A small sigh escaped from the lips of Jim Pooley. Though small, it was so plaintive, and evocative of such heart-rending pathos, that had there been a King Edward potato present this sigh would have brought a tear to its eye.

“Don’t do that,” said John. “You’ve made all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.”

“But, John, but, oh oh oh.”

“Look at him,” John told the Professor. “You’ve made him cry now.”

“I’m not crying. I’m just, oh oh oh.”

“Jim,” said the Professor. “You mustn’t be downhearted. What you have done by finding the scrolls is something so wonderful that mere money could never reward you. You will go down in the annals of history as the man who changed the world.”

“Will I get a pension?” Jim asked.

“Probably not. But certainly a round of applause. Would you care for one now?”

“Not really.”

“Well, that’s that then. So it only remains for me to thank you on behalf of the people of the world. Wish you well in whatever field of endeavour you choose next for yourself. And bid you a fond farewell. I’d offer you a late lunch, but I have much to do and you must be pretty stuffed with all those chocolates you’ve eaten.”

“Not particularly,” said Jim in a grumpy tone.

“Well, eat all the other ones I saw you sticking in your pockets.”

“So is that it?” John shrugged hopelessly.

“That’s it. I must prepare myself for the ceremonies. I have a great deal to do over the coming months.”

“So we’ll say goodbye, shall we?”

“Yes. Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye then, Professor.”

“And goodbye to you, Jim, and thank you very much indeed.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, Jim. Just one thing before you go.”

“What is that?” asked the sorrowful one.

“Only this.” Professor Slocombe rose from his desk and strode over to Pooley. He stared him deeply in the eyes and nodded thoughtfully. “One clouted ear, a pair of black eyes, a bloodied nose, a grazed chin and a dented forehead.”

“And a few cracked ribs,” said Jim. “Not that I’m one to complain.”

“Well, you deserve better than that.”

“On this we’re both agreed.”

“Kindly close your eyes.”

Jim closed his eyes.

Professor Slocombe whispered certain words and passed his hands over Jim’s face. “You can open them now,” he said.

Jim opened his eyes. Professor Slocombe held up a small hand mirror. Jim gazed into it.

“I’m cured,” whispered Jim. “All my bumps and bruises gone.”

“The very least I could do. Farewell to you now, Jim, and may God go with you.”

“Give us another chocolate,” said John.

Jim rooted in his pockets. “Here you go,” he said. “And that’s the last one.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It’s the last one you’re getting.”

“Oh, I see.”

As the library bench was now in Old Pete’s back garden, John and Jim sat on the rim of the hole, their feet dangling down.

“I don’t even have a bench to sit on any more,” sighed Jim.

“The scrolls are yours,” said John. “By the Finders Keepers law, or whatever. You could sell them. They must be worth a few bob.”

“I don’t think the Professor would be very happy about that.”

“It’s outrageous.” John made fists and shook them in the air. “After all we’ve been through, we come out of it with absolutely nothing.”

“So no change there, then.”

“We’re not beaten yet.”

“I think I am.”

“Oh no you’re not.”

“Oh yes I am.”

“You’re not,” said John. “And neither am I. There must be some way for us to get our hands on all that money. If it wasn’t for Fred…”

“We could kill Fred,” said Jim.

“Kill Fred?” Omally shook his head.

“Well, it’s not as if we wouldn’t be doing the world a favour. He is in league with the Devil, after all.”

“So we should kill him?”

Jim shook his head, then lowered it dismally. “No, of course not. But if he wasn’t in charge of all the Millennium money, maybe then we could get a share of it.”

“There’s wisdom in your words, Jim Pooley. Perhaps there might be some way to oust Fred and get someone favourable to our cause into his position. Me, for instance.”

“Or perhaps we should just forget the whole damn thing. Put it down to experience, go off about our business.”

“And what business would that be?”

Jim made grumbling sounds. “I shall continue with my time travelling. I’ll get forward eventually. And when I do…”

Omally now sighed, something he rarely did. “There’s a fortune to be made in this millennial celebrating and we are the ones who should be making it.”

“No.” Jim shook his head once more. “I’ve had enough, John. We nearly got killed yesterday. And we nearly got killed the day before. And we nearly got killed the day before that. Today no one has tried to kill us. Tomorrow, I hope, will be even better. I’m quitting, John. I’ve had it. Honestly.”

“Come on, man.”

“No, John, I quit. No more mad schemes. No more risks to life and limb and sanity. I’m going home to bed. I may well remain there for a number of days. If not for ever.”

“Jim, this is a temporary setback, nothing more.”

“I’m sorry, John.” Jim climbed wearily to his feet. “Enough is enough. Goodbye.”

“No, Jim. You can’t go like this, you can’t.”

“Look, John, if I call it quits now, at least I can survive this day unscathed. I mean, what else could possibly happen?”

And so saying, Jim turned dismally away, slipped upon the loose soil and fell heavily into the hole.

21

Summer was coming to an end, and with it Jim’s stay in the Cottage Hospital. He was out of traction now and the plaster casts were off. There was still considerable stiffness, but he could walk all right with the aid of a stick.

Jim had not spent his time in idleness though. He had written a book. The Brentford Scrolls: My Part in Their Discovery.

Well, it had started out with that title anyway. But Jim had favoured later excesses, Raiders of the Lost Scrolls, Scrollrunner, and finally, for no apparent reason, other than it sounded good, The Brentford Chainstore Massacre.

Although purporting to be a strictly factual autobiographical account, few who knew Jim personally would have recognized the lantern-jawed, hardbitten, Dimac-fighting sex machine hero with the devastating wit and the taste for fine wines and pussy-magnet Porsches.

Jim had sent off copies to several major publishers, but was still awaiting replies. He had not sent a copy to Transglobe. He had quite given up on the time travelling, even though he’d had plenty of time to perfect it. He could only go back. And back didn’t seem to be a joyful place to go.

During Jim’s months of hospital incarceration, John had made many visits, and Jim had been forced to listen to the Irishman’s vivid accounts of great fund-raising ventures. Of whist drives and raffles and pub quiz competitions, of wet T-shirt contests (there seemed to have been many of these) and of guided tours and sponsorship deals. But the millions were as far away as ever, as were too the thousands and the hundreds.

“I have so many expenses,” John told him.

Jim plodded homeward on his stick. The trees in the Memorial Park were taking on their autumn hues, and Autumn Hughes the gardener was sweeping up some leaves. The sun was sinking low now and the air had a bit of a nip to it. Thoughts of a nip turned Jim’s thoughts to the Swan. And the optimist in him put what spring it could into his plod.

When Jim reached the Swan, however, the optimist went back to sleep.

A large neon cross blinked on and off and the sign of the Flying Swan no longer swung. The Road to Calvary, spelled out in coloured lights, flashed red, then amber, green, then red again.

Jim offered up a prayer, hung down his head and plodded on.

He settled himself onto the new bench before the Memorial Library. But the new bench, being built entirely from concrete, was uncomfortable. Jim offered up another prayer, hung his head lower still and plodded home.