Norman went up in a foamy blur and came down again in slow motion.

Whatever it was had vanished now, but a bellowing came from below.

It was quite a remarkable bellowing. And although Norman’s thoughts were not particularly centred upon any bellowing other than his own at this precise moment, even he could have told that this was not the bellowing of a horse.

As such.

But the beast that did the bellowing had many horse-like features. The mane, the hooves, the flanks and fetlocks and the rest. But this beast that reared and bucked in Norman’s kitchen, beneath the flow of water from his punctured bath, was more than just a horse.

Much more.

For this beast had a single horn that rose in glory from its head.

A long, white, hard and pointed horn.

A wondrous and magical horn.

A horn, indeed, that is only to be found on the head of a unicorn.

I had words last week

With an uninspired Greek

Of the “Carry-your-bags?” variety.

Who insisted that I

Tip him low, wide and high.

As a fellow might do in society.

I informed this yob

That his only job

Was to tote all the trunks of his betters.

This he flatly denied

And in dialect cried

That he was a great man of letters.

And whilst argument flared

This brash ruffian dared

To summon the help of a Peeler.

And falsely accuse me

And roundly abuse me

And quote from the works of Cordelier.

But this was his downfall,

Illiterate scoundrel.

The Bobby was classically trained.

And he struck down the Greek

With his stick, so to speak.

Which was twelve inches long and close-grained.

As he always liked to make an early start, Inspectre Sherringford Hovis, Brentford’s Detective in Residence, led the dawn raid on John Omally’s house.

The Inspectre had spent much of the previous evening interviewing the captured Omally, in an attempt to learn the whereabouts of Small Dave. But the captured Omally had stubbornly insisted that he was really the clerk from the library.

Even when put to the torture.

Although never a man to give a crim the benefit of the doubt, Hovis had finally tired of all the screaming and agreed that in order to prove the truth of the matter once and for all, he would raid the address shown on the library ticket and if there was another Omally to be found there, he would set the captured one free.

Enthusiastic constables smashed down John Omally’s door and burst into the house, with big guns raised and safety catches off.

The sight of Omally’s kitchen had a most profound effect upon several of the married officers. Awestruck in admiration and moved almost to the point of tears, they could do little other than remove their helmets and bend their knees in silent prayer, within this sacred shrine to single manhood.

A search of the upstairs revealed only two things of interest: an unmade and unslept-in bed and an ancient library book entitled How to Play the Stratocaster.

The latter was bagged up as evidence.

Secure now in the knowledge that he did in fact have the right man in custody and that this man was evidently a hardened crim who could hold out under torture[13], Inspectre Hovis returned to his office, a cup that cheers and a bowl of muesli that doesn’t.

So where was the real John Omally?

The answer to that was: elsewhere.

John had spent the night with Jim at the Gandhis’ squat. The band occupied a large and run-down gothic house in Brentford’s Bohemian quarter. The tradition (or old charter, or whatever it was) that all aspiring rock bands must live together in a squat began with the Grateful Dead. And if it was good enough for the Dead, then it’s good enough for anyone.

It was a little after nine of the Thursday morning clock when Omally awoke to a proffered cup of coffee.

He awoke on the living-room sofa, and not, as he had hoped he would, in Litany’s bed. John yawned and stretched and sipped at the coffee.

“Thank you, Ricky,” he said.

“No problem,” said Ricky. “How are you feeling?”

“Somewhat odd, as it happens.”

“Hardly surprising. You crashed out, mate. A couple of tokes on the hookah and you were gone. Dope not really your thing, is it?”

“Not really,” Omally confessed. “Where’s Jim?”

“Gone out.” Ricky took from his pocket a spliff of heroic proportions. “I don’t think he slept at all last night. I heard him pacing about. And then he woke me up early and asked if he could borrow my suit.”

“Borrow your suit?”

“I said he could keep it. And he showered and shaved and put it on and went out. He said he had a bit of urgent business he had to take care of. But he said we were to wait for him and he’d be back with lots of money. Is that guy boss, or what?”

Omally sipped and nodded and tried to stay upwind of spliff smoke. He had absolutely no idea what Jim was up to. The lad had refused to tell him anything. Except that he would sort everything out, no matter what it took.

Omally took to worrying, in a manly kind of a way.

Now, if they were ever to organize a Most Manly Man in Brentford competition, the winner would undoubtedly be Bob the Bookie.

Not because he was the borough’s most manly man, but because he would bribe the judges. Being thought of as manly, and always coming first, were big on Bob’s agenda.

Bob had always liked to think of himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. And if it hadn’t been for the handicap of having a very small willy, he would no doubt have translated his thoughts into deeds that would have drawn applause from Long John Holmes himself.

But such is life. Bob had a big bank roll, but a small willy. So, considering what an all-round bastard he was, there might, perhaps, be some justice left in the world.

Bob was, if not a manly man, at least a self-made one. He worked very hard at the making of money, and from humble beginnings had built up a nationwide chain of twenty-three betting shops.

But it was here, in Brentford, in the very first shop that he had ever opened, that he liked to spend his time. It was such a joy to take money from his old school chums. Chums who had pulled down his trousers at school and made mock of his midnight growler. Pooley was one of Bob’s old school chums and although Jim had never taken part in the debaggings, Bob still gained enormous pleasure parting Pooley from his pounds.

Upon this particular Thursday morning, Bob was seated behind the armoured plexiglass of his counter window, leafing through a nudie book, when the slash curtains parted and a gentleman walked in.

Bob noted the dark grey business suit, the shirt and tie and the confident walk. A VAT inspector, perhaps? Bob tucked away his nudie book and tried to look humble and poor.

“How may I help you, sir?” asked Bob. And then he did a double-take, and then a double-double.

“Shergar’s shit!” cried Bob the Bookie. “Pooley, is that you?”

“Good morning, Bob,” said Pooley. “And how are you today?”

“I’m … I’m …” Bob gawped at the vision before him. “Where did you steal that suit?” he asked.

“Always the wag, Bob. Always the wag.”

“Yeah, but where did you steal it?”

“I did not steal it. This is a business suit, as worn by those who do business.”

“Oh, I see, you’re going to a fancy dress party. Come-as-your-fantasy, is it?”

“No, Bob. I am wearing it because I am now in business. The music business.”