Omally was leafing frantically through the pages of his book. “I am in big schtuck here,” he said suddenly, brushing away a bead of perspiration from his brow. “In my haste to accept bets and my certainty of the Swan’s ultimate victory, I have somewhat miscalculated. The fix is in and ruination is staring me in the beard.”

Professor Slocombe took the book from Omally’s trembling fingers and examined it with care. “I spy a little circle of treachery here,” he said.

“The Four Horsemen needs one hundred and forty-one,” gasped the adjudicator.

“I am finished,” said Omally. “It is back to the old country for me. A boat at the dock and before the night is out.”

Professor Slocombe was staring at the dartboard and shaking his head, his face wearing an unreadable expression. Pooley was ashen and speechless. But for the occasional bitow to the rear of the crowd, the Swan was a vacuum of utter silence.

Young Jack squared up to the board as Omally hid his face in his hands and said a number of Hail Marys.

Jack’s first dart pierced the treble twenty, his second the double, and his third the single one.

“One hundred and one,” mouthed the adjudicator in a manner which was perfectly understood by all deaf-mutes present.

Omally waved away a later punter proffering a wad of notes. “Suck, boy,” was all that he could say.

The adjudicator retired to the bar. He would say no more this evening and would, in all probability, make himself known for the rest of his life through the medium of notepad and pencil.

Norman, who had sacked the rest of the team, took the floor. He threw another blinding one hundred and eighty but it really didn’t seem to matter any more.

The Four Horsemen needed but a double top to take the Shield, and a child of three, or at a pinch four if he was born in Brentford, could surely have got that, given three darts.

Neville put the towels up and climbed on to the bar counter, knobkerry in hand. There was very likely to be a good deal of death and destruction within another minute or two and he meant to be a survivor at any cost.

Croughton the pot-bellied potman leant back in his beer crate refuge and puffed upon his cigarette. Up above, the night stars glittered eternally, and nothing there presaged the doom and desolation which was about to befall Brentford. “Oh look,” he said suddenly to himself, as he peered up at the firmament. “Shooting stars, that’s lucky. I shall make a wish on them.”

Upon the allotment a tiny figure moved. He was ill-washed and stubble-chinned and he muttered beneath his breath. At intervals he raised his head and called, “Edgar.” No reply came, and he continued upon his journey, driven by a compulsion impossible to resist.

“Four Horsemen to throw,” said some drunken good-time Charlie who had no idea of the gravity of the situation. “The Four Horsemen needs forty.”

Young Jack appeared from the crowd, wielding his dreaded darts. He crossed the floor and approached the Professor. “You will not enjoy this, St Germaine,” he spat. “Be advised that I know you for what you are and accept your defeat like the gentleman you are not.”

Professor Slocombe was unmoved, his glittering eyes fixed upon Young Jack. “If you want this to be sport,” said he, “then so be it. If however you crave something more, then know that I am equal to the challenge.”

“Do your worst,” sneered Young Jack. “I am master of you.”

“So be it,” said Professor Slocombe.

Young Jack took the oché. Again his head turned one hundred and eighty degrees upon his neck as he gazed at the crowd. “The Swan is finished,” he announced. “Five years have passed and you have grown weak and complacent. Prepare to bow to a superior force. Say goodbye to your trophy, you suckers.”

A murderous rumble rolled through the crowd. There was a great stamping offset and squaring of shoulders. Ties were being slackened and top buttons undone. Cufflinks were being removed and dropped into inside pockets.

Young Jack raised his dart and lined up for a winner. Neville took a sharper hold upon his knobkerry and patted at his loins to ensure that the cricketer’s box he had had the foresight to hire for the occasion was in place.

Omally smote the Professor, “Save us, old man,” he implored. “I will apologize later.”

Professor Slocombe rose upon his cane and stared at his adversary.

Young Jack drew back his hand and flung his dart.

The thing creased the air at speed, then suddenly slowed; to the utter dumbfoundment of the crowd, it hung suspended in time and space exactly six feet three inches above the deck and five feet from the board.

Professor Slocombe concentrated his gaze, Young Jack did likewise.

The dart moved forward a couple of inches, then stopped once more and took a twitch backwards.

The crowd were awestruck. Neville’s knobkerry hung loose in his hand. Great forces were at work here, great forces that he would rather have no part in. But he was here at the killing, and as part-time barman would do little other than offer support.

Every eye, apart from one ill-matched pair, was upon that dart. Supporters of both Swan and Horsemen alike wrinkled their brows and strained their brains upon that dart. Beads of perspiration appeared a-plenty and fell, ruining many a good pint.

The dart eased forward another six inches. Professor Slocombe turned his stare towards the glowing red eyes of his opponent. The dart retreated.

Young Jack drew a deep breath and the dart edged once more towards its target.

“You wouldn’t get this on the telly,” whispered Jim Pooley.

Old Jack suddenly put his wrinkled hands to the wheels of his chair and propelled himself towards the Professor.

“Restrain that man!” yelled Omally.

Pooley lurched from his seat, but, in his haste to halt the wheeling ancient, caught his foot upon a chair leg and tripped. He clutched at the table, overturning it, and blundered into Professor Slocombe, propelling him into the crowd. At this moment of truth the proverbial all hell was let loose.

The night-black dart set forth once more upon its journey and thundered towards the board. Young Jack stood grinning as Pooley upset his infirm father and brought down at least another four people in his desperation. Omally struggled up and struck the nearest man a vicious blow to the skull.

Before the eyes of those stunned patrons who were not yet engaged in the fracas the dart struck the board. As it did so a devastating explosion occurred overhead which shattered the bar optics, brought down great lumps of plaster from the ceiling and upset the part-time barman into the crowd.

“It is God!” shouted Omally, hitting with a will. “He will stand no more!”

Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone fell away from the Captain Laser machine. “It wasn’t me,” he whimpered, “I didn’t do it.”

The lights of the Swan suddenly dimmed as the entire world which was Brentford proper went mad.

“It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me, I swear it.”

Nobody really cared. Outside something terrific was happening. Possibly it was the prelude to the long-awaited Armageddon, possibly earthquake, or tidal wave. Whatever it was, the darts fans were not going to be caught napping, and the stampede towards the door was all-consuming. A single darkly-clad figure wearing a brand of creosote aftershave was immediately trampled to oblivion beneath the rush.

As the patrons poured into the night the enormity of what had occurred became apparent. Shards of flaming metal were hurtling down upon Brentford. Great sheets of fire were rising from the tarmac of the Ealing Road as the surface met each blazing assault. Several front gardens were ablaze.

Pooley and Omally helped the fallen Professor to his feet. “It has begun,” said John. “What do we do?”

“To the machine,” yelled the old man. “It would appear that Norman has served us right.”