The team did oohings and aahings. Even with all the money they made every week, half a million smackers in cash was not something to be sneezed at.
“Allow me to introduce to you the new owner of Manchester United.” The big well-posh executive boardroom doors swung open to reveal a tall, slim man with a dark suit and a head of blondy hair.
“Mr William Starling,” said Sir Alex Ferguson.
“Mr Omally,” said the Campbell, “you can come out now.”
John raised his head from the devastation that had so recently been Jim Pooley’s office.
“Has he gone?” John asked.
“For ever,” said the Campbell, wiping something black from his claymore on to the hem of his kilt.
“He was one of—”
“Lord Cthulhu’s dark and scaly minions, aye. I’m thinking that you should accompany Mr Pooley to a place of safety for the night. I would advise the professor’s.”
John rose to his feet and did dustings down of himself. “Starling took a magical oath not to harm Jim or me.”
“Best to be safe,” said the Campbell. “Unless you think otherwise.”
“No,” said John. “And thank you.”
“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming here once again,” said Professor Slocombe. Terrence Jehovah Smithers and the Second Sponge Boy grinned at him from the fireside chairs in the professor’s study.
“We came at your calling,” said Terrence.
“Positively trotlike,” said Sponge Boy.
“And I appreciate this.” The professor seated himself at his desk and toyed with a nail from the true cross. “Tomorrow it must be – are you both prepared?”
“We are, Master,” said Terrence. “But why did we have to wait for so long?”
“Many reasons,” said the professor, “but now the time has come. You are to destroy the Consortium building. The streets of Chiswick will be deserted during the big match. This is when it must be done. Also, this is the period during which our adversary will be at his weakest regarding the defence of these premises. He will be concentrating his efforts upon the defeat of Brentford United.”
“You know that he bought out Man United?” said Sponge Boy.
“I am aware of this,” said the professor. “I shall be attending the match in person. I am prepared for a battle of wills, as it were.”
“And magic,” said Sponge Boy. “Positively Dr Strange and Baron Mordo.”
“I do not expect things to be easy, but in the popular parlance of the football manager, I am ‘quietly confident’.”
“Will we have the Campbell with us?” asked Terrence.
“You will,” said the professor, “and he will fight to the death, if needs be, and beyond that, I should imagine.”
Sponge Boy said, “Professor, might I be permitted to ask you a question?”
Professor Slocombe nodded his aged head.
“What is the Campbell?” Sponge Boy asked.
“A familiar,” said Professor Slocombe. “A witch’s familiar. A lost soul conjured from the regions of Hell to aid one who had sold their own soul to the King of Darkness.”
“And he is in your employ?”
“I liberated him,” said the professor, “many years ago. I freed his soul.”
“Positively Faustian,” said Sponge Boy. “And he can be trusted?”
“Absolutely. Have no fear for that. I would say to you that he is my man, but the Campbell was never a man. He may appear to be a man, but he is not. The Campbell was once a Skye terrier.”
“A dog?” said Terrence. “He’s really a dog?”
“A sprout?” said Mr H.G. Wells. “Do you mean to tell me that the motive power behind my Time Machine is a Brussels sprout?”
“You built the thing,” said Norman, whose pressing appointment had been with Mr Wells and young Winston at Norman’s allotment lock-up. “Surely you know what powers it.”
“Hm,” said Mr Wells. “Perhaps it slipped my mind.”
“Well, it’s definitely the sprout,” said Norman. “I have had this thing to pieces time and time again over the last four months.”
“Long months,” said Mr Wells, “in this dire time.”
“And at my expense,” Norman said. “You’ve run up enormous bills with Madame Loretta Rune, not to mention at The Flying Swan and The Stripes Bar.”
Mr Wells did not mention The Flying Swan or The Stripes Bar. “Merely keeping body and soul together,” he said.
“Well, be that as it may, I have reinstalled the sprout, rebuilt its broken mountings with Meccano and I truly believe that your Time Machine is now fully operational once more.”
Mr Wells patted Norman on the shoulder. “Then thank you,” said he. “Winston and I will now return to the Victorian era. Our prolonged stay here has at least assured me that the King of Darkness has not acquired any of the Victorian supertechnology I thought existed upon the computer system that you reconstructed. And so my work here is done.”
Mr Wells climbed into his Time Machine and young Winston climbed in beside him. “I am returning now to the Victorian era,” said Mr Wells, “to change my clothes and drop off young Winston here. But I will be popping back to this time briefly tomorrow. I wouldn’t wish to miss Brentford United winning the FA Cup.”
“Pleasure knowing ya, gov’nor,” said the ill-washed youth. “Gawd scupper me scrote if it weren’t.”
Mr Wells fastened his safety belt and prepared for takeoff.
Norman dithered.
And then Norman blurted.
“Mr Wells,” he blurted, “before you go, there’s something I have to tell you – something I should have told you before, but I just couldn’t pluck up the courage.”
“Yes?” said Mr Wells. “What do you have to say?”
“You’re really not going to like this,” said Norman. “And I’m really, really sorry.”
38
John Omally went in search of Jim.
But Jim, it seemed, was nowhere to be found.
John called at Jim’s rooms, The Plume Café and the bench before the Memorial Library. He returned to Griffin Park and The Stripes Bar and eventually to Jim’s office, where he found the Campbell sitting cross-legged on Jim’s desk, his claymore cradled in his ample arms.
“I can’t find Jim,” said John, and he glanced at his wristlet watch. “And it’s almost ten of the evening clock now.”
“Did you try The Flying Swan?” asked the Campbell.
“I didn’t,” said John. “But I have no idea why not.”
The Campbell raised an eyebrow towards his turban. “Best guard your thoughts,” said he. “The evil is truly amongst us now. It will distract you.”
“You mean—” said John.
“I do,” said the Campbell. “Try The Flying Swan.”
Omally set out towards The Flying Swan. There was a chill wind whipping up and thunder in the heavens. John turned up the collar of his jacket and pressed on down the Ealing Road.
The Swan’s saloon bar was crowded. Brentford fans in reproduction kaftans sang club anthems, drained their glasses and raised them once refreshed towards the team’s success on the morrow. Neville stood at the end of the bar, ready to serve all comers. But the all comers directed their requests exclusively to Neville’s topless bar staff.