Omally rubbed his hands together. “That would be excellent.”

Pooley shrugged his shoulders. “What else can happen?” he asked.

A pink dawn came to Brentford, gilding the rooftops with its sickly hue. Birds that should have by now flown south to winter it in tropical climes sat in silent rows musing upon the oddness of the season. As the old sun dragged itself into the sky there was all the promise of another fine and cloudless day ahead.

Pooley was the first to awake. He heard the milk float clattering over the cobblestones of the Butts, and, rising stiffly, he stumbled to the French windows and drew back the heavy curtains. The sunlight beamed down through the metal screen, laying golden diamonds upon the Professor’s carpet and causing Jim to blink wildly whilst performing the ritualistic movements of finding the first fag of the day. Like all first fags it was a killer. Jim did his best to draw some breath from the fragrant garden between coughs while he surveyed the damage the night had brought. The French windows had been torn from their hinges once more and their splintered remains littered the small lawn and surrounding flowerbeds. Shards of glass twinkled bright in the morning sunlight.

Pooley’s vile coughing awoke Omally who, scratching his nether regions, shambled over to join him. “A rare mess,” said the Irishman, “the glaziers will think the Professor a fine man for the wild parties and no mistake.”

Pooley gripped the metal framework of the screen. “What time does this open?” he asked.

“Nine o’clock, wasn’t it?”

The Memorial Library clock struck eight.

“An hour yet then.”

Omally shook the Professor gently awake. The old man stretched his slender limbs to the accompaniment of ghastly bone-cracking sounds. He yawned deeply. “So we are still alive then, that is a blessing.”

“Not much left of your windows,” said Jim. “Might be more economical to wall up the opening.”

The Professor looked at his watch and checked it with the mantelclock. “Time for breakfast I think.” He rang the Indian brass bell upon his desk and presently there came a knocking upon the study door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door swung open and the decrepit figure of Gammon appeared. “Breakfast for three, sir,” he said, hefting an oversized butler’s tray into view.

“I gave him the night off,” the Professor explained as the three men sat about the Moorish coffee table ravenously devouring the mountainous piles of toast, sausages, eggs and bacon loaded upon the tray. “I told him to return at seven and if he found the house intact, to arrange breakfast for three.”

“And what if the house had not been intact?” Omally asked between mouthfuls.

“If the doors were broken in and it was obvious that an entry had been made I ordered him to set the house ablaze and leave immediately, never to return.”

“And he would have done that?”

“Unquestioningly.”

Omally whistled. “He is a loyal servant indeed. It would have been my first thought to remove several of the more choice objects in order to spare them from the blaze, as it were.”

“Gammon has no need for that, I have seen to it that his long years of service will not go unrewarded.”

“You are a strange man, Professor.”

The Professor shook his head. “On the contrary, my motives are most simple, to advance science and to combat evil.”

“You make it sound simple.”

The Professor munched upon a piece of toast. “I believe in destiny,” he said, “I believe in the existence of the cosmic masterplan. No man is without a purpose, but few if any find theirs before it is too late. Perhaps I am lucky to believe that I have found mine, possibly not. Possibly ignorance as they say is bliss. It is written that ‘a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but a great deal of knowledge is a disaster’.”

“Probably written by Norman,” said Pooley, pushing another sausage into his mouth.

“A man without talent or ambition is a man most easily pleased. He lives his life with no delusions, other men set his purpose and he is content.”

“That is a depressing thought,” said Omally, “as that particular definition covers most individuals in this present society.”

“The balance must always be maintained. All have a purpose, be he pauper or king, such it has always been. There could be no giants if there were no dwarves.”

Pooley thought that there probably could be, but he held his counsel as he had no wish to be drawn into an arduous discussion at this time of the day. “Here,” he said suddenly, “how did Gammon get in if all the doors were on time-locks?”

Omally raised his eyes suspiciously towards the Professor, but the old man merely chuckled and continued with his breakfasting. Black coffees were drunk and at length Gammon returned to dispose of the tray. At nine o’clock the time-lock upon the metal shuttering snapped open and the Professor raised it. Gammon had swept every ash from the fireplace into a sack and this the Professor handed to Omally with explicit instructions.

“You must sprinkle it over at least half a mile,” he explained, “there must be no chance of the particles regrouping. And now I must say farewell to you gentlemen. It is no longer safe for me to remain here. I have other apartments not far from here and I will lodge there. When the moment comes that I need you I will be in contact. Go now and await my call, speak of these matters to no-one and be constantly on your guard. You should be safe during the hours of daylight, but at night go nowhere alone, do not allow yourselves to become separated.”

The two men stepped through the French windows, over the mess of shattered glass, and out towards the Professor’s gate. They turned to wave him a cheery farewell but the old man had gone.

21

The people of Brentford had taken to calling them the Siamese Twins. From the moment they had despatched the sinister contents of the sack along the river John Vincent Omally and James Arbuthnot Pooley were never to be seen apart. The days passed wearily with no call from the Professor. Pooley wondered if the old man might possibly have lost his nerve and decided to do a runner, but Omally, whose faith in the Professor bordered upon the absolute, would have none of that. “He has seen too much,” he assured Pooley, “he will not rest till that Pope Alex is driven back into the dark oblivion from whence he came.”

“There is a definite sword of Damocles air to all this,” said Jim. “I feel that around every corner something is lurking, every time a telephone rings or a postman appears I have to make a dash for the gents.”

“My own bladder has not been altogether reliable of late,” said John dismally.

“Talking of bladders, it would appear to be opening time.”

John nodded. He owned no timepiece but his biological clock told him to the minute the licensing hours of the county. “A pint of Large would be favourable.”

Outside the Swan a builder’s lorry was parked and two swarthy individuals of tropical extraction laboured away at the damaged brickwork with mortar and trowel. Neville, his hand still bandaged from his recent encounter with the Professor’s unopenable parcel, put down the glass he was polishing and addressed them with a surly “What’ll it be?”

Omally raised an eyebrow. “Not still sulking over the hole in the wall, surely, Neville?” he said.

“I am a patient man,” said the part-time barman, “but I have stood for a lot this year, what with the perils of Cowboy Night and the like. Every time I sit down and catalogue the disasters which have befallen this establishment over recent months, Omally, your name keeps cropping up, regular as the proverbial clockwork.”

“He is a man more sinned against than sinning,” Pooley interjected helpfully.