The Second Sponge Boy pulled a ski-mask down over his face.
“What is that?” asked Terrence Smithers.
“Disguise,” said Sponge Boy. “CCTV cameras and all. Here, I’ve brought one for you.”
“Thank you, Sponge.” Terrence donned the ski-mask.
“Positively Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards.”
“How about one for the Campbell?”
Sponge Boy viewed the Highlander, who sat in the front seat of the Morris Traveller sharpening his claymore on an oilstone. “I don’t think a mask will help,” said Sponge Boy.
An alarm clock suddenly rang, putting the wind up Terrence and Sponge Boy. The Campbell plucked it from his sporran and beat it to silence with his oilstone.
“It’s time,” said he. “Let us go into action.”
It was all action at Wembley stadium. Mr Merkin was jumping about in his seat. “And it’s Lane, Lane to Haigh, a long chip to the outside, intercepted by Rivaldo, and Rivaldo brought down by Gein. The ref’s blown his whistle, he’s showing Gein the yellow card. Gein is bowing to the ref, he’s shaking the ref’s hand. Lane is shaking the ref’s hand also. Oh, and the ref didn’t see that, that was on his blind side – Holmes has kicked Ronaldo in what I can only describe as the testicles. Ronaldo is down, he’s complaining, but the ref hasn’t seen him, he’s calling for the free kick. And Rivaldo has taken it, to Beckham, Beckham to Rivaldo – a lovely cross there, and he’s inside the box and he’s scored! Oh yes. A beautiful goal. A magnificent goal. Three-two to Manchester United.”
Jim looked towards the professor. “They scored,” he cried. “You let them score.”
“I’ll take no part in this, if Starling does not,” said the professor.
“What are you saying?”
“Let’s allow a little bit of sportsmanship here, Jim. Holmes clearly fouled Ronaldo behind the ref’s back.”
“But he’s on our side, Professor.”
“Yes, but this is Wembley.”
“But we have all the world to play for.”
“The game’s not over yet, Jim. Football is a game of two halves, you know.”
Jim shook his head towards John. Who shrugged.
Jim lit up a cigarette. “I could do with a beer,” said he.
“I’ll go and get a round in,” said Norman. “Any particular decade you favour? I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.”
“Go! Go! Go!” shouted the Campbell. Sponge Boy kicked the Traveller’s rear doors open and he and Terrence hefted their awesome weaponry into the Consortium building’s car park. The Campbell flung himself from the vehicle, wielding his sacred claymore.
The two men and the man who was no man at all advanced in haste across the car park. Terrence aimed and fired his minigun, and the rear doors of the building exploded into shattered fragments.
“Into the building,” ordered the Campbell.
Alarm bells started to ring.
“Some alarm here from the Brentford supporters,” Mr Merkin bawled into his mask-mic. “An easy goal there for Manchester United, the Brentford offensive formation showing its weakness there. I see Mr Pooley, in his distinctive attire, shouting out to his team and they’re changing positions. He’s put De Rais on the right wing, and has moved Beane to centre half. But having never seen this particular side play, I can’t say whether that’s a good move or not. But the ref’s blown his whistle and Lane is taking the kickoff. And it’s Lane to Holmes to Denke, a neat little pass there, Denke dribbles the ball, and in a fashion we don’t see any more. The Brentford team’s tactics seem positively pre-war.”
“Positively ripping,” said Sponge Boy as he, Terrence and the Campbell burst into the Consortium building.
Professor Slocombe cast his ancient eye across the pitch towards William Starling. Starling had a mobile phone against his ear and he was shouting into it. As the professor looked on, Starling rose from the bench and took his leave.
“He’s going,” said Jim. “Why is he leaving?”
“I believe he has received an alarm call from the Consortium building,” said the professor.
“But he’s going to leave the match? Knowing that you—”
“Knowing that I must follow him, Jim. He is confident that his team will beat ours. After all, didn’t his boys just score that easy goal?”
“Ah,” said Jim, “I see. But about the team …?”
“Have confidence, Jim. I must go.”
“Then I must go with you.”
“No, Jim, you stay here, advise the team on tactics. You’re better at it than you think.”
“But I should be with you.”
“I’ll be fine, Jim. All will be well”
Professor Slocombe rose from the bench and he, too, took his leave.
Jim looked towards John. John shrugged once again.
Norman appeared with a trayload of beers. “Circa ninteen-thirty,” he said, “from the first-class bar of the Mauritania.”
“First-class shooting, Sponge,” said Terrence as the Second Sponge Boy strafed the foyer of the Consortium building, bringing down fixtures and fittings that spoke, sang and in some cases chanted of distant classical folderol.
And also the elfish receptionist, who was watching the match on a portable TV.
“A bit harsh on the dwarf,” said Terrence.
“But he was a baddie,” said Sponge Boy.
“Point taken. Shame you shot the TV, too. On to the next level then, is it?”
“The next level, Terrence. Positively Street Fighter Two.”
“A level playing field,” bawled Mr Merkin, “and everything to play for now. Landru across to Denke. Intercepted by Rivaldo, and nicely, too. Down the left wing, and at a most remarkable speed, to Ricardo, across to Beckham. And they’re making another run towards the Brentford goal. But Gein is there – nicely acquired, across to Fish, up that left wing again. And across to Lane and no one’s defending. And yes! Beautiful goal. Brentford equalise, it’s three-all.”
“I’m going after the professor,” said Jim.
John looked towards the field of play. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
“But lads,” Norman cried, “I thought we’d go medieval next round. Mugs of mead and all that.”
“And all to play for,” bawled Mr Merkin. “This is the big one. Just listen to the crowd.”
William Starling heard the crowd. “Another goal for Man U,” he said, as he stalked across the posh-persons’ exclusive car park towards the night-black limo that stood awaiting, his chauffeur at the wheel. An electronically operated rear door opened before him and William stepped into the car.
“To the Consortium building?” asked the chauffeur.
“In just a moment.”
Professor Slocombe issued, panting, into the car park.
“Now?” the chauffeur enquired.
“Give him just a moment. His cohorts will join him.”
A moment passed.
John and Jim did issuings.
“Now,” said William and the limousine slid away.
“Go back,” the professor told Pooley and Omally. “I can deal with this.”
“I don’t believe that you have a car,” said John. “Do you number levitation and swift flight amongst your remarkable achievements?”
“I’ll hail a cab.”
“Not necessary,” said John, spying Norman’s van. “We’ll take this one.”
“Second level secured,” called Sponge Boy. “Let’s take the third.”
Up the stairs they went. And down the stairs came Hellish things to greet them. Hellish dark things, darker than dark, of a blackness that had no specific name: the dark and scaly minions of the dread Lord Cthulhu. Sponge Boy and Terrence blazed away, and bullets blessed by the professor and coated with Old Pete’s sacred herbs issued from their weapons at six thousand rounds per minute. Dark things melted into light and were gone.