“Isn’t it always the way,” said Ricky, which rang another bell.

“This is Pigarse,” said Omally. “Pigarse is the loudest drummer in history.”

“I can see right through your nose,” said Pigarse. “Horrible it is and filled with bogeys.”

“Pleased to meet you too,” said Soap.

“But John has told us a lot about you,” said Pigarse.

Soap nodded out a “That’s nice”.

“He said you were an amiable buffoon.”

“Cheers, John,” said Soap.

John made the last introductions. But as the other members of the Gandhis rarely said anything and appeared to be little more than mere ciphers included to make up the numbers, that was that was that.

A plate was pushed in front of Soap and he was urged to fill it.

The spread of food was quite beyond anything Soap had ever seen before, even when dining with the King of Shambhala. It is a fact well known to those that know it well, that the very rich like nothing better than to dine upon endangered species. But Soap was particularly impressed to find that here things were different. This selection of foodstuffs was entirely composed from extinct species.

Soap helped himself to the haunch of woolly mammoth.

John Omally filled Soap’s glass with wine and spoke. “As this is the anniversary of Jim’s death,” he said, “we gather together here to feast. To toast Jim’s memory and to think of him. It’s good to have you here, Soap. Norman would have come but as he’s in prison he’s had to cry off.”

“Norman in prison,” said Soap. “What for?”

“It’s quite a long story, but I’ll keep it short. Norman built a racehorse for Jim.”

“Built him a racehorse?” Soap helped himself to the fillet of cave-bear. “That sounds right, knowing Norman.”

“He’s a most inventive lad. But you see, it was more than just a racehorse. And when Jim was killed, Norman didn’t know quite what to do with it. So he thought that, in Jim’s memory, he’d race it. And it was the first time the Derby was ever won by a unicorn.”

Soap’s slice of cave-bear went down the wrong way.

“Small Dave rode it to victory.”

“But I thought Small Dave was wanted by the police. For biting off that manager’s—”

“Cock,” said Pigarse.

“Penis,” said Soap.

“That sounds even ruder,” said Pigarse. “Why do you think that is?”

Soap shook his head and Omally continued.

“Small Dave disguised himself as a woman. So he was the first woman ever to win the Derby. Made history, that did.”

Soap had no comment to make regarding history.

John went on. “Do you recall what that Penist said to Small Dave?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Soap, checking out the Irish Elk. “It was only a couple of days ago.”

Omally raised an eyebrow.

“Seems like a couple of days ago. But she said that she saw him galloping to glory. So I suppose she was right, wasn’t she?”

“She’s always right. I’ve seen her myself on more than one occasion.”

“She jerks him off,” said Pigarse.

“She does not,” said John. “But to go on with what I was saying, Norman named the unicorn The Pooley. And Small Dave pulled off the Derby win. And not just once, but four times in a row.”

“Hard to beat a unicorn, eh?” Soap forked sabre-toothed tiger onto his somewhat crowded plate.

“And no doubt he would have won again this year, if it hadn’t been for the Incident.”

“Go on,” said Soap. “Tell me the worst.”

“Small Dave was on Parkinson. In drag, naturally. He’d become something of a TV celeb. But being Small Dave, he’d imbibed rather too freely in the hospitality lounge and by the time it was his turn to come on, he was—”

“Pissed as a bishop,” said Pigarse. “Pass me the dodo legs.”

“He was drunk,” said John. “And you know what Parkie’s like with the women.”

“No,” said Soap. “What is he like?”

Omally made a knowing face, which spared him the use of the word “allegedly”.

“Oh?” said Soap. “Really?”

“So, Parkie starts chatting Small Dave up and Parkie puts his hand on Small Dave’s knee, and the next thing you know there’s trouble, and Dave’s bitten off Parkie’s—”

“No!” Soap coughed up Mastodon. “Not Parkie’s penis too?”

“I’m afraid so. And you’ll never guess who was another guest on that same show. Only Inspectre Hovis, Brentford’s Detective in Residence.”

“So Small Dave’s back in the suitcase.”

“A very special suitcase, built for the purpose. And of course Norman got arrested and banged up in prison. So he couldn’t be with us tonight.”

“Pity,” said Soap, wondering whether he should eat what he had on his plate so far, before trying to fit on any Siberian Rhinoceros. “But at least you’ve survived a free man, John. And you’ve got this incredible house.”

“I got it pretty cheaply, as it happens. The last of the Crawfords snuffed it and the place came on the market. It had acquired a bit of an evil reputation.”

“The Curse of the Crawfords?” said Soap.

“A ghost. And not a family one. A new one. Although I’ve never seen it.”

“I don’t like ghosts,” said Soap. “Don’t like them at all.”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” asked Litany.

“Loads,” said Soap. “It’s in the family. My dad was a seer, my mum a psychic, even our cat read the tarot. That’s one of the reasons I went beloooow. To get away from ghosts. The tales I could tell you …”

“Yes,” said John. “But they’re better left until after the ten o’clock watershed …”

“I heard,” said Pigarse, “that there’s a tribe of dwarves with tattooed ears living under Brentford and that they come up at night and snatch away infants from their cots.”

“Wherever did you hear that?” Soap asked.

“I read it in the Brentford Mercury. There was this whole series of articles written by the editor about how he’d travelled to the centre of the Earth and planted the nation’s flag. And he had photos and everything. He was knighted by Prince Charles. I’ve got a copy of his book. It was a bestseller. Published by Virgin, of course.”

Soap took to the grinding of his teeth.

The evening passed as such evenings do, with great conversation and mighty consumption of liquor. The noise of laughter rose to unthinkable heights, as the quality of humour sank to unthinkable depths.

Ricky took out his Virgin walkman (no longer Virgin-Sony) and put on the headphones. Soap saw a look of contentment appear on his face.

“What are you listening to?” asked Soap. “Is it the Gandhis’ music?”

Ricky’s look was one of bliss. Soap Distant nudged his elbow. “What are you listening to?”

“Pardon?” Ricky lifted an earphone.

“I said, what are you listening to?”

“It’s a tape of silence,” Ricky said.

“What? You’re listening to a blank tape?”

“No.” Ricky switched off his walkman. “It’s a recording of silence. Made in the meditation chamber beneath the Potala, in Tibet.”

“I’ve been there,” said Soap. “And it is a very quiet place.”

“It’s the quietest place on Earth, apparently. This is a digital recording made of that silence. It’s in stereo, too.”

“Stereo silence?”

“Here, have a listen.” Ricky passed the walkman and Soap slipped on the headphones.

“Just press the on button,” said Ricky.

And Soap pressed the on button.

And silence fell upon Soap.

Complete and utter silence. Blissful silence. Peaceful, healing, all-consuming silence. Soap could no longer hear the laughter and ribaldry. All the noise of the room had gone and only silence remained.

Soap switched off the walkman and the row came rushing back.

“That’s incredible,” said Soap. “I couldn’t hear anything at all. Except for utter silence.”

“Good, isn’t it?” said Ricky. “And great if you’ve got noisy neighbours. You just stick the tape on your sound system and turn it up full blast. And then the whole room’s filled with silence. Helps me to get off to sleep when we’re on tour, I can tell you.”