“Thank you,” said Jim. “I—”

“No, hold on,” said Litany. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you had to raise the money for the tour from a third party?”

“Well, yes,” said Jim. “But it doesn’t really matter where the money comes from, as long as the tour goes ahead.”

“No,” said Litany, “I suppose it doesn’t. But why should this Bob give you one hundred thousand pounds on the strength of a band he knows nothing about? Or was he at our gig in the Shrunken Head?”

“No,” said Jim. “He wasn’t there. But I played him the bootleg tape.”

There followed then a silence. It was a heavy kind of silence. An unearthly kind of silence. It was the heavy unearthly kind of silence that you normally only associate with that terrible moment just before the trap door opens and the hangman’s rope draws tight.

“Bootleg tape,” said Pigarse, breaking this silence to bits. “Shall I kill them for you, mistress?”

“No,” said Litany, holding up her hand. “No, not here. Not now.”

“Hang about,” said Omally. “What is going on?”

“Silence!” shouted Pigarse.

And John became silent.

“Who made this bootleg?” asked Litany.

“Sandy,” said John. “He bootlegs all the gigs. But I nicked the tape from him before he could make copies.”

“And you made copies?”

“I did,” said John.

“Give me all the tapes you have, at once.”

John dug into his pocket. Pooley put the briefcase down and did likewise. “I’m sorry,” said Jim. “Here you are.”

Litany took the tapes in her hand. And crushed them. Just crushed them to splinters. As if they were nothing at all.

“You do not understand,” she said, in a voice so cold that it raised the hairs on Jim Pooley’s neck. “There must never be bootlegs. Never. Our music must only be recorded upon encrypted CDs that cannot be copied. Bootleg tapes would ruin us. They would be copied by the thousand. By the million. We would not make a penny.”

“Well, yes,” said Jim in a quavery tone. “I suppose they would. I’m really sorry. We had the tape and we just didn’t think. But I do have the money now and you can do the tour and end up doing a really huge gig at Wembley or something.”

“All right,” said Litany. “You did what you thought was for the best.”

“I did,” said Jim. “I truly did. I just want the band to succeed. I want the world to hear your music”

Litany smiled upon Jim. “You are a good man,” she said. “You are everything I hoped you’d be. So I think you are deserving of a treat. A special reward for your labours.” Litany reached out her hand towards Jim. “Would you like to come into my bedroom?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Oh yes, please.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Soap Distant. “Oh yes, indeed!”

Soap was in Boots the Chemist. He had drawn money from his bank account and now had his photographs back.

“Stag do, was it?” asked the assistant from behind the counter. “Fat birds with their kit off? Let’s have a butcher’s.”

“Certainly not,” said Mr Distant. “These photographs prove my claims. These photographs will make me famous.”

“No titties, then?” asked the assistant.

“None whatsoever.” Soap flicked through the photographs. “Well, a few, actually. Temple dancers in the sunken city of Atlantis. Oh yes, and that princess with the long golden hair, whose father rules the subterranean land of Shambhala. And a couple of goblin nymphs from the Middle Earth. And Hitler’s daughter, I’d forgotten about her.”

“Hitler’s daughter?” The assistant leaned across the counter.

“Met her beneath the South Pole,” said Soap. “There’s a secret Nazi base under there. It’s where all the flying saucers come from. Nazi technology. Not a lot of people know that.”

“I did,” said the assistant. “But then I am the reincarnation of St Joseph of Cupertino. Would you like to see me levitate?”

“No, thanks,” said Soap, pocketing his photographs.

“Oh, go on. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Perhaps some other time. I have an appointment with destiny at the offices of the Brentford Mercury.”

“Look, I’m doing it now. My feet are off the floor.”

“Goodbye,” said Soap and he took his leave.

“Good morning,” said Norman. “And how may I help you?”

“Just a packet of peppermints, please,” said Soap. “I have an appointment with destiny and I feel that fragrant breath is called for and …” Soap’s voice trailed off. “What has happened to your shop?” his voice trailed on again.

The interior of Norman’s shop was gone to ruination. Smashed, it seemed, by the hand of a jealous god. The shelves were down and splintered. Broken sweetie jars lay all about the place. There were great holes in the plasterwork and in the ceiling also. The counter had been shattered to oblivion.

“I’m redecorating,” said Norman. “Thought it was time for a change.”

“Change,” said Soap in a toneless tone. “Everywhere, change.”

“I’ll just get the peppermints.”

Soap watched the shopkeeper sifting through wreckage. “Why are you moving in that funny manner?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Norman.

“All bandy-legged,” said Soap. “Have you hurt your bottom?”

“No, I’m just—” But Norman’s words were swallowed up by a mighty bellow that issued from his kitchen.

“And what was that?” asked Soap.

“What?” asked Norman. “I didn’t hear anything.”

There came next a violent crash that brought down plaster from the walls.

“What about that?” Soap asked. “Did you hear that?”

“That would be the workmen.” Norman unearthed a packet of peppermints and, straightening painfully, offered them to Soap.

“They’re rather flat,” said Soap. “Is this a hoof mark on them?”

“Hoof mark?” said Norman. “Hoof mark?”

“It does look rather like a hoof mark.”

“Just have them for nothing.”

“That’s very kind.”

There came another bellow and another crash.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Soap. “But do you know what?”

“Some of the time,” said Norman.

“That bellowing,” said Soap. “I’ve heard that sound before. Belooooooow, on my travels. In Narnia, I think it was. It sounds just like a unico—”

“Have to hurry you now,” said Norman, hustling Soap to the door.

Outside, in the Ealing Road, the sun beamed blessings on the borough. Birdies sang from treetop bowers and a rook returning to its nest was shooed away by Small Dave, who had taken up residence there. A street surveillance camera clocked the image of the library clerk who marched off towards his appointment with destiny, but failed to register that of the young man in the black T-shirt and shorts, who crept across the roof of a nearby flat block, cradling an AK47 with a sniper’s sight.

Dick was a God-damn hero.

Dick had done it all.

He’d walked and talked with Nero.

He’d seen the empire fall.

He’d held the court in rapture.

With tales of darkest Burma,

And all the things he’d seen and done

Across old terra firma.

Dick was a God-damn hero.

But the nights were drawing in.

He’d sung with Johnny Zero

And also Tiny Tim.

He’d practised acupuncture

On ladies of renown,

And met with ghosts in graveyards

And other parts of town.

Dick was a God-damn hero.

But nobody cared for Dick.

He shouted loud and clearo.

It really made you sick.

I’ve seen it all,

I’ve been there, too.

I know them and

They know it’s true.

It can hurt to be a hero,

And I’m glad I’m not like Dick.