The coroner stated that death would have been instantaneous.

As he said to Inspectre Hovis: “One second he was a man with a briefcase, the next one he was a corpse.”

The ice cream cart was sold out.

The last batsman was bowled out.

And foolishly I strolled out

Into the light of day.

The umpire, some say, passed out.

The moment that the last out

Had sworn and cursed or cast out

That final hip hooray.

The only way to find out

Is when you’re told to mind out.

Just stick your big behind out,

Bend at the knee and pray.

And when you know you’re wiped out,

And chivvied up and striped out

And rolled

And bowled

And passed

At last

And stood like Nelson at the mast.

Then you can say it’s in the past

That bastard’s ice cream’s sold out!

You’ll know it when you drop out.

The ending is a cop-out.

In a perfect world, where life is lived in little movies, everything would have been sorted by Friday.

Soap would have swung his big newspaper deal.

Norman’s horse would have been up and ready to race.

Geraldo and his friends would have recorrected history.

The Queen would have been back on the banknotes.

Prince Charles would have been the twat with the big ears once again.

Inspectre Hovis would have cleared his desk.

Small Dave would have been banged up in another suitcase.

The library clerk would have been suing the police for wrongful arrest and excessive use of an electric cattle prod.

Pigarse’s dad would have got the new seat for his Honda.

John Omally would have organized the Gandhis’ mega-concert in Gunnersbury Park.

And Jim Pooley would not be lying dead in a mortuary drawer.

Which all goes to prove, if any proof were needed, that we do not live in a perfect world. But rather in one where things can turn from good to bad and bad to worse and worse to far more worser still, in less than a single second.

And in less, it seemed, than a single second, Soap got the shock of his life. There was a sound like breaking thunder and the walls of the office shook.

Soap jerked upright and glanced all about, his eyes rather wide and a-bulge. He was still in the editor’s office, but everything had changed. The room was bare of furniture and also bare of Leo. The floor was mossed by an inch of dust. Damp stains mapped the cracking plaster walls.

Soap took to gathering his senses.

The last thing he could remember was giving the editor a Chinese burn in the cause of a little information. Leo’s watch had come off in Soap’s hand. A rather splendid watch it was, too. A big electronic jobbie with the words PERSONAL LIFESPAN CHRONOMETER printed upon it. And then—

Crash went the breaking thunder sound and a lot of wall came down.

Soap still held the editor’s watch. He stuffed it hastily into his trouser pocket, took to his heels and fled.

He fled through the outer office, also empty, also gone to dust, down the fire escape and out into the High Street. And then Soap paused and gasped in air and got another shock.

Half the High Street was gone. Just gone. Mr Beefheart’s the butcher. The launderette. The recently opened nasal floss boutique. And the bank that likes to say yes.

Gone. Just gone.

There were earth-movers moving earth. Big diggers digging. And a crane with a demolition ball. The crane turned on its caterpillar tracks, swinging the ball like a pendulum. The ball smashed once more into the front wall of the building. The roof came down in plumes of dust. The offices of the Brentford Mercury became no more than memory.

“Oh, no,” cried Soap. “Oh, no, no, no.”

“Oi! You!”

Soap turned to spy a chap with a clipboard hurrying his way. The chap wore one of those construction worker’s helmets, popularized by the Village People and still capable of turning heads at a party when worn with nothing else other than a smile.

“Oi! You!” the chap called out once more.

“Eh?” went Soap, and, “What?”

“Clear off! Get behind the wire!”

Soap said, “Now just you see here!”

And then Soap said, “Shit!” because Soap had spied the logo on the chap’s helmet. It was the Virgin logo and it quite upset poor Soap.

The chap rushed up, waving his hands about, and Soap gathered him by his lapels and bore him off his feet.

“What is going on?” shouted Soap. “Speak at once, or by the worlds beloooow I’ll ram that helmet up your ars—”

“This is a restricted area. Part of the Virgin Mega City development. You can be shot on sight for trespassing. Put me down, you madman.”

Soap let the chap fall flat on his back.

“How?” Soap managed to say.

The chap on the deck was now crying into a walkie-talkie set. “Security!” he was crying. “Intruder on site. Dangerous lunatic. Bring the big guns.”

In his state of near delirium, Soap almost put the boot in. But sensing that it was better to run, he took once more to his heels.

The top end of the High Street was all fenced across with a steel-meshed barrier topped with razorwire. There was a single entrance gate manned by an armed guard. The entrance gate was open. The armed guard was chatting to a lady in a straw hat. Soap slipped through unnoticed.

But not, however, into a Brentford he recognized.

The fine Victorian streets had disappeared and in their place were new homes. Built in that style which architects know as Postmodern and the rest of us know as shite!

“I’m in Legoland,” whispered Soap. “What am I doing here?”

Behind him arose the wailing of alarms and Soap was away on his toes. He was several streets further before he once more began to recognize his surroundings. He passed by Bob the Bookie’s and Norman’s cornershop. Neither of these had sported the “well kept” look before, but now they looked decidedly wretched.

Soap stumbled by. Ahead he saw the Flying Swan. He stumbled up to it and in. He stood there, framed by the famous portal, puffing and blowing and effing and blinding and sagging somewhat at the knees.

A barman, wearing a sports top and shorts, looked up from an automatic glass-polisher. Soap lurched to the counter and leaned upon it for support.

“Been at the gym, mate?” said the barman.

“No,” mumbled Soap. “Where’s Neville?”

“Neville?” asked the barman. “Who’s Neville?”

“Don’t come that with me.” And Soap raised a wobbly fist.

“I wouldn’t get lairey if I were you, mate. You’re on camera, remember.” The barman thumbed over his shoulder towards a surveillance camera that angled down from the ceiling.

“But …” went Soap. “But …”

“You’re drunk,” said the barman. “And you’re wearing make-up! Out of my pub. Go on now.”

“No.” Soap’s fist became a palm of peace. “No, wait. I’m confused. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“You look familiar to me,” said the barman, studying Soap. “I’ve seen your face somewhere before.”

“I don’t know you. Please tell me where Neville is.”

“I really don’t know any Neville.”

“But he’s the part-time barman here. The full-time part-time barman.”

“Oh, that Neville. He retired.”

“Retired?” Soap steadied himself against the counter. “Why would Neville retire?”

“There was a shooting incident. Bloke gunned down right outside the door.”

“Gunned down?” Soap did further steadyings. “Gunned down? Here? How? When? Why?”

“This was five years ago,” said the barman, staring hard at Soap. “It made all the papers at the time. Local bloke, shot down by a contract killer, they reckon. Sniper rifle off the flat blocks opposite. The ones they’re pulling down.”