t afford to buy them then. I think you should get me three sets, John. Just to be on the safe side.”

“And I need to get my roots dyed,” said Pigarse. “And my dad needs a new seat for his Honda. Perhaps we could make that tax deductible.”

Jim looked at John.

And John looked back at Jim.

“I have to go to the toilet,” said John.

“And so do I,” said Jim.

Once out of the bar and in the bog, Jim Pooley closed the door.

“Window,” said John.

“Window?” said Jim.

“We can climb out of the window and then I suggest we just run for it.”

“You are for doing a runner, then, are you?”

“What other choice do we have? We’re in this over our heads, Jim. We’ve made ourselves liable and we signed in our blood.”

“Perhaps we could just ask for the contracts back,” said Jim. “Explain that we’ve had a think about it and we’ve changed our minds.”

“I can’t see that going down too well. That Pigarse is a psychopath. I don’t want the police search teams only finding bits of me.”

“I wonder what he did with the parts they couldn’t find. Do you think his dad used them for art?”