“Window,” said Omally. “Much as I fancy that Litany and much as I’d love to—” He paused. “But it can’t be done. Let’s run while we still have legs.”

“No.” And Pooley shook his head. “We can’t just run away. All right, we’ve got ourselves in big trouble here. But I’m sure we can find a way round it.”

“Well, you have a go, Jim. I’m off.”

“Oh, perfect,” said Jim. “That’s your answer to the problem. Run away. Listen, John. We have a chance to make something of ourselves here. A chance to do something wonderful. We could manage this band if we worked hard at it. We could do it. We really could. You’ve heard Litany sing. You’ve felt what happens. You’ve experienced it. The major record companies won’t touch the Gandhis, but we could bring their music to the world. Bring their magic to the world, John.”

“All right,” said John. “I hear what you’re saying. But we don’t have the money.”

“Then we’ll have to find it.”

“But where, Jim? Where could we possibly find it?”

“I don’t know,” and Pooley shrugged. “But I don’t think I’ll win it on the horses.”

Now, a winning horse, as Norman knew, is made from many parts. But what only a very few people know is, there’s more to a winner than that. It is not enough just to be a beautiful model or a talented filmstar or a brilliant musician. It is a lot, but it isn’t enough. You need that little bit more than that. You need the extra magic.

Some might call this charisma. But what does this word really mean?

Magic is what this word means. A special kind of magic.

Litany had it in her voice. A very special kind of magic. And, as the tape went round and round on Norman’s deck, the magic filled up Norman’s kitchen. It entered into the brew upon the stove and infused and enthused it. Assembled and improved it.

Did many magical things to it.

Things that were full of wonder.

Pooley returned to the Swan’s saloon bar, leaving Omally to wonder. His hand was on the window catch, his mind was all over the place.

“Shit,” said John. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t let Jim take all the responsibility. It was me who really got him into all this. But there’s no way we can raise the money. What am I going to do?”

“Omally,” came a voice from above. “This is the voice of God.”

“Sod off, Dave,” said Omally. “I’m trying to have a think here.”

Pooley sat back down between a pair of Gandhis.

“All right, Jim?” asked Pigarse. “You look a bit pale in the face.”

“I’m fine,” said Jim. “All the better for a good piddle.”

“Are you coming on the tour with us, Jim?” asked Ricky.

“Tour?” said Jim. “What tour?”

“The tour you’ll be lining up, of course. You are a joker, Jim. What kind of venues will we be playing?”

“Well …” said Jim, and, “Ooooooooh.”

“Big ones, I hope,” said Pigarse.

“Huge, I should think.” And Pooley hastily folded his arms. His hands were beginning to flap.

“This bloke is boss,” said Ricky. “We were just talking about your theory of the future, Jim. About THE END.”

“THE END,” said Jim, in an ominous tone.

“It’s a blinding theory,” said Ricky. “A theory like that should be taught to kids in schools. You should give it a name, Jim. The Pooley Theory. Or the Pooley Principle, that’s better. Or even just The Poole—”

“No!” shrieked Jim. “Not that!”

Neville raised an eyebrow at the bar.

Pigarse said, “Don’t shout like that. I nearly did art in my pants.”

“Are you feeling okay, Jim?” asked Litany. “You really do look rather ill. Would you like me to sing you better?”

Pooley sighed. “I’d love that,” he said. “But I’ve something I have to say. There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding and I feel we should all be honest with each other. No secrets.”

“Go on,” said Litany.

“It’s about the money.” Pooley took a deep breath and pulled his shoulders back. “About the money you need for the equipment and the stage clothes and the strings and the mic and, well, everything, really.”

“Yes?” said Litany.

“Well,” said Jim. “You see …”

“Go on,” said Pigarse. “What is it?”

Pooley paused and glanced around the table. All eyes were upon him. Expectant eyes, they were. Eyes that seemed to look into his very soul.

“I …” said Pooley. “I …” And then his face lit up. It shone. It glowed. It veritably radiated. Glow and shine and glisten, went Jim’s face.

“I have a plan,” said Pooley. “And I will take care of everything.”

“Yo,” said Ricky. “The man with the plan. Is this guy boss, or what?”

The man with the plan stared into space. But the man with the plan had a plan.

And it was a blinder of a plan and it had come upon Jim in his moment of need, as if from God upon high.

It was also a terrifying plan and Jim knew that when he pulled it off it would doom his name for ever. But the cause was just, and the cause was good and Pooley’s plan was this.

Pooley would pull off The Pooley. And he would do it in this fashion. He would borrow money. Much money. All the money that was needed to finance the Gandhis for one enormous gig. One legendary gig, at Wembley, say. One that everyone would want to come to. Everyone who was a Gandhis fan would be there. Everyone. And that everyone would surely include the time-hopping Geraldo, who wouldn’t want to miss a gig like that.

Jim would track down Geraldo at the gig and force him to tell him the names of the following day’s racing winners. Geraldo could easily find these out, but, as Jim knew, he wouldn’t want to. But Jim would make him do it, because Jim would explain that if he, Jim, didn’t pull off The Pooley he wouldn’t have the money to pay off the debts and make the Gandhis world famous. And they had to get world famous. Because if they hadn’t, Geraldo would never have heard of them and come back through time to hear them play. Future history recorded that the Gandhis were world famous and future history also recorded that Jim had pulled off The Pooley. And so, if Geraldo didn’t want to mess around with future history, he would have to give Jim the names of the winners.

He would have to. He would. He just would.

It was a blinder of a plan, and as Jim stared into space, going over it all once again in his head, just to make sure he could understand it himself, he felt certain that it was the way things had to be. He couldn’t escape from his fate, and only he could make the Gandhis famous.

It was a blinder of a plan. It was truly dynamite.

Norman heard the explosion and ducked for cover in his bath. It wasn’t Pooley’s dynamite plan, but something down in the kitchen.

Norman sheltered beneath his hands, in fear of falling plaster. He was no stranger to explosions. They went with the territory, when you were an inventor. In fact they were part of the fun of it all. If you didn’t have at least one decent explosion in the course of each experiment, you didn’t qualify for the right to wear the inventor’s white coat, in Norman’s opinion.

Norman raised his head from his hands. The ceiling hadn’t fallen and down below the tape played on. It was just a minor explosion. Not the full gas mains job.

“Phew,” went Norman. “I wonder what that might have been. I think I’d better go downstairs and find out.”

And Norman was just on the point of climbing from his bath when it happened.

It happened fast and it happened hard and it didn’t give Norman a chance. It came up through the floor and up through the bath and caught Norman right where Pigarse’s dad had stuck the Barbie for art.

Whatever it was, it was long, hard and white. Long, hard and white as a length of two by one. But this was not the carpenter’s friend of the well-loved music hall song. This long, white, hard thing was sharp at the end and more cylindrical in nature.