“Dies?” Soap fell back in horror. “You’re saying Litany dies?”

“Of course,” said Geraldo. “Like I say, it’s history. Litany is shot dead on the stage.”

The poem “My Aunty Nora’s Cabbage Patch”,

which should have accompanied this chapter,

has had to be removed for legal reasons.

“No,” said Soap. “I don’t believe that.”

“It’s history,” said Geraldo. “And it’s what makes her into a legend. A saint. A goddess. At least for a while.”

“Tell me what happens.” Soap shook Geraldo by his T-shirt.

Geraldo’s right hand moved towards his left wrist, where he wore his own special watch.

“No.” Soap loosened his grip. “Please don’t touch your watch. Just please explain what happens.”

“Okay. Well, the Gandhis play this concert and at the very end Litany sings and her magic voice is heard all over the world. Millions and millions of people watching the show are healed. It changes everything. Well, at least it does for a while. But the big organizations that run damn near everything stand to lose damn near everything.”

“So it was them who killed her? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Nobody knows who killed her. The killer was never caught. There were a lot of conspiracy theories. There always are. Litany literally became a goddess overnight and that’s how she probably would have stayed, if the big organizations hadn’t put it out about The Pooley.”

Soap sighed and said, “Go on.”

“The big organizations had to discredit Litany. Make out that she was a fake. That the whole thing was an evil set-up to fool the public. So they cooked up this tale that a sinister Svengali figure was behind it all. That he had somehow worked a massive hoax upon the entire world. And because his name was Pooley they managed to get a decent catchphrase out of it: Pulling off The Pooley. It caught the public imagination and it stuck.”

“You could have told Jim this,” said Soap.

“No, I couldn’t. I’m not Wingarde. I didn’t want to change history.”

“But Jim is dead,” said Soap.

Geraldo took to shrugging. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “History definitely records that the man they blamed for the scam was Pooley. Because he was behind the Gandhis and he put the concert on.”

“My God,” said Soap. “That’s it.”

“It is?” said Geraldo.

“Yes, don’t you see? The man who put the concert on is Pooley. But it’s not Jim Pooley. It’s Wingarde Pooley. He’s running the entire Virgin empire now.”

“He’s what?”

“He’s running Virgin,” said Soap.

“So it’s Wingarde.” And Geraldo whistled. “It’s Wingarde who pulls off The Pooley.”

The Pooley[17] galloped up the Ealing Road. It passed by Norman’s corner shop and then the Flying Swan. It moved in that graceful floaty slow-motiony sort of a way that mythical animals so often do, but it didn’t half shift along. This was a Derby winner here and it went like a bat out of hell.

“Where do you want to go?” called Small Dave over his shoulder. “Would you like me to head for Penge?”

“Penge?” asked Norman, white-faced and clinging.

“I’ve heard it’s a very nice place. Although I’ve never been there myself.”

“Head for Gunnersbury Park!” shouted Norman. “Omally will help us out.”

John Omally’s toecaps were no longer raising sparks. John was now up on the boot of the limo and kicking out the rear window. Wingarde swung the steering wheel in a vain attempt to lose his would-be nemesis, bumped the limo onto the grass and drove it into the crowd.

Fighting fanboys scattered before it, leaping to the left and right.

“Get out of the bloody way, you fools.” And Wingarde beeped the horn.

John Omally rolled into the car, bounced off the rear seat and fell to the plush-pile-carpeted floor.

“Shoot him!” cried The Voice in Wingarde’s head. “Stop the car and shoot him.”

Wingarde clung to the wheel with both hands and stood on the brake with both feet. Omally, struggling to rise, found himself hurtling forward in a blur of beard. His head struck the back of Wingarde’s seat and John went out for the count.

“Gotcha,” crowed Wingarde, leering over his shoulder. “God’s chosen warriors, one. Bearded Irish bastards, nil.” Wingarde’s left hand moved towards his AK47. “And it’s goodbye to you,” he said.

“Don’t shoot him here, in the middle of this crowd,” said The Voice. “Back the car up carefully. And then you can blow his fucking brains out.”

“I don’t want anyone else getting killed.” Soap was getting in a state. “You have to stop it, Geraldo. Go back in time and stop it all. And that includes Litany dying.”

“I just don’t think I should,” said Geraldo, working up a worried sweat. “If I start messing about with history I’ll be as bad as Wingarde. I’ll change back the rest. But I can’t save Litany.”

“But surely you don’t want Litany to die?”

“Well, of course I don’t want her to, but—”

“All right,” said Soap. “I’ll do a deal with you. You’ve told me that Litany is going to die. So if I go out and stop her going onto the stage she won’t die, will she?”

“No,” said Geraldo. “I suppose not.”

“And then the future will change and it will be your fault.”

“Now, hold on there, I—”

“So, I’ll do a deal with you. You go back now into the past and change back everything that Wingarde did. And I promise that while you’re gone I won’t stop Litany going on stage.”

“Er …” Geraldo dithered.

“Think about it,” said Soap. “If she doesn’t die, there’s no telling what might happen. Perhaps she’ll use her magic voice on her next CD. I could suggest that she calls the album A Tribute to Geraldo.”

“No,” said Geraldo, “don’t do that.”

“So you’ll go back now and sort things out?”

“All right,” said Geraldo.

“Good.” Soap shook the fanboy by the hand. “Then I’ll say goodbye for now.”

“Er, just one thing,” said Geraldo. “You wouldn’t, er … double-cross me on this, would you?”

“Absolutely not,” said Soap. “You have my word as a gentleman.” But the fingers of Soap’s left hand were crossed behind his back.

“Is this far back enough?” asked Wingarde.

“PERFECT,” The Voice. “We’re right behind the crowd. No one should bother us here.”

“So, shall I—?”

“Go on,” said The Voice. “Put a round through his head.”

Wingarde unwrapped his AK47, blew a little dust from it, cocked the weapon, checked the chamber, angled it over the back of his seat and—

—shot John Omally through the head.

The Pooley was being given its head. Its hooves raised sparks upon the tarmac of the Great West Road. Steam rose from its gleaming flanks and coloured smoke roared from its snorting nostrils.

Behind now came police cars, sirens screaming.

“To the park!” cried Norman. “John will help us. Hurry, Dave, get to the park.”

In the park things weren’t going too well at all. The mayhem and fighting continued. The Beatles had given it up and were making their retreat from the stage, across which now Inspectre Hovis strode. He positioned himself in front of Lennon’s mic and raised his hands for calm.

A beer bottle caught him right on the head and that was it for Hovis.

Soap, now back in the control room, watched this on a telescreen and it had to be said that even with all his troubles Soap couldn’t stifle a smirk.

Geraldo wasn’t smirking. He wore a worried face. If he’d had to confess, he would have admitted that he had been putting things off. He could really have gone back at any time to sort out Wingarde’s mess. But the prospect was so dreadfully daunting. Exactly what had Wingarde done first? There seemed no end to the chaos and no specific beginning. Should he go back to the time of John Lennon’s shooting and try to grab Wingarde there? Or had Wingarde done anything before he saved Lennon?