“You’ve nothing to fear,” said the barman. “They’re quite harmless. Shiftless, but harmless.”

Russell viewed the two fellows. Two young fellows, quaffing ale at a table by the window. One had an Irish set to his features. The other did not. But it was hard to tell which one.

The one it wasn’t waggled his fingers in greeting.

“What do you think?” Russell asked Julie.

“I think you should make the decisions.”

“Right.”

They approached the two fellows and as they did so, the two fellows rose and moved out chairs. And then extended hands for shaking.

“Good day,” said the one with the Irish set. “My name is John Omally and this is my friend and companion, James the-next-round’s-on-me Pooley.”

“The-next-round’s-on-me?” asked Pooley.

“That’s very civil of you, Jim.”

“Omally? Pooley?” Russell looked from one of them to the other and then back again, as the hand-shaking got underway. John shook Russell’s hand and Jim shook Julie’s then Jim shook John’s hand and Julie shook Russell’s, and an old boy who was passing by and didn’t want to miss out on anything, shook all their hands, and started everything off again.

Throughout all this, Russell’s mouth was opening and closing and phrases such as, “you’re them,” and “you’re those two,” and “Pooley and Omally, it’s you,” kept coming from it.

“Sit down, sit down,” said John Omally, helping Julie onto a chair, whilst once again shaking her hand.

“You too,” Jim told Russell. “I’d help you, but as you can see …”

Russell stared at Pooley, who was now shaking himself by the hand.

“Stop that, Jim,” John told him. “It’s impossible.”

“Sorry,” and Pooley sat down.

And when all were seated, the barman came over and placed a plate of ham sandwiches on the table.

“Cheers, Neville,” said Omally.

“Neville?” Russell looked up at the chap in the dicky bow. “Neville the part-time barman?”

Neville winked his good eye and returned to the bar.

“I’m confused,” said Russell. “I’m very confused.”

Omally grinned. “And you have every right to be. But tell me, sir, is this the pre-showdown pint you’re taking, or the post-showdown one?”

“I don’t think that’s helped,” said Pooley.

“Have you bested the villain?” Omally asked. “Or have you yet to best him?”

“I’ve yet to best him,” Russell said. “But what are you two doing here? How is this …? I mean, you’re real, and this place … I don’t understand.”

Jim raised his glass. “We generally take a pint or two at lunch-times,” he said.

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Omally took a sup from his pint and dabbed a knuckle at his lips. “I think, Jim, that what your man is asking, is, why are we here.”

“I’ve often asked myself that question,” said Jim. “But I rarely get any sense for a reply.”

“Allow me to explain,” said John Omally. “Now correct me if I’m wrong, but the last anyone heard of us, we were being atomised and sucked into space. And all on a Christmas Eve in some unrecorded year.”

Russell nodded.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen and then goodnight.”

Russell nodded again.

“Crash bang wallop. A bit of a shock for all concerned.”

“I did ask what happened next,” said Russell. “But Morgan said that nothing did.”

“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?”

“He did,” said Russell. “I was there when he said it.”

Omally took a further sup and drained his glass. He handed it to Mr James the-next-round’s-on-me Pooley. “Would it surprise you to know,” Omally asked, “that it was all part of a diabolical plot, hatched by a fiendish entity with a red insect face?”

“Probably not,” said Russell.

“I’m heartened to hear it. You see, Jim and I have, in episodes past, been called upon to protect Brentford from all manner of beastliness. We rise to the occasion, although Jim here always makes a fuss about it, but we get the job done. In the natural scheme of things we would be doing it now. But your man with the insect face is not part of the natural scheme of things and he doesn’t play by the rules. He put us right out of the picture.”

“But he couldn’t put Brentford out of the picture,” said Jim, tucking Omally’s empty glass under the table and taking a sip from his own. “When horror bowls a googly in Brentford, someone will always step into the crease and knock it for six.”

“Most lyrically put, Jim. And a clean glass would be fine, the same again if you will.”

Jim Pooley left the table.

“Now, let me get a grip of this,” said Russell. “Obviously you’re real, I can see you’re real, and what you’re saying is, that this creature flung you and The Flying Swan and everything into the future to stop you interfering with its plans.”

“In a word, correct. We were literally erased from the plot.”

“But if Morgan had never told me the story, I would never have got involved.”

“The story had to be told in order to put us out of the picture. Fate decreed that it would be told to you and that you would assume the role of hero and get the job done on our behalf.”

“But I haven’t got the job done.”

“But you will.”

“And how can you be so certain?”

“Because we’ve seen the end of the movie. On the pub TV, we know how it ends.”

“You saw the movie?” Russell jerked back in his chair. “Then you’ve been converted. You’re one of them.”

“The movie did all its converting back in the Nineties. We weren’t there in the Nineties, we didn’t get converted.”

“I’m going to stop that movie,” said Russell. “If I can.”

“Oh you can and you will. But you see the movie is really a metaphor. All of this is a metaphor. Once you’ve figured out the metaphor, everything becomes clear.”

Russell downed his perfect pint. “Well, one thing becomes immediately clear, if you’ve seen the movie, you know how it ends. Kindly tell me what I do and I’ll get right off now and do it.”

“That can’t be done, I’m afraid. I’ve watched the movie four times. Each time it has a different ending. But why not ask the lovely lady here. She was in the movie.”

“Julie?” said Russell.

“You’ve seen all the bits I was in,” said Julie. “I don’t know how it ends.”

“I remain totally confused,” said Russell.

Pooley returned with two pints of Large. “Have you told him your story yet, John?” he asked.

“I was about to.” Omally accepted his pint. “As Jim’s in the chair, would you care for another drink?”

“Julie?” Russell asked.

“A large gin and tonic, please.”

“And I’ll have the same again,” said Russell. “Thank you very much.”

Pooley returned, unsmiling, to the bar.

“Have you ever heard the story of the stone soup?” Omally asked. “It’s an old Irish tale. Told to me by an old Irishman.”

“No,” said Russell. “Do you think it’s going to help me?”

“Without a doubt. The metaphor is the same. Grasp it and you grasp everything.”

“Then please tell your tale.”

“Very well,” Omally said. “The setting is old Ireland, in medieval times. A ragged traveller is trudging over a bleak, lonely moor. Night is approaching and he is hungry and tired. Ahead in the distance he spies a castle. He plods towards it and reaches the door as the sky blackens over and the rain begins to fall.

“The traveller knocks and at length the door opens on the safety chain and the face of the castle cook looks out.

“‘Wotcha want?’ asks the cook.

“‘Shelter for the night,’ says the traveller.

“‘Sling yer ’ook,’ says the cook. ‘There’s no place for you ’ere.’

“‘Would you turn away a fellow man on such a night as this?’

“‘Soon as look at ’im,’ says the cook. ‘Now be on your way.’

“‘I will gladly pay for a night’s lodgings,’ says the traveller.

“‘Oh yes?’ says the cook. ‘You’re a beggar man for certain, and how will you pay?’

“‘I have magic,’ says the traveller.