“All right,” said John. “That’s enough for me now. I’m off to tune up his lordship. What of you, Jim?”

“I’m taking the Gandhis on a shopping expedition. But first I intend to open a bank account in my name and stick most of this money into it.”

“You’d better give me some petty cash before you do, then,” said John. “A couple of thousand will do the trick.”

“No,” said Jim, shaking his head.

“No?” said John, dropping his jaw.

“No,” said Jim once more. “All monies must be accounted for. You must present me with receipts for everything. Legitimate outgoings will be covered.”

Omally bridled, as bridle he might. “Have you lost all reason?” he demanded to be told. “This is me speaking to you. John Omally, your bestest friend.”

“There are no friends in business,” said Jim. “I read that in a book somewhere. It’s always best to keep your business and your social life apart.”

“Jim, we’re in this together. Everything shared fifty-fifty.”

“Yes,” said Jim. “And I learned all about that yesterday. When I found myself owing Norman.”

“That was mere tomfoolery,” said John. “Fork out the money, if you will.”

Pooley shook his head once more. “That would be unprofessional. It’s more than my job’s worth.”

John made fists, as Soap had so recently done. “Now just you see here!” he said also.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Jim. “I’ll give you an advance on your wages.”

“Ah,” said John. “Yes. We haven’t discussed wages, have we?”

“No, but I’m prepared to discuss them now.”

“Right,” said John. “Let’s discuss.”

“Well,” said Jim. “I thought a thousand each would be fair.”

Omally made a doubtful face. “A thousand a week?” said he.

“A week?” Jim made the face of shock and surprise. “I wasn’t thinking of a thousand pounds a week.”

John now made a similar face. “Then what were you thinking? Not a thousand pounds a month?”

“Not that either,” said Jim.

John Omally’s jaw began to flap, after the fashion of Jim’s hands in a panic. “Not a year?” he cried. “Not a thousand pounds a year!”

Neville raised his eyes from his bar-end glass-polishing.

“Imagine wages like that,” he said. “A man could live like a prince.”

John Omally lowered his voice and spoke in a strangled whisper.

“Are you telling me,” he whispered strangledly, “that we should work for a thousand pounds a year?”

Jim shrugged.

“You’re shrugging,” said John. “Why are you shrugging?”

“I’m savouring, too,” said Jim.

“Savouring? What are you savouring?”

“The look on your face, of course. And that strangled whispering.”

“Then savour this,” said John, raising his fist.

“You hit me and I’ll stop your wages. And a thousand pounds is a lot of money.”

“Not for a bloody year’s work it’s not.”

“No,” said Jim, “it isn’t, which is why I was thinking of a thousand pounds a day. Would a week’s advance be enough to keep you going?”

The man without the six-figure advance and the man who had prostituted the borough’s organ were going at it hammer and tongue. Soap hammered away upon Leo and Leo in turn gave tongue.

It was a long black horrible tongue and it kept getting into Soap’s ear.

Standing in a corner and pointedly ignoring the conflict, Balberith and Gressil talked of snuff.

“I hear it’s making a comeback,” said Gressil, “The Magnificent.”

“Only when you blow your nose,” said Balberith, “The Lord.”

“Now I’m definitely off to Lord Crawford’s,” said John, stuffing the last of his pounds in his pockets. “I’ll meet you back in here later, okay?”

“Okay,” said Jim.

“And, Jim.”

“Yes, John?”

“When you take the Gandhis out shopping, do be sure to get that Honda seat for Pigarse’s dad.”

“It’s right at the top of my shopping list. I’ll see you later.”

“Farewell.”

John left the Swan and Pooley stood finishing his pint.

“I don’t know what you two are up to,” said Neville, drawing near, “but just take care, will you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Jim.

Neville tapped his slender nose. “This tells me there’s trouble blowing your way.”

Jim put down his glass and picked up his bulging briefcase. “Thanks, Neville,” he said. “You’ve always been a good friend to John and me, no matter what.”

“There are no friends in business,” said Neville, with a wink of his good eye. “But just mind how you go.”

“I will,” said Jim. “Be lucky.”

“And you.”

There is always an element of luck involved in every fight. Unless, of course, it’s managed by Don King[15]. Soap evidently had a great deal of luck credited to his worldly account, because it seemed that he was actually getting the better of Leo.

Soap had the editor’s arm up his back and was holding him down with a knee.

“You spill the beans!” shouted Soap, applying a Chinese burn. “Who are the men in the black T-shirts? Where do they come from and what do they want?”

They came, as we know, from the future, and the one on the flat block roof wanted Jim Pooley dead.

Wingarde wiped sweat from his brow and squinted once more through his telescopic sight. Within the magnified cross-haired circle the Swan’s saloon bar door swung open and Jim emerged and stood taking the sun.

Wingarde’s finger tightened on the trigger, but a look of indecision spread across his squinting face.

“Are you sure I’m doing the right thing?” he asked The Voice. “I know you keep saying it’s all right, but if he dies surely I’ll die too? I won’t even get to be born.”

You must have faith in me, my son. You have done great things while in my service. All that is required of you now is that you pull the trigger.

“That is a somewhat ambiguous answer,” said Wingarde.

Don’t talk back to God, you little fuck!

On the Swan’s doorstep Jim breathed in the healthy Brentford air. He felt good, did Jim. Up for it. On top. Ready to take on the world. And things of that nature. Generally.

And he would not only take on the world. He would bring the Gandhis’ music to it.

He would Heal the World.

That was a good expression, thought Jim. He could live with that.

Wingarde’s finger was tight upon the trigger, although most of the rest of him was shaking.

“I’m not sure,” whimpered Wingarde. “I’m just not sure.”

You dare to doubt the Lord thy God? You dare to question His almighty wisdom?

“No, it’s not that, exactly. Well, it is, sort of.”

I will cast you down! cried The Voice in Wingarde’s head, rattling his dental work and popping both his ears. I will cast you down from this high place and into the fires of the pit.

“No. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

Wingarde’s finger tightened, sweat dripped down his nose, and, dead in the sight although not yet in the flesh, Jim took another deep breath and grinned a little grin.

“You grinning bastard,” whispered Wingarde. “You’ll get yours.”

The cross hairs quartered Jim Pooley’s forehead.

Wingarde squeezed the trigger.

According to the coroner’s report that was placed upon the desk of Inspectre Hovis, whose job it was to head up the murder inquiry, the bullet was a high-velocity, hollow-tipped titanium round, fired from an AK47. It entered the victim’s head at a downward angle of thirty-three degrees, indicating that it was probably fired from either a high window or the roof of the flat block opposite the Flying Swan.

It passed through the right frontal lobe just above the right orbit and made its exit through the back of the victim’s neck, carrying with it much of the victim’s brain.