“They had to restrain him in a straitjacket,” said John.
“But not before he’d destroyed the police car,” said Jim.
“Was that before or after he fractured the gas main?” John asked.
“After,” said Jim. “Remember, you were being beaten up by the hole-bloke’s mate when you smelt the gas.”
“So it wasn’t the chief librarian who set off the explosion?”
“No, it was the policeman’s electric truncheon. We were both running away by then.”
“Most people were running away by then.”
“Well, they would, what with all those blokes abseiling down from the helicopters and everything.”
“And the tear gas,” said John. “And the horses.”
“That hole-bloke’s mate gave you a right seeing to,” said Jim.
“Yes. I loved every minute of it.”
“What?” said Professor Slocombe.
“The hole-bloke’s mate was an eighteen-year-old college girl on work experience,” Jim explained.
“She was fast, too,” said John. “She outran the police dogs.”
“But a marksman brought her down with a rubber bullet.”
“I thought it was the fellow on the water cannon.”
“Gentlemen,” said Professor Slocombe. “Gentlemen.”
“Yes?” said John and Jim.
“Will you both shut up!” He rang his little brass bell.
Presently Gammon arrived with a bottle of champagne and three glasses.
“Fetch a glass for yourself, Gammon,” said the Professor. “We should all celebrate this together.”
“I’ll be fine, sir,” said the retainer, taking a swig from the bottle. “Oh, do excuse me. I had a bit of trouble getting back from Budgens, what with the army having closed off most of the streets and declaring martial law…”
“And everything,” said Jim.
And Everything.
The champagne glasses clinked together, toasts were called and soon the bottle emptied.
Professor Slocombe sat down at his desk and placed his hands upon the casket. “Before I open this,” he said. “I am going to ask you to close your eyes for a moment of silent prayer.”
Jim looked at John.
And John looked at Jim.
“Something serious is corning, isn’t it?” said Jim.
“Something very serious. Just humour me.”
Sunlight streamed in through the French windows. And outside in the magical garden the birds ceased their singing. As the four men closed their eyes and held their breath, the air within the study seemed to offer up a sigh. And just for a second, or two, or was it ten, or was it a lifetime of seconds and minutes and hours and days, there was absolute peace and tranquillity.
Absolute.
And then the moment passed. Each man exhaled and somehow felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. As if they had lain themselves utterly bare. And had experienced something so special and so moving that it physically hurt.
“Something happened,” said Jim, clutching at his heart. “Something wonderful happened. What was it?”
Professor Slocombe smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Something wonderful is just beginning.” He put his hands to the casket’s lid and lifted it. And then the study air filled with the scent of lilacs.
John Omally crossed himself. “The odour of sanctity,” he whispered.
“Correct, John, the perfume that issues from the incorruptible bodies of the saints.” Professor Slocombe spoke the Latin benediction, reached into the casket and took out something wrapped in a red velvet cloth. And this he laid upon his desk. Gently turning back the covering he exposed the scrolls. Latin-penned, embossed with the papal seal.
“Oh yes,” said Professor Slocombe. “Oh yes indeed.”
“It is them, isn’t it?”
The snow-capped scholar looked up at the man with the electric hair-do, the two black eyes and the bloody nose. “You have been through quite a lot for these, haven’t you, Jim?” he said. “But do you really know just what you’ve found?”
“The Brentford Scrolls,” said Jim, proudly.
“The Days of God,” said Professor Slocombe. “Jim, you may very well have altered the entire course of human history through your discovery.”
“Sandra’s…”
“No,” said John. “No, don’t say that.”
Professor Slocombe spoke. “When Pope Gregory changed the calendar from the Julian to the Gregorian, he did it for purely practical reasons. There was nothing mystical involved. But, you see, the precise date of Christ’s birth had never been known for certain. The coming millennium, the year 2000, is only an approximation. The Pope wasn’t aware that when he signed the papal bull authorizing the Days of God, he would be creating the wherewithal for someone in a future time to ensure that the millennium was celebrated on the correct day of the correct year.”
“But does that really matter?” Jim asked.
“Oh, absolutely, Jim. If you had studied the science of magic for as long as I have, and practised it with, dare I say, some moderate degree of success, you would understand that precision is everything. For a working to be successful, each magical building block must be precisely aligned. If one is missing or out of place, the entire metaphysical edifice collapses. But if all are precisely fitted together, the seemingly impossible becomes possible. ‘Natural’ laws are transcended, higher truths imparted, wisdoms revealed. If the exact day of the exact year on which the millennium should be celebrated passes by without the appropriate ceremonies, its magic will not become manifest.”
“But what magic is this? You’re not talking about Armageddon or the end of the world, or dismal stuff like that, are you?”
“On the contrary. If the ceremonies are performed on the correct day of the correct year something marvellous will occur. Something unparalleled. Something that will change the world for ever.”
“Oh,” said Jim. “And what might that be?”
“What did you feel just now, when you closed your eyes in prayer?”
“I don’t know exactly.” Jim shook his head. “But it was something wonderful.”
“Imagine feeling like that all the time. Imagine a state of heightened awareness and understanding. Of inner peace, of tranquillity, of love, if you like. Yes, love would be the word.”
“And you’re saying that if the millennium is celebrated on the correct day of the correct year, everyone will experience that?”
“It is the next step,” said Professor Slocombe. “The next evolutionary step. The next rung up the ladder. Or, more rightly, a further turning of the wheel. The holy mandala that takes us nearer to godhead by returning us to it. All was born from THE BIG IDEA, all will ultimately return to it.”
Jim opened his mouth. “I’m speechless,” he said.
“Just one thing, Professor.” John put up his hand. “I have been listening carefully to all you have said. And you said that the precise date of Christ’s birth had never been known for certain.”
“That is precisely what I said, John, yes.”
“Does that mean it is known now?”
“It does.”
“And you know it?”
