John led Soap away to his terrible kitchen. “That was some stunt you pulled the night before last,” he said, forcing bread into a blackened toaster. “Vanishing into thin air like that. Pigarse pooed his pants.”

“Yes, John, I’m sorry. I can explain about that. I’ve got to tell you everything.”

“Well, you’ll have to do it later.” John peered into the toaster, from which smoke was already beginning to rise.

“No, John. I have to tell you now.”

“Later,” said John, fanning his face. “I have to meet the Beatles.”

They came in by helicopter too. It dropped down onto the lawn beside the stage and Soap munched on burnt toast and watched it through the unwashed kitchen window.

He saw the Beatles being helped down by their minders and nurses and fussed about and settled into wheelchairs.

“That Wingarde has a lot to answer for,” said Soap, spitting black bits into the sink. “And I’m going to punch him right on the nose when I see him.”

Pigarse wandered into the kitchen. “Aaaagh!” he went and he clutched at his trouser seat and limped away at speed.

“Fucking hell, what a pong,” said Ricky breezing in. “Oh, it’s you, Soap. Where did you spring from?”

“Yes, I’m very sorry about that, you see—”

“Well, never mind,” said Ricky. “It’s always a joy to see Pigarse filling his kecks. Have the Beatles arrived?”

“They’re out there,” said Soap, pointing. “They look really old and knackered.”

“That’s because they are old and knackered. Old rockers never know when to quit. It’s all the buzz from playing live. The adrenaline rush. Makes you feel like a god. Once you’ve had it you never want to lose it.”

“It’s not for me,” said Soap. “But listen, Ricky. A couple of things. Could you lend me that silence tape?”

“Sure, I won’t need it today.” Ricky pulled out his walkman and handed it to Soap. “What else do you want?”

“I have to find someone who will be in the crowd. Will there be surveillance cameras set up?”

“There always are, they’re all over the place.”

“So could I get access to the control room or something? Look at the screens or whatever?”

“You’ve got your security clearance card there. You can go pretty much where you want.”

“Splendid,” said Soap. “So which bands are playing today?”

“Well, there’s us. But we’re near the bottom of the bill today.”

“Is Litany going to do her magic thing as soon as you go on?”

“No, not until right at the end, when the Beatles have finished their set. She’s going to do one of those Marilyn Monroe numbers. ‘Happy birthday, Mr President’. She’ll be doing ‘Happy birthday, Mr Lennon’. Then she’ll let it rip.”

“So who else is playing?”

“All the usual suspects. The Who. Jimi Hendrix. Elvis will be making an appearance.”

“Elvis playing Brentford!” Soap whistled.

“Doing stuff from his new rap album. And there’s Ali Dada.”

“Never heard of them,” said Soap.

“And Screaming Lord Sutch and the Savages.”

“God bless Screaming Lord Sutch,” said Soap[16].

“They’ll all be arriving soon,” said Ricky. “What time is it, do you know?”

Soap almost pressed a button on the wristwatch. Almost, but not quite. “I don’t know,” said Soap. “It’s broken. But tell me this also: will Wingarde and his guru be coming?”

Ricky nodded his big-haired head. He still had all the big hair, although it hadn’t been mentioned of late. “The little shit will be here. Throwing his weight around and making an arsehole of himself.”

“Good,” said Soap. “He and I have much to discuss.”

“Rather you than me,” said Ricky. “I can’t stand the bastard.”

The bastard was having his breakfast. The full English and heavy on the ketchup. He sat at a table on the roof terrace of the Virgin Mega City Rich Bastard’s Tower.

The roof terrace afforded Wingarde a fine view of Brentford. As he munched upon his egg, he could see all the earth-movers moving earth and the diggers digging away.

Wingarde raised a pair of binoculars and smiled as he watched the demolition ball cleaving its way into number seven Mafeking Avenue.

“Out with the old and in with the new,” crooned Wingarde, setting down his bins and tucking into some unburnt toast.

“You’re very chipper this morning,” said The Voice.

“Well, it’s all moving along nicely. You’re pleased with the progress, I trust.”

“Most pleased. And I’ve rewarded you well for your labours, have I not?”

“You certainly have.” Wingarde chewed upon a sausage. “Mmmmph mmm, mmph, mmph,” he continued.

“Don’t speak to God with your bloody mouth full.”

“Sorry, God.” Wingarde wiped his chin. “I was saying thank you very much. I really enjoy bossing people around.”

“I thought it might appeal to you and it suits my purposes well.”

“What exactly are your purposes?” Wingarde scooped up bacon. “I keep on asking and you keep on being vague.”

“Because it’s none of your damn business. But I’ll tell you this, Wingarde. That little town you see down there being ploughed away. From its earth will rise a mighty tower. A tower that will be a temple to science.”

“Built in praise of you, sir?”

“Built in praise of me.”

“But why build it in Brentford? Brentford’s such a dump.”

“Because, as anyone who knows their history will tell you, Brentford occupies the site of the Biblical Eden.”

“And that’s important, is it?”

“You are a fuckwit, Wingarde. But, oh look, here comes your guru.”

“I don’t know why I need a guru anyway,” whispered Wingarde. “When I talk directly to you.”

“I’ve told you before, he’s here to protect you. He has your best interests at heart, and mine also, although he does not know it.”

“Is that why you won’t let me tell him about you?”

“Something like that. So just keep schtum and be nice to him. OK?”

“OK,” whispered Wingarde, scraping jam on to a piece of toast.

“Good morning, Wingarde,” said Dr Vincent Trillby, striding up in dressing gown and slippers. To either side of him strode Balberith and Gressil, but Wingarde couldn’t see them, so he didn’t poo his pants.

“Good morning, True Father,” said Wingarde, which was accurate enough.

“All going well with the demolition work?” Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s bacon.

“Splendidly,” said Wingarde, pulling his plate beyond reach. “But I do have a bit of bad news for you.”

“Oh yes?” Dr Trillby helped himself to some of Wingarde’s coffee.

“Well, you know that wristwatch you had stolen?”

Dr Trillby nodded and spoke in a guarded manner. “A family heirloom,” he said. “Of great sentimental value.”

“Well, there’s been a spot of bother. I was sent some surveillance footage. The chap who nicked it turned up on the street.”

“At last,” said Dr Trillby. “I knew he would eventually.”

“Well, he tried to escape in a getaway car and a police helicopter blew it to buggeration. Slapped wrists all round. A bit of a cock-up.”

Dr Trillby’s face took on an ashen hue. He rocked upon his heels and clenched his fists and bottom cheeks.

“That’s you fucked, then,” said the voice of Leviathan.

“Pardon me?” said Wingarde.

“I’m talking to myself”

“Are you having another of your mystical turns? When the saints speak through your mouth?”

“Something like that!” Dr Trillby turned shakily upon his heel and staggered from the terrace. Once out of sight of Wingarde, and all alone in the very posh lounge (well, almost all alone), he flung himself down to the goatskin rug and drummed his fists on the floor.

“What a pity for you,” said the voice of Leviathan. “Your time-travel watch all blown to buggeration. You’ll just have to stay in this century with us.”