Professor Slocombe had reached Father Moity, and held out his old black book to the priest. “Read with me,” he said. Pope Alexander turned in satisfaction from the oriental statue upon the dais. He raised his hands aloft and the light reached out from his fingertips and blazed across the hall, striking the two men. But nothing happened. The Professor and the young priest continued to mouth the ancient formula, and although their words were lost in the storm the effect was manifest. Their mouths moved in unison, intoning the spell, syllable upon syllable. Pope Alexander folded his brow and increased his power, the light radiating from his hands flooding the hall. His eyes burned and his body shuddered and trembled.

Pooley’s hands closed about his half brick.

The giant stiffened, concentrating every last ounce of his energy upon the two men. The corners of the old black book began to smoulder, sweat ran down the face of Father Moity, the Professor’s fingernails scorched and crackled. Jim Pooley threw his half brick.

The missile struck the giant firmly between his flaming eyes. He had channelled his entire energy into attack and had kept little in reserve for his own defence. He stumbled back, his arms flailing, the beams of light criss-crossing the Mission like twin searchlights. And now another figure was moving across the dais. It was Captain Carson, and he clutched two blazing candles.

The giant saw him approaching but it was too late; Captain Carson thrust the candles at the crimson robes, which caught in a gush of fire, enveloping the struggling figure. As he tottered to and fro, striking at himself, his power relaxed and Archroy, free of the paralysing trance, leapt forward. His foot struck the giant squarely in the chest, buffeting him back into the blazing tapestry which collapsed upon him.

“By fire!” shouted Professor Slocombe, looking up from his book.

Pope Alexander staggered about the dais, an inhuman torch. Above the flames the unnatural light still glowed brightly about him, pulsating and changing colour through the spectrum. Captain Carson was clapping his hands and jumping up and down on his old legs in a delirium of pleasure.

The Professor and the priest continued to read. Pooley emerged from the shadows and Omally patted him upon the shoulder. “Nice one,” he said.

Archroy’s vindictiveness, however, knew no bounds. He was being given, at long last, a chance to get it all out of his system: his car, his beans, the birdcage, his mad wife and this staggering inferno before him who embodied everything he loathed and detested and who was indeed the cause of all the indignities he had suffered during the last year.

With a cry of something which sounded like number 32 on the menu of Chan’s Chinese Chippy, Archroy leapt at the blazing giant. He struck him another devastating blow; the giant staggered back to the edge of the dais, wildly flapping his arms beneath the blazing tapestry in a vain attempt to remain upright, then fell with a hideous scream down through the gaping crack in the Mission’s floor to the torrents beneath.

“By water!”

Archroy slapped his hands together. “Gotcha!” he chortled. The Professor and the young priest crossed the floor towards the chasm and stood at the brink. “He will not die,” yelled the old man above the maelstrom, “we have not yet finished the exorcism.”

Pooley joined the Professor and peered down into the depths. “He is going down the main drain,” he said, “we can follow him.”

The flames had by now reached the tracery work of the great altar and were taking hold. Smoke billowed through the Mission and several of the great columns looked dangerously near collapse. “Out then,” shouted the Professor. “Lead the way, Jim.”

Pooley looked up towards Captain Carson, who was still dancing a kind of hornpipe upon the dais, the altar flaring about him. “You’ll have to bring him,” cried Jim, “we can’t leave him here.”

The Professor despatched Omally to tackle the task, while he, Jim Pooley, Father Moity and Archroy tore out into the rain-lashed night. Pooley aided the Professor, although the old man seemed to have summoned up considerable stores of inner strength.

It was almost impossible to see a thing through the driving rain, but as the four ran across the Estate Pooley suddenly called out, “There, that grille at the roadside.”

Up through the grating a fierce light burned. As they reached it the old Professor and the young priest shouted down the words of the Exorcism. The lightning lit the pages of the old black book to good effect and as the glow beneath the grating faded and passed on, the four men rushed after it.

Up near Sprite Street Omally caught them up. “I got him outside,” he panted, “but he wouldn’t leave, said he wanted to see every last inch of the place burn to the ground.”

“There, there,” shouted Pooley as a glow appeared briefly from a drain covering up ahead. Professor Slocombe handed his book to Father Moity. “You must finish it,” he gasped, “my breath is gone.”

They passed up Sprite Street and turned into Mafeking Avenue, Omally aiding the wheezing ancient as best he could while Pooley, Archroy and the young priest bounded on ahead stopping at various drains and reciting the Exorcism. As they neared Albany Road, several great red fire engines screamed around the corner on their way to the blazing Mission.

At the Ealing Road Archroy, Pooley and Father Moity stopped. Omally and the Professor caught up with them and the five stood in the downpour. “We’ve lost him,” panted Jim. “The drains all split up along here, he could have gone in any direction, down most probably.”

“Did you finish the exorcism?” the Professor asked, coughing hideously.

The young priest nodded. “Just before we lost him.”

“Then let us pray that we have been successful.”

Omally looked about him. Before them gleamed the lights of the Four Horsemen, for the five bedraggled saviours of society were now standing outside Jack Lane’s. “Well then,” said Omally, “if that’s that, then I think we still have time for a round or two.”

Professor Slocombe smiled broadly. “It will be a pleasure for me to enjoy a drink at your expense, John,” he said.

“A small sherry,” said Father Moity, “or perhaps upon this occasion, a large one.”

As they entered the establishment Pooley felt Archroy’s hand upon his shoulders. “Just a minute, Jim,” said he, “I would have words with you.”

Jim turned to the waterlogged samurai. The rain had washed the dye from his eyebrows, and they hung doglike over his eyes. “That pair of cricketer’s whites you are wearing,” Archroy continued, “and the unique pattern upon the Fair Isle jumper, surely I have seen these before?”

Jim backed away through the rain. “Now, now, Archroy,” he said, “you are making a mistake, I can explain everything.” With these words Jim Pooley took to his heels and fled.