“You are a God-damn hero,” said John Omally, raising a pint of good cheer.

It was Thursday lunchtime and he and Jim were once more in the Flying Swan.

“But there is one thing I have to say,” the Irishman continued, “and it is best that I say it now.”

“Go on, then,” said Jim, a-sipping at his pint.

“If you don’t get that smug-looking smile off your face, I’ll punch your lights out.”

“Sorry,” said Jim. “I can’t help it.”

Omally shook his head. “Just what did she do to you in that bedroom?” he asked, for the umpteenth time.

“She sang to me. I told you.”

“And that’s all she did? Sing?”

Jim Pooley sighed in a wistful way. “Yes,” he said. “It was wonderful.”

John placed his pint upon the counter and rubbed his hands together. “Well, whatever,” he said. “But you did it, Jim. You raised the money. Less than two days as a businessman and we’re already up by one hundred thousand pounds. It’s beyond belief. I should have gone into business with you years ago. We’d be millionaires by now.”

“I thought I’d pop into Norman’s and pay him what we owe.”

“No need to be hasty.” John took up his pint once more. “Norman can wait until his week is up. We must decide just how we’re going to spend all this wealth. The first thing I should do is open a bank account.”

“Oh no, it’s not,” said Jim.

“It’s not?” said John.

“It’s not,” said Jim. “The first thing you should do is think about how you are going to organize the Gandhis’ tour,”

Omally made the face of thought. “I’ve been considering this matter,” he said, “and I do predict a problem or two.”

“Go on,” said Jim.

“Well, it would have been an easy enough matter to phone up music venues and play the tape to them. But as we don’t have the tapes any more—”

“Norman still has one,” said Jim.

“Ah yes, so he does.”

“But I don’t think we’d better use it. Litany seemed very upset, didn’t she?”

“You’re not kidding, my friend. The way she crunched up those cassettes. I’m glad that wasn’t my old chap she had in her hand.”

“Don’t be so crude, John.”

“I’m sorry. But you’re right. The show must go on. And, do you know what, I have a bit of an idea.”

“Which you might perhaps like to share with me?”

“I would. Do you remember back in the sixties? There was a rock festival held on the allotments.”

“Brentstock,” said Jim. “I didn’t go to it. I think I was in San Francisco at the time.”

“I think you were in Bognor at the time. With your mum.”

“In the San Francisco Guesthouse, that’s right.”

John looked at Jim.

And Jim looked at John.

“What?” said Jim.

“Nothing,” said John. “But think about this. We could organize a big rock festival of our own. Right here, somewhere in the borough.”

“Not on the allotments, though. I seem to recall that the council were most upset about the last one.”

“No, not on the allotments. I know a better place. In fact I know the ideal place.”

“Not in my back yard,” said Jim.

“Buffoon. What about Gunnersbury Park?”

“Lord Crawford’s place? He’d never go for that.”

“Wouldn’t he, though? Lord Crawford is a member of the aristocracy. And how do members of the aristocracy spend their spare time?”

“In debauchery, of course. It’s a tradition, or an—”

“Old charter or something. I know. So how do you think Lord Crawford would take to Litany singing him a little song?”

“The same way I did, probably. I …”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Enjoyed it very much,” said Pooley.

“Right, that’s settled, then. We’ll concentrate our efforts on a big rock concert in the park. And if it all goes with a big kerpow, we’ll then deal with the matter of a recording studio.”

“I agree,” said Jim. “But just one thing. This concert has to be big. Really big. Enormous. Stupendous. And things of that nature generally. It has to be the legendary gig. The one that no Gandhis fan would want to miss. Everything depends on that. Believe me, everything.”

“You’re keeping secrets, Jim. I don’t like it at all.”

“Just trust me,” said Jim. “It’ll all work out. I know it will.”

“As you are clearly a business genius, as well as my bestest friend, my trust goes without saying. So, you leave his lordship for me to tune up. He owes me a favour anyway.”

“Lord Crawford, Brentford’s Aristo in Residence, owes you a favour?”

“That’s why I suggested Gunnersbury Park. You know all those vids I sold to Norman?”

“You bought them from Lord Crawford?”

“Indirectly. You know how these things are.”

“No,” said Jim. “I don’t. But what a very small world it is. We need a venue for a big rock concert and Lord Crawford just happens to live in a big park around the corner and just happens to indirectly owe you a favour. Some people might consider all this somewhat hard to believe.”

“Then some people would be miserable buggers, wouldn’t they? We’re on a roll here, Jim. Nothing can stop us. Nothing.”

High upon the flat block opposite the Swan, Wingarde Pooley squinted through the telescopic sight of his AK47. He was set upon a single course. That of destroying the ancestor who had besmirched the family name. The obvious flaw in this – that in so doing he would surely cancel out his own existence – seemed not to have occurred to him at all.

But, then, perhaps it had. And, then, perhaps he had found a way around this dire eventuality. Because Wingarde hadn’t just travelled back through time to save rock stars from their early deaths. He had made one or two other major alterations to history during his travels. Such as assassinating the Queen and arranging for Richard Branson to sit upon the throne of England.

Deeds which in themselves were deserving not only of our unmitigated praise and undying gratitude but also our unquestioning trust that here was a young man who knew exactly what he was doing.

Indeed, here was a young man whose deeds, fulfilling as they did the sincere if unspoken wish-dreams of us all, could be said to be little less than divinely inspired.

Which in fact, they were.

For, you see, Wingarde was not acting, as Geraldo had supposed, from desperation to free his family from the curse of The Pooley. Wingarde was acting under the guidance of a higher force.

The higher force.

Wingarde heard The Voice.

For The Voice did speak unto Wingarde. Speak unto him whilst he did lie in his bed, or dwell upon the toilet bowl, or eat thereof his cornflakes, or sit, or stand, or walk, or run, or have a quiet one off the wrist. The Voice did speak unto Wingarde and Wingarde did do all the doings that The Voice did order him to do.

Knowing that The Voice he heard was heard by no one but himself.

Knowing that it was The Voice of God.

And not, as in the case of his many times great ancestor, the voice of Small Dave in a cistern.

Wingarde squinted through the telescopic sight, the cross-hairs focused on the Swan’s saloon bar door.

Go for a head shot, whispered The Voice in his head. Make me proud of you, my son.

Brentford’s other Lord, The Lord of the Old Button Hole, was a proud and pretty fellow who had voices of his own. And while few could doubt that Wingarde’s inner voice was indeed The Voice of God, as evidenced by the charitable deeds it urged him to perform, the voices that shrieked in the head of Leo Justice were a different kettle of Kobbolds altogether.

And Leo not only heard these voices, he could sometimes see their owners too. Three demonic entities possessed him. They took turns, one running the show whilst the other two vacated the cerebral premises and hung around outside, waiting for their goes to come around again.