Previously: With Bradford gripped by Hobnail-mania, The Scribbler continued his run of stories about the apparition known as Hobnailed Malcolm. Then Doris Thrope, the Happy Medium, turned up at the pub carrying a well-worn boot in a Morrisons carrier. Now read on Where did you get this?" The Scribbler demanded of Doris, as he gingerly picked up the boot and lifted it from the bag. Peering underneath it, he could see that the metal studs were well-worn. It looked like just the sort of boot that might have been used to create showers of sparks.

The clairvoyant looked shame-faced. "It was in Barrington's room," she said. "I have to go in there from time to time and clean up after him. He's a messy boy."

The Scribbler considered this an odd way to refer to a 47-year-old man who had spent his working life as a thespian, appearing on stages the world over (and in Barnoldswick). But that's mothers for you, he thought to himself.

"Did you find anything else?" he asked.

"Only this," said Doris, putting another Morrisons carrier on the table. It contained the other boot, and a crumpled skeleton outfit.

"And the flying helmet with antlers?" he asked.

"On the top of his wardrobe, next to his rude magazines," she replied, and sighed.

"Well it looks like we've solved the mystery of Hobnailed Malcolm," said The Scribbler. "I'd better go and have a word with Barrington. Where is he now?"

"Down at the Job Centre," answered the Happy Medium, unhappily. "Thursday's his day for signing on."

The Scribbler was striding up Leeds Road towards the Job Centre when he saw the familiar figure of Barrington Thrope heading towards him. The actor looked dejected, his red-lined cloak hanging loosely from his shoulders and his top-hatted head bowed.

"Hello Barrington," said your columnist as the two drew near. Thrope looked up, startled. "The game's up I'm afraid," the Scribbler continued. "You've been rumbled, Malcolm."

Barrington said nothing as the Scribbler steered him up the footpath to the terrace behind the Crown Court. Side by side they rested their elbows on the wall and stared out across the mounds of rubble in Forster Square.

Barrington broke the silence. "Well I suppose that's me finished," he said. "My reputation in tatters. Exposed for what I am - a freak and a fool."

"Why did you do it, Barrington?" asked the Scribbler.

"I wanted the limelight," sobbed the other man. "This is the first year in my whole career that I haven't landed some sort of role in a pantomime somewhere, however humble it might be. I couldn't bear the thought of all those people working on stages up and down the country while I languished at home. So I created my own role. I turned myself into a panto baddie, but one without a panto. I took my art to the streets."

"And a very convincing job you made of it too," the Scribbler reassured him. "You'd be doing it still if you'd kept your room a bit tidier and your mother hadn't felt the need to go in there and clean it."

"Well now I'm prepared to be shamed," said Thrope. "Go ahead. Write your story. Do your worst."

The Scribbler was silent for a while. Then he said: "I couldn't do that to you, Barrington. You're a friend. I won't write a word about any of this. We'll just let Hobnailed Malcolm fade away into Bradford folklore. Go home and reassure your mother that everything's going to be OK."

As Barrington walked away, The Scribbler realised that as a hack he lacked the killer instinct ever to make the big time. Then he saw Barrington's shoulders go back and his head straighten, and a hint of a spring return to his step.

That, thought the Scribbler, was reward enough.