Two police cars swung around the corner and into what was left of the street.

“Give us a lift up,” shouted Small Dave. “Give us a lift to the lock.”

“What?” went Norman.

“Give us a lift up!”

Norman gave Dave a lift up.

The police cars slewed to a double halt.

Small Dave bit through the padlock.

“Give yourselves up,” came that old loudhailer voice. “Give yourselves up or we fire.”

“Inside!” shouted Norman, dragging open the door.

“Come with me,” shouted Soap, dragging at Geraldo’s arm.

“Spare me, Death,” wailed Geraldo in his silly squeaky voice.

“I’m not Death.” Soap tugged and pulled. “I have to talk to you. It’s about Wingarde.”

“Wingarde?” Geraldo’s voice went up an octave. “What has that bastard done now?”

That bastard has his head down and his foot down hard as well. The limo’s tyres burned further tread and the car moved off at the hurry-up along the gravel towards Gunnersbury House. John Omally, racing forward, made one of those heroic all-action, manly-man, Hollywood-movie-star leaps for the boot that all-action manly man Hollywood movie stars always leave to their stunt doubles.

With his non-gun-toting hand he managed to hang onto one of those delta-wing type jobbie things that big expensive limousines always have at the back. And which are probably designed for this very purpose.

“Whoah!” went Omally, as his expensive although non-stunt toecaps raked along the gravel, raising a fine shower of sparks.

The helicopter’s invisible wheels raised no sparks at all as they settled down upon the gleaming aluminium half-dome of the stage canopy.

“Pretty impressive landing, eh?” said the pilot. “I should get a Blue Peter badge for that.”

“I’ll put a word in for you,” said the voice of Hovis. “I know the new presenter, Myra Hindley. Now switch off the engine. I don’t want to get my head chopped off by an invisible rotor blade.”

“Sure thing, sir.” The pilot fumbled about at the invisible instrument panel with his invisible fingers and drew out the invisible ignition key. “All done, sir,” he said. “You may now disembark.”

“Just wait for me here.” Hovis fumbled open the invisible door and leapt out of the helicopter.

Outside Norman’s lock-up various officers were now leaping from various squad cars. These were parked in a sort of semi-circle, and the officers were strapping on flak jackets and pushing large shells into pump-action shotguns.

“You are surrounded,” came that old loudhailer voice once more. “Resistance is useless. Give yourselves up.”

Officers cocked their weapons and winked at one another.

“Come out with your hands held high and your trousers round your ankles.”

“That’s a new tactic,” an officer observed.

“You have thirty seconds or we open fire.”

Officers started counting down.

“Three … two … one,” went that old loudhailer voice.

Now there should have been a fanfare, or a big orchestral something. There would have been if this had been a movie. But, as this wasn’t a movie, even a little one, what happened next just happened. With a bang.

The door of Norman’s lock-up burst from its hinges and smashed into the street, all dust and splintering timber. And then something marvellous, marvellous and magical, golden and gorgeous plunged from the lock-up and reared into the air.

The officers fell back in awe as a fabulous beast with a glittering mane and a mighty horn rose up on its hind legs and bellowed.

“Holy horseshit,” croaked an officer. “It’s a bleeding unicorn.”

“It’s The Pooley,” croaked another. “I won ten quid on that.”

The Pooley bellowed and reared a bit more, cleaving the air with its mystical horn. Its mane and its tail swirled spangles, its hooves raised silver sparks.

On its broad and mighty back sat Small Dave, and clinging to him sat Norman.

“Hi-yo, Pooley,” cried the small fellow. “Hi-yo, Pooley, and away.”

The Pooley leapt over the nearest squad car and thundered away at a gallop.

The Beatles never really thundered away. They were more your melodic harmonies. And your mop-top head-shakings And your synchronized ooooooings. The bloody great punch-up, now in progress right before the stage, wasn’t doing too much to aid the Fabs with any of this lovable stuff.

“Do you think we could be a bit more peace-loving?” John asked. “Give peace a chance, eh?”

A beer can sailed through the evening air and struck John right upon the nose.

Noses were being bloodied below as Soap dragged Geraldo from the fray.

“Come into the house,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

“You’ll have to make it quick,” squeaked the fanboy. “I don’t want to miss the end of the show. It’s what I’ve come to see.”

“Hurry, then,” said Soap. “This way.”

Soap flashed his backstage pass at the broad-shouldered Rent-a-thug security men, who were standing well back from the violence. And then he and Geraldo stood well back as a limousine tore past them, trailing Omally behind.

“Oh, look,” said Geraldo. “There goes John Omally. And wasn’t that—”

“Wingarde,” said Soap. “It was Wingarde.”

They watched as the limo did a nifty U-turn and sped right past them again.

“John’ll hurt his feet,” said Geraldo. “You really need special stunt shoes to do that.”

“Come into the house.” And Soap pushed Geraldo forward.

Once inside, with the front door closed, Soap spoke at considerable speed.

“You’ve got to stop it all,” said Soap. “Go back in time and recorrect history. Put right everything that Wingarde’s done.”

“Just hold on.” Geraldo raised a none-too-podgy palm. “I’ll get round to all that. But first I want to see the big climax to the concert.”

“Stuff the concert. Wingarde’s causing chaos. Death and chaos. You have to stop it now.”

“I will, I will. But hang about.” Geraldo peered at Soap. “Just who are you, anyway? And how do you know about Wingarde?”

“My name is Soap Distant. Jim Pooley was my friend.”

“I’m out of here,” Geraldo said. “I don’t want to get involved in any of that. Jim’s a nice guy and I’m sorry he has to take the rap for pulling off The Pooley.”

“Jim Pooley is dead,” said Soap. “And I think Wingarde killed him.”

“Jim Pooley dead?” Geraldo made a puzzled face. “But if he’s dead, how can he pull off The Pooley?”

“I don’t know.” And Soap threw up his hands.

“And what’s that on your wrist?” Geraldo asked.

“One of your time machines,” said Soap. “I know all about everything. Well, almost everything. Here, take a look at this.” And Soap pulled from his pocket the golden plastic disc with the face of Wingarde’s guru on the front. “Do you know who this is?” he asked.

Geraldo now peered at the bogus amulet. “Why, that’s Dr Vincent Trillby,” he said. “What’s he doing here?”

“Aha!” said Soap. “So that’s who it is. He’s in cahoots with Wingarde.”

“I’m losing this,” said Geraldo. “Jim Pooley dead and Wingarde in league with Dr Trillby? I mean, I know this concert’s all wrong. But what happens at the end happens. The Pooley does get pulled off. It’s in the history books.”

Soap’s hands fluttered all about. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted action. “Forget about the concert,” he said.

“Forget about the concert? No way. This is the concert. The legendary Gandhis concert. The final Gandhis concert. The one where Litany gets it.”

“Gets her magic voice back. Yes, I know.”

“No, not that,” said Geraldo. “I mean, yes, of course, she does get it back. But the reason that this is the Gandhis gig is because this is the one where she dies.”