“Oh yes,” said Soap, a-swigging. “I know.”

“But there’s still a lot of it that you don’t know and so I’m going to tell it to you now.”

And so Jim did. He told Soap the lot. About THE END and Dr Trillby and Geraldo and the fanboys from the future and how Wingarde had been saving rock stars’ lives because Jim had pulled off The Pooley. And Soap told Jim all that he knew and all that he’d been through and by the end of it all they both agreed that they seemed to know quite a lot about everything.

Which they almost did, of course.

“You must find Geraldo,” said Jim. “You’ve seen his photograph, so you know what he looks like. He said he’d go back in time and reverse everything that Wingarde had done. But he obviously hasn’t got round to it yet. He’s probably still going from concert to concert. But I’m sure he’ll turn up for this one and I’m sure that if you tell him what Wingarde’s up to now he’ll sort it all out.”

“Okay,” said Soap. “But listen, Jim. Everything points to Wingarde, you know. That he was the one who killed you. To clear the family name because you pulled off The Pooley.”

“I know,” said Jim. “But it doesn’t make any sense. He killed me because I pulled off The Pooley. But I never got to pull off The Pooley, because he killed me first. So if I never pulled off The Pooley, he would have had no reason to kill me in the first place.”

“Do you know what I think, Jim?” said Soap.

“No, Soap, what do you think?”

“I think time travel really complicates things.”

Jim looked at Soap.

But Soap didn’t look at Jim.

“Quite,” said Jim.

“And I’ll tell you something else.”

“Go on.”

“I have a score to settle with that Leo. He nicked my photos and took the credit for my journey to the centre of the Earth.”

“Well, you did nick his wristwatch first.”

“I didn’t nick it. It just fell into my hand.”

“Just leave it all to Geraldo, Soap. Let him sort it out.”

“All right. But that Wingarde must be brought to justice for what he did to you. And then you can rest easy in your grave and go to the good place.”

“Yes,” said Jim, “I’d like that very much.”

Soap stretched and yawned. “I’m really knackered,” he said. “I was knackered anyway. But now I reckon I’ve got the time traveller’s equivalent of jetlag.”

“That’s really tough,” said Jim, “because you’re not going to get much sleep.”

“I’ll have a lie-in tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t, Soap. This is the day after tomorrow. This is the day of the concert.”

(More big juggernaut action)

Over the hill and into the town

The juggernaut came roaring.

Into the sleepy hamlet where

The folk are warm and snoring.

Down the narrow shopping street,

Over the blind road-sweeper’s feet.

Cracking the tile with its exhaust heat

The juggernaut came roaring.

Onto the lanes where the farmers walk

The juggernaut came screaming

Past libraries where none may talk

And the out-of-work sit dreaming.

Over the cobbledy cobbledy way,

Ruining the blacksmith’s holiday.

Distracting the faithful as they pray,

The juggernaut came screaming.

The men aboard the lorries

Laugh as they drive along.

And don’t give a toss for simple folk

And can’t tell right from wrong.

Now one of the best things about outdoor rock concerts is that they involve a lot of big juggernaut action. There’s all that beefy boy-type equipment that has to be loaded up and hauled about and erected by a lot of manly men in construction worker’s helmets, who whistle at girls and swear a lot.

It’s a manly man’s game is rock music. Always has been, always will be. That’s the way it is.

Gunnersbury Park was a big old park and a pretty nice one, too. The house was originally built for the first Earl of Gunnersbury, Sir Rupert Crawford, who made his packet from the slave trade and the transportation of opium. Whether Sir Rupe would have gone for rock ’n’ roll is anyone’s guess. And what he would have thought about all those “slaves to the rhythm” who would shortly be filling up his grounds can only be imagined.

He would no doubt have approved of all the dope they’d be bringing and, as a manly man of some renown, he would certainly have loved all the big juggernaut action.

Which was a shame, really, as there wasn’t going to be any.

It was somewhat after eight of the morning clock when the snoozing Soap was raised from his slumbers by what can only be described as a bloody horrible racket.

“Aaaagh!” went Soap, falling down from his chair. “Bugger my boots, what’s that?”

No answer came from Pooley. For with the coming of the dawn his shade had faded all away. This is often the case with ghosts. It’s a tradition, or an old teeth-chatterer, or something.

Soap crawled over to the french windows and peered out. “Bugger my boots,” he said once more and not without good cause.

For drifting in from the lands of the west there came a marvellous sight. A helicopter of awesome proportions, all red, white and logoed. And slung beneath it an entire rock concert stage protected from the weather beneath a vast aluminium half-dome, complete with sound equipment, lighting gantries, mixing desks and all the bits and bobs. It was a single unit. One of the first Virgin Integrated Outdoor Concert Systems. Solar-powered and digitized and all that kind of caper.

The helicopter moved forward and hovered overhead, blotting out the sky and giving Soap the willies. Servo units engaged, cogs meshed, hawsers hawsed and down to the grass before Gunnersbury House came the stage with all its bits and bobs and bugger-my-booteries.

Soap watched the descent, boggle-eyed, shaking his head at the wonder of it all. “It’s a bit close,” he observed as the stage touched down and minced John’s car to scrap. Stagehands and roadcrew swarmed down ropes from the helicopter’s belly and disconnected the hawsers and suchlike. The helicopter rose and swept away and that was that was that.

Soap rose to his feet, opened the french windows and strolled outside to view the rear of the stage.

And down from it jumped two men. They wore black suits and sunglasses. One held a pistol, the other a walkie-talkie set.

“Pass!” shouted the gunman in a menacing manner.

“What?” replied Soap, rather too shocked to move.

“Backstage pass. Whip it out.”

“I’m with the band,” said Soap, which sometimes works.

The chap with the walkie-talkie shouted into it. “Intruder in rear-stage area,” he shouted. “One for the wagon. First of the day.”

“Now just you see here!” said Soap.

“And he’s a live one. Best bring the dogs.”

“Hang about,” said Soap.

“Yes, hang about.” The voice was Omally’s and the rest of him accompanied it. John came marching up the drive, paused for a moment to view the area where his car should surely have been, shook his head and approached the rear-stage area.

“Ah, good morning, Mr Omally.” The men in black saluted John. The one with the walkie-talkie struck himself on the head with it, the one with the gun did likewise and almost put his eye out.

“That fills me with confidence,” said Soap.

“This man is with me,” said Omally. “Here, take this, Soap, and put it on.”

John handed Soap one of those plasticized backstage pass jobbies which can be a passport to sexual bliss if you flash them in front of the right women. Soap clipped it onto his lapel.

“Off about your business,” said John, and the men in black went off about their business.