The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (10 page)

“How would you like a pneumatic drill up your fudge tunnel, sunshine?” asked the bloke.

“Come now, gentlemen,” said the official-looking one. “We all have our work to do.”

“He doesn’t,” said the bloke, pointing at Pooley. “Blokes like him are just a drain on the country’s resources.”

“I resent that,” said Jim, who did.

“Punch his lights out,” said the lady in the straw hat.

“Do me a favour,” said the bloke. “Look at the state of him. He’s got two black eyes already. Wanker!”

“Come on now,” said he of the official looks. “There’s work to do.”

“You keep out of this,” shouted the bloke. “Bloody jumped-up little Hitler.”

“I resent that.”

“Oh yeah, do you want to make something of it?”

“Excuse me,” said the bloke’s mate, who had been quietly digging away with a spade throughout all this. “But I think I’ve found something here. It looks like a treasure chest.”

“Let me take a look at that,” said he of looks official.

“No chance!” said the bloke. “If my mate’s found something, then we’re keeping it.”

“If I’ve found something, I’m keeping it,” said the mate.

“It could be an unexploded bomb,” said Jim, in a voice that sounded unrehearsed.

“Bollocks!” said the bloke and the mate of the bloke.

“It could be,” said the lady in the straw hat. “They used to drop all these booby traps in the war. Disguised as tins of Spam and packets of cigarettes and electric vibrators and…”

“We’d better cordon off the area,” said the OLG. “You two chaps out of the hole and away to a safe distance. I will take charge of the bomb.”

“Good idea,” said Jim. “Come on, everyone, back, back.”

“Did someone say ‘bomb’?” asked Old Pete, who had been passing by.

“Move along please, sir.”

“Why are you wearing that daft moustache, Omally?”

“What’s all this about a false moustache?” asked the bloke in the hole, climbing out of it.

“Just a deluded old gentleman,” said John Omally. “Come on now, all of you, clear the area.”

“What’s your game?” shouted the bloke, taking a swipe at Omally and tearing off his false moustache.

“Oooooh!” said the lady in the straw hat. “It’s the weirdo from the park who makes road drill noises in A minor while his mate here goes to sleep.”

“His mate here?” The bloke turned upon Pooley.

“I’ve never seen this official-looking gent before in my life,” said Jim, crossing his heart and hoping not to die.

“Who’s in charge here?” said someone else, pushing through the nicely growing crowd.

“I am,” said John.

“You bloody aren’t,” said the bloke.

“Well, someone better be. What have you done to my bench?”

“Your bench?” said John.

“I’m the chief librarian,” said the chief librarian.

“He is,” said Jim.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the chief librarian. “I should have known. You’re always dossing about here. I knew you were up to something.”

“Bloody layabout,” said the bloke.

“Right,” said Jim, rolling up his sleeves. “That does it.”

“Right,” said the bloke, punching Jim on the nose. “It does.”

“Stop all this,” cried Omally, stepping forward to grab the bloke, but tripping over his mate who was climbing out of the hole.

“Fight!” shouted the lady in the straw hat, stamping on the chief librarian’s foot.

“Sandra’s crotch!” yelled the chief librarian, hopping about like a good ’un.

And then the crowd gave a bit of a surge and the fists began to fly.

Omally got his hands on the treasure chest, but the mate, who wasn’t giving up without a struggle, head-butted him in the stomach, knocking him into the hole. The lady in the straw hat began to belabour all and sundry with her handbag. The young man with the beard, whose name was Paul and who knew not only about the blues and Socratic irony but also Dimac, brought down the bloke who was kicking Pooley with a devastating blow known as the Curl of the Dark Dragon’s Tail.

And as if on cue, for always it seems to be, the distinctive sound of a police car siren was to be heard above the thuds and bangs and howls of the growing melee.

Omally clawed his way up from the hole. “The mate’s getting away with the chest, Jim,” he shouted. Jim, now in the foetal position, responded with a dismal groan.

The police car swerved to a halt and three policemen leapt from it. One had a face to be reckoned with, another rejoiced in the name of Joe-Bob.

“Let’s give those new electric batons a try,” said the one with the face.

And things went mostly downhill after that.

“No,” said Professor Slocombe. “No, no and again no.” He gestured to the muddy casket on his desk. “Impossible! Ludicrous!”

“I’m sure it’s the real deal,” said Jim.

“Oh, I’m quite sure it is. But I have been searching for the scrolls for years – decades – and you… you…”

“Found them,” said John. “We’re quite proud of ourselves really.”

“Ridiculous! Absurd!” Professor Slocombe shook his head.

“We thought you’d be pleased,” said Jim.

“Oh, I am. I am.” The Professor peered at Pooley. “Why is your hair sticking straight up in the air like that?”

Jim made a very pained expression. “I was doubled on the ground and this policeman came up behind me with an electric truncheon and stuck it right up my…”

“Quite!” The Professor waved his hands in the air. “I don’t think we want to go into that.”

“Exactly what I screamed at the policeman. But it didn’t stop him.”

The Professor fluttered his fingers. “Just sit down,” he told Jim.

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

Professor Slocombe sighed and fluttered further.

“Go on,” said John. “Open the box. You know you want to.”

“Of course I want to.” The Professor sat down at his desk. “But it’s all so…”

“Impossible?” said Jim.

“Ludicrous?” said John.

“Those, yes. How did you find the scrolls?”

“We’ve Jim to thank for that.” John patted his companion on the shoulder. “Jim put himself into a mystical trance and travelled mentally back in time.”

“There’s no need to take the piss,” said Professor Slocombe.

“I’m not. That’s exactly what Jim did.”

Professor Slocombe shook his head once more. “You two must have done something good in a former lifetime,” he said.

Two heads shook.

“Quite the opposite,” said Jim.

“Well, you must tell me all about it.”

“There was this monk,” said Jim, “and he…”

“At some other time.” Professor Slocombe ran his fingers lightly over the casket. “Have you opened it already?”

“Ah, no,” said Omally. “You see, we couldn’t run and open at the same time.”

“I don’t think I quite understand.”

“There was a bit of bother,” said Jim. “A minor fracas.”

“Hence the policeman with…” Professor Slocombe made the appropriate wrist movements.

“Amongst other things. Two yobbos nipped off with the library bench, you see, and the chief librarian ran amok with a pneumatic drill.”

“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?”

“I do, yes.”

“Then tell us,” said Jim.

Professor Slocombe smiled that smile of his, and spoke some more. “When you came to me the night before last, asked me about the scrolls and told me of your plan to have Brentford celebrate the millennium two years before the rest of the world, you will recall that I laughed. I did not laugh because the idea was preposterous, I laughed because, whether through luck (perhaps) or judgement (perhaps not) or fate, you had it right. Right upon the nose and the button. The correct date is December the thirty-first. The correct year, this very one.”

It was teatime, or thereabouts, when John and Jim left the Professor’s house. Martial law had been lifted and but for the occasional burned-out car or shattered shop window there was nothing to suggest that things were not as they always had been in Brentford.

But they were not.

And John and Jim knew that they were not.

John and Jim knew that something very big was about to happen, something very big indeed. And it scared them not a little, though it thrilled them also.

They spoke few words as they strolled along, hands in pockets, heads down, kicking the shell of a CS gas canister, whistling discordantly. Outside the Flying Swan they stood a while in silence.

And then John took a breath. “And so,” said he. “We have heard all that the Professor had to say. We have dwelt upon it. We are mystified, we are bewildered, we are fearful, we are rapt in wonder. But, are we not men?”

“We are Devo,” said Jim.

“We are John and Jim,” said John. “Occasionally daunted but never done for.”

“I assume all this bravado is leading somewhere.”

“It is leading to this. The Professor may be correct in all that he said. On the other hand, it might turn out to be a load of old blarney. But whatever the case, we found the scrolls. And the scrolls are authentic. And in celebration of this, I suggest we up our salaries as directors of the Brentford Millennium Committee.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Jim. “Let’s double the blighters.”

“Let’s do that very thing.”

And so they did.

“What did St Patrick say when he drove all the snakes out of Ireland?” asked Old Pete.

The patrons at the bar shook their heads. Corner-shopkeeper Norman Hartnell said, “I don’t know.”

“He said, ‘Are you all all right in the back there?’…”

Old Pete awaited the hilarity.

None, however, came.

“Surely,” said Norman, “that’s a somewhat surrealist joke.”

“The elephant’s cloakroom ticket,” said Old Pete.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said John Omally. “Jim’s paying.”

“Am I?”

“The least you can do. Considering your inflated salary.”

“And two whisky chasers, Neville,” said Jim.

“What’s all this?” asked Old Pete. “Got yourself a job, Pooley? I thought you were registered at the Job Centre as a snow-shifter’s mate.”

“Such days are behind me, Pete. John and I are to be men of substance. There are great times ahead for Brentford, and we are the men you will be thanking for them.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Old Pete. “Very kind of you.”

Neville did the business. “So, John,” said he, with a grin upon his face. “I assume this means you found the Brentford Scrolls.”

The patrons erupted into laughter. Norman Hartnell slapped his knees and croaked and coughed.

“Easy, Norman,” said Old Pete.

Norman straightened up. “Sorry,” he said. “But ‘Are you all all right in the back there?’ Brilliant.”

Neville wiped a tear of mirth from his good eye. “Come on, John,” he said. “Only joking.”

Omally shrugged. “No problem at all. But I have not found the Brentford Scrolls.”

“Tough luck,” said Neville.

“Jim has found them.”

Further hilarity. “Very good,” said Neville. “Very droll.”

“They’re with Professor Slocombe,” said John.

“Well, they would be, wouldn’t they?”

“No,” said John. “They really are with Professor Slocombe. Jim did find them.”

“Were they lost, then?” asked Norman. “Only when you said about me getting a directorship on the Brentford Millennium Committee, you led me to understand…”

Omally whispered figures into Norman’s ear.

Norman whistled. “That’s a most substantial salary. I will be able to buy that particle accelerator I wanted now.”

“Hold on. Hold on.” Neville put up his hands. “A joke is a joke, John. But Jim has not found the Brentford Scrolls.”

“Have too,” said Jim.

“Has too,” said John.

“As if,” said Neville, sauntering off to polish glasses.

“What do you want a particle accelerator for?” Jim asked Norman.

“To accelerate particles, of course. What did you think?”

Jim shrugged. “Are you currently in inventor mode, then?”