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space. A thousand yards away, most likely.
    “So,” said Gavin Shufty, “are we all done? How goes the vote?”
    “You have mine,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.
    “And mine, too.” Vic Vanilla raised a thumb.
    “And mine also, I suppose,” said Doris Whimple.
    “You, sir?” Gavin Shufty turned his mirrored gaze upon David Berkshire.
    “I don’t know,” said that man.
    “Did he speak?” Shufty asked Gwynplaine Dhark.
    “He said yes,” said Mr Dhark.
    “No, I never did.”
    Gwynplaine Dhark stared hard at David Berkshire. It was a penetrating stare. A
very
penetrating stare.
    “Yes, all right, I suppose,” said David Berkshire.
    “That would be four out of six,” declared Gavin Shufty. “Motion carried, I believe. I’ll just hand out these contracts, then,” and he proceeded to do so.
    Neville slowly sat himself down. He still had a good old stare on him, of the thousand-yard variety rather than the penetrating. A contract was duly thrust before him.
    Doris Whimple awoke Councillor Doveston. “There’s something for you to sign,” said she.
    “Is it about bees?” asked the old duffer.
    “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
    “Then I’ll sign it.”
    “That makes five out of six, then.” Gavin Shufty returned to the Mayoral Chair. “Democracy at work. Always a joy to behold.”
    Pens were taken from breast pockets, tops were pulled from these pens, signatures were signed.
    “You, sir, please,” Gavin Shufty said to Neville. “You appear to be in some sort of trance. Could someone give him a bit of a dig?”
    Vic gave Neville a bit of a dig. “Bung on your moniker,” he said.
    Neville took
his
pen from
his
breast pocket. It was a Parker. Neville unscrewed the cap.
    “There’s a good boy,” said Mr Shufty in a patronising tone.
    Neville turned his head and stared at Mr Shufty.
    “No,” said Neville. “I won’t do it. It’s wrong. All wrong. I may never have seen Brentford play, but I support the club. You can’t just wipe it away with a stroke of a pen. It’s part of Brentford’s glorious heritage, part of the stuff of which Brentford is made.”
    “You’re outvoted,” said Mr Shufty. “It doesn’t really matter whether you sign or not.”
    “It’s wrong.” Neville turned towards his fellow councillors. Scanned their faces. Saw the greed.
    “You
don’t
care, do you?” he said. “You were voted on to the council to care, but you don’t. You just think of yourselves.”
    “That’s not entirely true.” Gavin Shufty had a smug face on. “They just know a lost cause when they see one. Brentford football club is finished. It’s history.”
    “Glorious history,” said Neville.
    “But history none the less for it. History that will not repeat itself.”
    “It might,” said Neville. “There’s no telling.”
    Gavin Shufty laughed. “Brentford
might
win the FA Cup again, is that what you’re saying?”
    “It might,” said Neville once more.
    “Don’t be absurd.”
    “But what if it did?”
    “If it did?” Gavin Shufty laughed. “If that bunch of losers were to win the FA Cup, then I’d tear up these contracts.”
    “Would you?” Neville asked.
    “Absolutely.” Gavin Shufty had a very smug face on now. It was beyond smug. There was indeed no word to describe such a face.
    “And what about the money?” Neville asked.
    Gain Shufty burst into a fit of laughter. “Tell you what,” he said, between guffawings, “the Consortium will write off the debt, how about that?” And then he laughed some more.
    Neville was definitely
not
laughing.
    “Write it on, then,” said he.
    “Do what?” Shufty asked.
    “Write it on to the contracts. What you just said – that if Brentford were to win the FA Cup, you’ll write off the debt.”
    “That’s absurd,” said Gavin Shufty.
    Neville nodded sombrely. “I know,” said he. “It’s totally absurd. So what harm can it do?”
    Gavin Shufty wiped tears of laughter from his eyes and slowly shook his head. “Are