'You don't look that old,' said Mr Speedy.
'You know what I mean!' Derek shouted, and then he clutched once more at his head. 'The paper must come out today. It must. It must.'
'And it has,' said Mr Speedy. 'Trust us, it has.'
'Has?'said Derek. 'Has?'
'It's already on the news-stands and in the paper shops.'
'And popped through the letter boxes,' said -Mr Shadow.
'No,' said Derek. 'What are you talking about?'
Mr Speedy picked up a newspaper from the desk and handed it to Derek. 'We took care of everything,' he said. 'Mute Corp always takes care of everything.'
Derek stared at the paper in his trembling hands. Its five-inch banner headline ran:
JOY, JOY, HAPPY JOY
HAPPY, HAPPY JOY
'Uplifting isn't it?' said Mr Speedy. 'That has to be a first in headlines, doesn't it?'
Derek's jaw was hanging slack, his numb hands numbly turned the pages.
GREAT DAYS AHEAD
ran the headline on page two.
BRENTONIANS TO RECEIVE MASSIVE
CASH FUNDINGS: ALL WILL PROFIT
HUGELY FROM KINDLY CORPORATION'S
CARING CASH CONTRIBUTIONS.
'Note all that alliteration,' said Mr Shadow. 'That was my idea.'
'Very professional,' said Mr Speedy. 'Very Sunday Sport.'
'What's this?' asked Derek, pointing, pointing, pointing. '"BRENTFORD SHAREHOLDERS' BIG BUCKS BONANZA.'"
'My idea too,' said Mr Shadow.
'Very professional,' said Mr Speedy once again.
'Yes,' said Derek. 'But what does it mean?'
'It's an incentive,' said Mr Shadow. 'You see, once, back in the early 1980s, there was this Waterman's Arts Centre project. The locals made a right old fuss. So much so that the backers pulled out and left the Arts Centre for the locals to do with as they pleased.'
'I've read all about it,' said Derek, and here a tone of pride entered into his voice. 'I am a Brentford Poet.'
'Then you'll know what happened. A wise old man called Professor Slocombe, I believe he still lives here on the Butt's Estate, persuaded the locals to build the Arts Centre themselves and all become shareholders. The Arts Centre stands here today. No fuss. No bother. We've just done the same. All Brentonians are now shareholders in Suburbia World Plc. They've been allocated one share each. I'm sure that after they receive their first generous dividend, they'll be buying a lot more shares.'
'It's all corruption,' said Derek. 'All of it. Bribery and corruption, blackmail and extortion.'
'I don't think there's any extortion involved,' said Mr Speedy. 'Although I'll bet you'll have to pay an extortionate price for that steam train. I'll bet that could run to about ten thousand pounds, you'll probably be needing some more petty cash, won't you?'
Derek's mouth was hanging open once again. When he finally closed it once again and then opened it to speak more words, the words he spoke were these.
'Ten thousand was exactly the figure I had in mind.'
Which really didn't say a lot for Derek.
The Flying Swan was crowded when Derek stumbled in to take a liquid breakfast. There seemed to be an air of jollity around and about the saloon bar.
Derek dragged himself to the counter and tried to get himself served.
'Hello,' said Old Pete, looking up from his Brentford Mercury. 'Fancy seeing you in here again. You're a bit of a sucker for punishment. Can't you find yourself another Brentford bar to drink in?'
'This was the nearest,' said Derek. 'And I really need a big drink.'
'You work for the Mercury, don't you?' said the oldster. 'As well as being a bard and a student of Runese.' Old Vic wasn't there to chuckle, so Old Pete's dog did instead.
Derek hung his head in shame.
'I'm very impressed,' said Old Pete. 'I like this headline on page five. "HEAVEN DECLARED ON EARTH. BUT ONLY FOR THE FOLK OF BRENTFORD." According to this, Brentford has been singled out by God, as the first site of The Rapture. And apparently he loves the place so much that he's rewarding everyone who doesn't get Raptured by having Mute Corp turn the place into an Earthly paradise. And there was me thinking that there wasn't a God. It just goes to show how stupid I am.'
'It does?' said Derek.
Old Pete slowly shook his ancient head. 'No lad,' said he. 'It doesn't. And be warned, anyone who tries to take advantage of the borough and its people will find themselves tarred and feathered and dancing at a rope's end, lacking their wedding tackle.'
'Oh,' said Derek, crossing his legs.
'So let's hope that doesn't happen, eh?' said Old Pete brightly. 'Let's all enjoy this unexpected largesse.'
'Good idea,' said Derek.
'Isn't it,' said Old Pete. 'So I expect that you, like me and everybody else in the borough, will be cashing in your share certificate on Monday and pocketing the moolah, before getting on with the tarring and feathering. Not to mention the snippings-off of wedding tackle.' Old Pete made some snippings with his old and wrinkled fingers.
'I think I will drink elsewhere,' said Derek, rapidly taking his leave.
Derek ambled through the busy streets of Brentford. And they were busy. Lots of whistling workers. And lots of happy shoppers (but no little chefs). The borough had definitely perked up. People weren't hiding in their homes any more, awaiting The Rapture. They were out and about, sunhats and summer frocks, old straw hats and Hawaiian shirts. Everybody looked very jolly indeed. 'Perhaps it is all for the best,' Derek told himself. 'Perhaps they'll all get to like it and enjoy the money and not tar and feather anyone. And…' And Derek patted his jacket pocket. 'I've just made another ten thousand pounds.'
A certain skip came into Derek's step. But it was accompanied by a certain amount of head-clutching also.
The used-car showrooms of Leo Felix lurked on-the banks of the Grand Union Canal, close to the weir, but closer to the road bridge that led from the High Street into the neighbouring town of Isleworth, that nobody in Brentford knew anything about.
The used-car showrooms of Leo Felix were colourful showrooms, painted in red, gold and green and elegantly decorated with five-foot-high cannabis-leaf motifs. It is believed that Leo oversaw all the decorating himself and never called in a designer, who had once been very popular on the tele.