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indecent exposure / hedge trimmer accident, hadn’t it been Old Pete who gathered up the pieces and dug the grave himself?
    Old Pete had seen real poverty. His tales of one jam sandwich between six and four to a cup never failed to bring a tear to the eye of the listener and a free drink or two to himself.
    “How come,” asked Omally, who had heard it all before, “that out of the twenty of you down the ditch, not one had the nous to earn the price of a dosshouse bed for the night?”
    “There is always some cynical bugger,” said Old Pete, “prepared to spoil a good tale well told.”
    Omally led Jim up to the bar.
    “Good evening, Neville,” he said. “Two pints of Large, please, and an unshared jam sandwich for Jim, who has missed his tea.”
    Jim made a scowling face as Neville went about his business.
    “So,” said the part-time barman, presenting his patrons with pints. “Allow me to hazard a guess. My first thought was Caught in a cattle stampede, but this I feel is unlikely. So I am going to plump for Taking a course of training with the SAS.”
    “Whatever are you on about?” Jim asked.
    “You two,” said Neville, “standing here utterly dishevelled, hair all over the place, cuts and bruises, bits of bramble hanging off your suits and a black eye apiece.”
    “I’d rather we didn’t discuss it,” said Jim.
    “Quite so. Then tell me, John, have you come up with any sensational disclosures in Jim’s book yet?”
    Omally opened his mouth to speak.
    Jim said, “No he hasn’t.”
    “Shame,” said Neville. “I had hoped that it might bring a few pennies more across the bar. The goddess knows, times are as ever against the poor publican.”
    “The sufferings of the poor publican are well known,” said John. “You are an example to us all, Neville.”
    “Hm,” said Neville and went on his way to polish glasses.
    “Let’s go and sit over there,” said John, indicating a discreet corner. Jim followed him across, placed his ale and jammy sandwich on the table and sat down.
    “I’m drinking this and eating this and then I’m going home to bed,” said Jim. “This is one day I do not wish to prolong any further.”
    “Come on, Jim. You can’t quit the game when there’s so much to play for.”
    “There are no cards on the table to play with, John. The scrolls have probably gone to dust a hundred years ago. The whole idea is absurd. Why don’t you just admit it?”
    “Stuff and nonsense. Look upon this as a holy quest. Like Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
    “Although it has been remarked that I do bear a striking resemblance to Harrison Ford, I have no wish to waste my time on any such foolish venture. Now allow me to eat and drink and go my way.”
    “You have a wicked sense of humour, Mr Pooley. So how do you feel we should best go about this? Hire a couple of metal detectors, bring in a dowser…”
    “No.” Jim shook his head, wiped breadcrumbs from his chin, finished his ale and rose to his feet. “I am not interested, John. I want nothing to do with it. I am going home. Goodnight.” And he turned away and left the Flying Swan.
    “Then I woke up,” Old Pete was heard to say, “and my big toe was missing. There was just this little note stuck into the stump which said, ‘Gone to market’.”
    John Omally had another pint, then he too left the Flying Swan. Whatever was the matter with that Jim Pooley? he wondered as he wandered aimlessly down the Brentford streets. Had he lost all his spirit? Or was he simply getting on in years?
    Omally came to a sudden halt. Why had that thought entered his head? Getting on in years? He and Jim were the same age. And they were only Omally stroked his chin. It was hardly only any more, was it? It was, well, as much as.
    Omally paused and, finding himself beside Pooley’s favourite library bench, sat down upon it. He and Jim had certainly enjoyed an adventure or two in the past. They’d got drawn into some really terrible stuff, but