“Leave me alone!” blubbered Trillby.

“No way, we’re here to stay. And so are you, by the sound of it.”

“Listen.” Trillby ground his teeth. “Just listen. I’m not saying it hasn’t been fun. It has. But I returned to this century for one reason only. To fetch my wandering boy. I can see that he’s done very well for himself here, but his mother wants him back. And I’m going to take him back no matter what.”

“Not now your watch has gone boom.”

Dr Trillby drummed his fists and thrashed his legs about. “Oh, bollocks!” he shouted. “Oh, bollocks bollocks bollocks!”

“They’re a load of bollocks,” said Pigarse. “I’m not saying hello.”

“They’re the Beatles,” said John Omally. “And although I don’t think much of them myself they were Jim’s favourites, so you’ll be nice to them or else.”

“Or else what?” asked Pigarse. “I’ll give you a smack. I’ve done it before.”

“You’ve one hand bandaged. I wouldn’t try your luck.”

“Luck doesn’t enter into it when you fight as dirty as me.”

John made them all line up in the entrance hall. It was a very tidy entrance hall now. John had spent much of the previous day clearing it up, with no help at all from the Gandhimen. Under normal circumstances he would never have considered clearing it up, but, well, it’s not every day you get to meet the Beatles.

“Look,” said John, inspecting his troops. “They’re old men. They’re rock legends. Please show a bit of respect.”

Soap stuck his head out from behind the kitchen door. “Can I meet the Beatles too?” he asked.

“All right,” said John. “Get on the end of the line there, next to Pigarse.”

Soap got onto the end of the line and stood to attention.

“You twat,” Pigarse whispered.

The front door swung open and men in black entered. They flanked the doorway, flexing their shoulders and looking “useful”. And then into the hall walked an old gentleman, supporting himself on an ebony cane.

“Blimey,” mumbled Soap. “It’s Eppy. Brian Epstein.”

“Old shirt-lifter,” said Pigarse.

Brian Epstein hobbled along the lined-up Gandhis, saying things like, “So you’re a Gandhi, are you?” and “So you’re a Gandhi too?”

“I’ll nut him if he touches me,” said Pigarse.

The Beatles now made their appearance. Out of their wheelchairs but shaky on their ancient pins. They wibbly-wobbled along the line, saying the same sort of thing.

All except for Lennon, of course. Lennon hadn’t lost it.

“I really love your music,” he said to Litany. “You’re a very talented lady.”

“Thank you,” said Litany. “I’d love to sing to you before you go on stage. It would make a great difference, I promise.”

“That would be nice,” said Lennon. “I’d like that very much.”

Soap got to shake hands with them all. He was, frankly, entranced. Overwhelmed. He knew it was all wrong. That it just shouldn’t be. But here it was happening anyway. Here was he, Soap Distant, actually shaking hands with the Fab Four. It was a moment he would treasure for ever. A magical moment. A moment that nothing could spoil.

“I can see right through your nose,” said Ringo. “Horrible, it is.”

Quack quack go the feathered folk.

Their mating habits are a joke.

They never wear the old Dutch cap

Nor trouble with a condom.

Quack quack go the feathered fowl,

They have no truck with goose or owl.

Or Siamese strings and Ben Wa balls

Or plug-in rubber dildos.

Quack quack go the feathered clowns,

Getting off on watered downs.

Caring not for Roman Showers

Or ritual bondage rimming.

Quack quack go the feathered lads.

Knowing not their mums and dads.

They are a flock of bastards.

So who do they think they are, waddling about with their beaks in the air, scorning harmless forms of deviant sexual recreation when it’s quite clear they don’t have enough morals to scribble down in big writing on a sheet of Brentford Borough Council toilet paper?

A good question!

Quack indeed!

There were plenty of ducks on Gunnersbury Lake. But soon many of these would be taking to their wings. Driven from their dabblings by misbehaving fanboys tossing beer cans.

At just gone ten of the morning clock the park gates were opened and the “ticket-holders only” flooded through.

Soap Distant stood on the concert stage beneath the great aluminium half-dome, hoping to get a glimpse of Geraldo. But as the green grass sank beneath the tidal wave of black-T-shirted youth, Soap’s heart sank with it and a lump rose in his throat.

“Thousands of the ugly-looking buggers,” said Soap. And his voice carried through the speaker system and echoed all over the park.

It was a poor start to the proceedings. But in view of what was yet to come, it could well have been considered a high point.

In various bedrooms in Gunnersbury House various Gandhis were togging up in their stage clothes. They were very expensive stage clothes. Very exclusive stage clothes.

Pigarse struggled into a pair of leather drainpipe trousers.

On his bed sat an old gent with a tattooed face and a good line in scar tissue. “Ram a codpiece down your crotch for art,” was his advice. “It gets the girlies going and if they’re disappointed later then it serves them right for being so cock-happy.”

“Cheers, Dad,” said Pigarse. “I’ll use your motorbike helmet.”

Litany sat at a dressing table in another of John’s guest bedrooms. There seemed to be at least twelve such bedrooms, although John had never counted. All the bedrooms but his remained empty, but for the Gandhis’ visits. John could have lived the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, had he so wished. He could have partied every night. But he didn’t. He lived alone with his memories. Drunk for much of the time, but always there to do the Gandhis’ business.

John sat upon Litany’s bed, idly toying with one of her shoes.

Litany glanced at his reflection. “Cheer up, John,” she said. “This is going to be a big day. The day that we change history.”

“I know,” said John. “I just wish Jim could have been here to see it.”

“You’ve got to let Jim go. It’s been five years. If I can get over it so can you.”

“He was my bestest friend. I loved that man. In a manly mannish sort of a way.”

Litany adjusted her false moustache. It was green, as it was Saturday.

“Do you know what?” said John. “I’ve never seen you without a false moustache on.”

“Nor have you ever seen me naked.”

“No, you’re right about that.”

“I know you’ve wanted to,” said Litany, teasing about at her hair.

“It doesn’t seem right. I thought that, perhaps, you and Jim …”

“Oh no,” said Litany. “I never would have.”

“But he meant a lot to you.”

“But not in that way. He was someone I wanted to meet. Have always wanted to meet.”

“Who? Jim?”

“I can’t explain it to you now. But one day I will, I promise.”

John rose from the bed and stretched a bit. “I’d better get downstairs,” he said. “And see how things are going.”

There were things going on all over the place on this particular day. At the Brentford nick, for instance. There were things going on in there.

“Right,” said Inspectre Sherringford Hovis. “Right, now listen up here.”

He had a little row of constables lined up before him. They were an anonymous-looking bunch. But then constables always are. It’s only when they rise up through the ranks and become detectives and suchlike that they take on all those lovable eccentricities that turn them into characters.