The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (12 page)

Howl and shriek and scream.

“Will you please turn off that appalling racket?” asked Professor Slocombe.

Brentford’s mayor, the worshipful Puerto Rican Don Juan Lopez Carlos de Casteneda, switched off his ghetto-blaster. “That is not a racket,” he said. “That is my favourite band, the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of Death.”

“And highly derivative they are too,” said the Professor. “I detect the influence of both Slayer and Deicide.”

“Huh,” said the mayor, chewing on a small cheroot.

They sat at the big table in the council chamber of Brentford Town Hall. Curtains of sunlight wavered from upper windows. Rich oak panelling shone with a mellow patina, smoke hung in the air.

John and Jim were there, with several members of the council, hastily gathered, the secretary of the late Mr Compton-Cummings (who knows why?) and Scoop Molloy with his notebook.

“This is all so much shite,” said the mayor, cuffing his copy of the Brentford Mercury. “I am woken from the arms of my lover by a march-past. Peons in the streets are hanging balloons from the lamp posts. Someone has passed word around that I have declared today a public holiday.”

John Omally, up since dawn and busy with it, rolled himself a cigarette.

“Yesterday riots and today we have dancing in the streets.” The mayor threw up his hands and made excitable gesturings. “It is all too much.”

“My dear Don Juan,” said Professor Slocombe, “I will agree that events have proceeded with some alacrity. More alacrity, in fact, than I might have wished for.” He waggled the fingers of his gloved hand beneath the table and John Omally’s roll-up fell to pieces. “But we are gathered here to discuss what may be done and how it may be done.”

“Such as this?” The mayor snatched up a piece of foolscap and took to the cuffing of it. “Proposal to construct the Hanging Gardens of Brentford on the site of the allotments, to be called the John Omally Millennial Tower.”

Professor Slocombe curled his lip. John grinned painfully.

“Beauty Pageants and Beer Festivals, a rock concert in the football ground, who the hell are Devo anyway?”

“Please remain calm.” Professor Slocombe raised a calming hand.

“And I tell you this.” The mayor screwed up the foolscap and flung it aside. “These scrolls that make all this possible. That make these two gringos here,” he shook a fist at John and Jim, “think that they can run all this. These scrolls were dug up on council property. I should take these scrolls.”

“The scrolls were located by Mr Pooley. Under the Finders Keepers law…”

“And what is that?”

“It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. But under it, the scrolls belong to Mr Pooley.”

“He didn’t find them. A young woman dug them up.”

“Under his instruction.”

“On council property. And who will pay for a new library bench?”

“That will be included in the budget for the new library,” said John. “The John Omally Mil…”

“Shut your mouth, home boy!”

“Make a note of that, Jim,” said John. “Dock the mayor a week’s pay.”

“What?”

“Gentlemen,” said the Professor. “Nothing is ever achieved through acrimony. We must act as one or we will not succeed.”

“I’ll dock him two weeks,” said Jim. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“You think to make fun of me, huh?” The mayor smote his chest. “You think I am some stinking wet-back?”

“Surely that’s a somewhat racist remark,” said Scoop Molloy, writing it down.

“Your mother!” said the mayor, thumbing his teeth.

“Gentlemen, please.”

“I tell you this,” said the mayor, all pointing fingers now. “No one will swallow this shite. Who will swallow it, huh? The real Millennium Committee? The Prime Minister? The Queen? The world? Who?”

“I will swallow it.”

Faces turned towards the new speaker.

“And who the hell are you?” asked the mayor.

“Celia Penn. I was secretary to the late Mr Compton-Cummings.”

“And you will swallow, will you?”

“I will swallow with pleasure.”

Here we go again, thought Jim. Carry on up the Council Chamber.

“Call out the mariachi bands,” said the mayor. “The day is saved.”

“If you will just let me speak.”

“Speak on, lady. Be my guest.”

“Thank you. I represent certain interested parties who are determined that the millennial celebrations go ahead on the correct day of the correct year. The Professor knows what I am talking about.”

“I do, but how…”

“SUCK,” said Celia Penn.

“Oh dear,” went Jim Pooley.

“SUCK,” said Professor Slocombe. “The Secret Unification for the Coming King, an occult organization dating back to before the Knights Templar. Keepers of the Great Mystery.”

“Protectors of the Brentford Scrolls,” said Celia Penn. “It was I who encoded the location of the scrolls into Mr Compton-Cummings’s book. And I who sent the last remaining copy to Mr Pooley. I knew I had the right man.”

“Eh?” went Jim. “But I never…”

“Aha!” went the mayor. “Oh yeah, I get this. Another one looking for a handout. What do you want, lady? A new car, is it? Well you can SUCK my -”

Click went the Professor’s fingers. Lock went the jaw of the mayor.

And KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK came a knocking at the council chamber door. And duck for cover went John and Jim.

“Come out,” called the Professor. “It’s only the tea trolley.”

The door opened and in came the woman with the tea trolley. She was wearing a straw hat and she trundled over to the mayor. “Coffee, your holiness?” she asked.

“Grmmph mmph,” went the mayor, clutching his jaw.

“Only what you see on the trolley, I’m afraid.”

“Excuse me,” said a councillor with a mean and hungry look. “But as the mayor seems to be experiencing some difficulty in speaking, perhaps I might take the chair.”

“Certainly,” said Professor Slocombe.

The councillor got to his feet, took the chair and left the chamber.

“The old ones are always the best,” said Jim. “Although this hardly seems the time.”

“Excuse me,” said a councillor who was old and rough and dirty and tough. “But as the mayor is incapacitated and Councillor Cassius has gone off with the chair, perhaps I might put in my threepenny-worth.”

“Certainly,” said the Professor.

And the councillor placed three pennies on the table.

“Where do you think this is leading?” Jim asked.

“Excuse me,” said a third councillor, this one cool as a mountain stream, yet as corny as Kansas in August. “But as the mayor is incapacitated, Councillor Cassius has gone off with the chair and Councillor Starguard of the Galactic Brotherhood has put in his threepenny-worth, perhaps I might just ask a question.”

“Go ahead,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Why does a brown cow give white milk when it only eats green grass?”

“Is it just me?” asked Jim. “Or have things taken a distinct turn for the weird?”

“Would you like an octopus in your tea?” the lady in the straw hat asked Omally. “I’ve a camel outside that will go four days if you brick it.”

“Cover your faces,” cried Professor Slocombe.

“Don’t you start,” cried Jim.

“Cover your faces quickly and make a run for the door.”

“My husband once made a run for the chickens,” said the lady in the straw hat. “But then he was a Jesuit.”

“Talking of eggs,” said Celia Penn. “There was this sausage and this egg in a frying pan. And the sausage said ‘My, it’s hot in here’ and the egg said ‘Eeeek! A talking sausage.’” Celia Penn began to laugh and the lady in the straw hat began to laugh and Scoop Molloy began to laugh and Councillor Starguard began to laugh. And then they all began to cry and to shout and to hit one another.

“Mmph grmmph,” went the mayor.

“Out,” cried the Professor. “John, Jim, out, quickly.”

“What is going on?” asked John. “And who brought that horse in here?”

“Jim, help Ms Penn and hurry.” Professor Slocombe tugged at Pooley.

“I love you, Suzy,” said Jim. “Let me show you the trick with the ice cubes.”

“Hurry, Jim.” Professor Slocombe tugged again at Pooley and Pooley tugged at Celia Penn.

“Fly with me to my plantation,” he crooned. “There may be snow on the roof but there’s a beaver in the basement.”

“Hurry, Jim. Come on, John.”

“Everybody conga,” said Omally, kicking up his legs.

And pushing and shoving in a bumbling line, Jim followed John, Ms Penn followed Jim and the Professor followed all of them and thrust them through the door.

Along a corridor which had no power at all, and out into the car park.

“Sit down, stay still and take deep breaths.” Professor Slocombe forced them to the tarmac, where they sat giggling foolishly.

Binding, the scrofulous attendant, issued from his sentry box. “They can’t sit there,” he complained. “They don’t have official permits.”

“Bring water quickly,” commanded the Professor.

“I can’t go giving out water to any old Tom, Dick and Hari Krishna, it’s more than my job’s worth.”

Professor Slocombe fixed the car park attendant with a certain stare.

“I’ll bring three cups,” said Binding, hurrying off at the double. “And a glass for your good self.”

Jim Pooley was struggling to his feet. “I will fight for the woman I love,” he shouted. “Bring on your best guitarist.”

Professor Slocombe looked both ways, then felled Jim with a nifty uppercut. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “But you’ll thank me for it later.”

“Thank you,” said Jim, somewhat later. “But what exactly happened?”

“Someone drugged us, didn’t they?” Omally held his head.

Professor Slocombe nodded his. “I had Binding drive us here in the mayor’s low-rider. A charming fellow, Binding, when you get to know him.”

Pooley sat once more in the Professor’s fireside chair. Celia Penn lay unconscious upon the chaise longue. “Is she going to be all right?” Jim asked.

“She’ll be better sleeping it off” Professor Slocombe placed a hand upon the young woman’s forehead. “She’s running a bit of a temperature. I’ll have Gammon fetch an ice-pack.” He returned to his desk and rang his little bell.

“Who did this to us?” Jim rubbed his face. “And who punched me? My chin’s bruised too now.”

Professor Slocombe decanted sherry and passed a glass to Jim. “I wondered how it was that I remained unaffected. I suspect it must have been due to these.” He pointed to his leather gloves upon the desk. “I always wear them, as you know. The skin of my hands is sensitive to sunlight.”

“So we touched something?” Jim sniffed at his fingertips.

“I have scrubbed your hands. But that I think must have been it. I placed my gloves beneath the microscope and lo and behold.”

“Lo and behold what exactly?”

“A rather lethal cocktail of mescaline, peyote and amphetamines.”

“What about the councillors? The lady in the straw hat and everyone?”

“I called an ambulance, and they’ve been dealt with. No fatalities.”

“But how?”

“How was it done? Remarkably simple. The drug was mixed with furniture polish in an aerosol can and sprayed onto the council table.”

John Omally shook his aching head. “But why?” he asked.

“I would have thought that was obvious. To sabotage Brentford’s plans to hold the millennial celebrations two years early.”

“But who?” asked Jim.

“Whoever was responsible for the pulping of Mr Compton-Cummings’s book. Ms Penn will tell us more, I trust, when she awakens.”

“But how?” asked Jim.

“We did ‘But how?’, Jim.”

“No, I mean how did they act so fast? To prepare this drug and spray it on the table just before we got there. They don’t mess around, this lot, do they?”

“Binding informed me that an unmarked van entered the car park an hour before we arrived. Two ‘cleaners’ in grey suits. He couldn’t describe them, said they looked totally anonymous.”

“But fish?” asked Jim.

“Pardon me?” said the Professor.

“Nothing,” said Jim. “I don’t think the drug’s quite worn off yet.”

“Hang about,” said John. “The lady in the straw hat never touched the council table.”

“The lady in the straw hat is barking mad anyway,” said Jim.

“Oh, right. But if I can ask one more question, Professor. How did these would-be assassins know that we’d all be at the council meeting this morning?”

“I doubt that they did. They were just being thorough. There would have to have been a council meeting to discuss matters sooner or later. They were simply putting themselves ahead of the game, as it were.”

“Well, they’re messing with the wrong lads here,” said Omally, flexing his shoulders. “This is Brentford and we have right on our side. Let them try it again and see what happens.”

Gammon knocked and entered with an ice-pack on a tray. “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,” said he. “But I think you’d better take a look outside. The military gentlemen of yesterday have returned and this time they are erecting what seem to be barricades and border posts.”

“People of Brentford,” came the voice through the electric loudhailer. It was a military voice. Educated. Authoritative. “People of Brentford, return to your homes, go about your businesses.”

“Boo!” went the people of Brentford. “Boo and hiss!”

“These barricades and crossing points have been erected for your own welfare, to protect you from an influx of undesirables.”

Beyond the barricades, undesirables in the shape of news crews buffed up their lenses and went “one two” into their microphones.

In Professor Slocombe’s study the ancient scholar bolted his French windows. “They will certainly come for the scrolls,” he said. “You must take them to a place of safety.”

“He means you, John,” said Jim.

“I mean both of you,” said Professor Slocombe.

Jim’s hands began to tremble as they always did prior to a flap.

“Easy, Jim,” said John. “Where shall we take them, Professor?”

“To Buckingham Palace, perhaps. Or Ten Downing Street.”

“There’s a priest hole at the Flying Swan,” said Jim. “We could take them there.”

“Perhaps the British Museum,” said Professor Slocombe, “or the Bank of England.”

“I rather like the sound of the priest hole,” said John.

“Or perhaps they should be taken directly to Rome and delivered to my friend the Pope.”

“The priest hole has it then,” said Jim.

“My good friends,” said the Professor, “without the scrolls we have nothing. They must be authenticated by a panel of experts. And a panel that has not been compromised. I must confess that sending you both on a pilgrimage to Rome does have a certain charm. The possibilities for picaresque adventures are endless. But I doubt whether either one of you even possesses a passport.”

“I had one once,” said Jim. “But I lost it on my travels.”

“You’ve never been on any travels.” John Omally laughed. “You get airsick travelling on the top deck of a bus.”

“I never do.”

“You do. And you get a nosebleed.”

“It’s the altitude. And I have travelled. I’ve been to Margate.”

“Gentlemen, please. Take the scrolls to a place of your own choosing. I hate to say protect them with your lives…”

“Then don’t,” said Jim.

“But we will,” said John. “But what of you, Professor, and Ms Penn? They will come here looking for the scrolls, and will not treat you kindly.”

“I am well aware of that. I will make my own arrangements and contact you at the earliest opportunity.”

“Hold on,” said Jim.

“What is it, Jim?”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, came a knocking at Professor Slocombe’s front door.

“It’s that,” said Jim. “I’m beginning to develop a sixth sense when it comes to that.”

“Out of the kitchen door then and away.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” asked John.

Professor Slocombe made a mystic pass and vanished in a puff of smoke.

“I think he’ll be just fine,” said Jim.

They arrived at the Flying Swan just in time to see Old Pete being stretchered into a waiting ambulance.

John hurried over to the fogey. “What happened to you?” he asked.

Pete looked up with a dazed expression on his face. “What would you reckon the chances were of there being a one-legged lesbian shot-putter in the pub when I happen to be telling a joke?” he asked.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Jim, rooting in his pockets for the last of his small change. “And would you mind sticking this casket in your priest hole?”

“Not at all,” said Neville. “That would be the now legendary Brentford Scrolls we’ve been hearing so much about, I suppose.”

“It certainly would,” said Jim.

“Get out of my pub,” said Neville. “You’re barred.”

“What?”

“See who that is over there?” Neville pointed.

“A one-legged lesbian shot-putter?”

“No, next to her.”

“Oh my God.” Jim fell back in alarm. “It’s Young Master Robert.”

“Correct, damnable issue of the Master Brewer’s loins. Blight of my life. Bane of my existence. Would-be despoiler of my…”

“So what’s he doing here?”

“What does he always do here?”

“He tries to renovate the pub,” said Jim in a doomed tone. “Turn it into a theme bar or something equally hideous.”

“Exactly, and thanks to you he’s back on the case.”

“So what is it this time? No, let me guess, the Millennial Eatery, snacks in a space-age styrofoam bucket.”

“Nothing so tasteful. Here, peruse this before you take your leave.” Neville pushed a scribbled plan across the bar counter.

“Afternoon, Neville,” said Omally, breezing up. “Jim getting them in, is he?”

“Jim is just leaving,” said Neville. “And you with him.”

“What?”

“Peruse.” Neville pointed to the plan and John perused.

“By all the holy saints,” said John. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” and Neville pointed once again. “Next to the one-legged…”

“We can’t have this.” Omally plucked up the plan and stalked across the bar. “Good afternoon, my friend,” he said, extending a hand for a shaking.

Young Master Robert looked up from his light and lime. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “I remember you.”

“And I you.” Omally thrust his unshaken hand into his trouser pocket. With the other he waved the scribbled plan about. “I see you’ve been busy again. Brilliant stuff. I take my hat off to you.”

“You don’t wear a hat and even if you did I wouldn’t want you to take it off.”

“Is this bloke bothering you, Bobby?” asked the Young Master’s burly monopedal companion.

“No, Sandra. The gentleman is just leaving.”

“Sandra?” said Omally. “Sandra, it’s you.”

“Omally, it’s you!” Sandra hopped to her foot and gave Omally a bone-crunching hug. “After all these years and you haven’t changed a bit. Apart from looking so much older.”

“Nor you,” said John, “apart from…”

“The leg?” grinned Sandra. “I got fed up with it. So I had it amputated. Did it myself with a chainsaw.”

“It suits you,” said John.

“Thanks. It’s a great bird-puller. You should have one of yours done.”

“I’ll give that some thought.”

Young Master Robert made agitated finger flutterings. “I hate to break up this happy reunion, but will you please bugger off, Omally.”

“But I want to talk to you about your plan for the Swan’s renovation. The Road to Calvary, England’s first religious theme pub. Well, I say first, but there’s the one along the road of course, and two in Ealing, and…”

“Forget it,” said Young Master Robert. “The Road to Calvary it will be.”

“We’ll speak more on this. Farewell, Sandra, splendid to see you again.”

“And you, John, and if you ever fancy having any body parts removed, you know where to come.”

“I certainly do.” And John Omally returned to the bar.

“Well?” said Neville.

“Sorted,” said John.

“What?”

“Well, almost sorted. Give me time. You can’t just rush at these things.”

“That little bastard can. You will have to do something, John. I hold you and Jim directly responsible for this.”

“Trust me,” said John. And Neville served the drinks.

“That woman with Young Master Robert looks strangely familiar,” said Jim.

“It’s Sandra.”

“Sandra? No. But surely she used to have…”

“She cut one off. It’s a fashion statement or something. Big birdpuller, she says.”

“Bird-puller? Dear oh dear.” Jim shook his head. “That’s put your rhyming slang all to pot.”

“Yours remains unaffected, however. Cheers.” John raised his glass.

“To the future,” said Jim.

“Have you really got the Brentford Scrolls in here?” Neville asked.

“True as true,” said John. “Want to take a look?”

“Yes please.”

John turned the casket towards Neville and lifted the lid. The part-time barman took a peep inside.

“Oooooooh!” he went.

“Pretty impressive, eh?”

“Staggering,” said Neville. “Truly staggering.”

“Jim found them,” said John. “I told you he did.”

“And there was I not believing you.”

“You are forgiven.”

“And which emperor did you say they belonged to?”

“Not an emperor, a monk.”

“No, I’m sure it was an emperor.”

“Monk,” said John.

“Emperor,” said Neville.

“Monk.”

“Emperor.” Neville reached across the bar and snatched John’s glass from his hand. “The one with the new clothes. Get out of my pub, you’re barred for life.”

“What?” John swung the casket round and looked inside. “Aaaaagh!” he went.

“What’s happening, John?” Jim Pooley took a look. “Aaaaagh!” he agreed.

“Out,” cried Neville. “The both of you, out.”

“No, Neville, no.” Jim’s hands began to flap.

Omally’s did likewise.

“They’re gone,” cried Jim. “My God, they’re gone.”

“And for best actor nomination in Farewell my Scrolls, we have James Pooley and Jonathan Omally. Get out!” shouted Neville. “Never darken my drip trays again.”

“No, Neville, this is serious. Deadly serious.”

Neville reached for the knobkerrie he kept beneath the bar. “Out, Jim,” he shouted. “Or know the wrath of my displeasure.”

Jim snatched up the casket. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“We go back,” said Omally. “To the Professor’s. Unless you think they might just have fallen out while you were carrying them here.”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“Nor me. Come on, let’s go.”

They went at the trot.

“Oh dear,” wailed Jim, while trotting. “Oh doom and gloom.”

“Be silent, man. There must be some simple explanation.”

“They were nicked. While we were all at the town hall.”

“Too simple,” said Omally. “Though all too possible.”

“But no one can sneak into the Professor’s. There’s magic all over the place.”

“Perhaps these lads have magic too.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Come on, let’s run faster.”

By the time they reached the Professor’s, Jim was half doubled up with a stitch. “Leave me here to die,” he croaked.

“Let’s go in.” John pushed upon the garden gate.

The garden gate refused to budge.

“But it’s always open. Come on, I’ll give you a leg up over the wall.”

“No way.” Jim shook his head fiercely. “Remember that time we saw a tom cat trying to climb over the wall and he sort of…”

“Ah, yes. Horrible smell of frying. Put me off beefburgers for a week.”

“So do you want me to give you a leg up?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“What shall we do, then?” Jim clutched at his side and did deep breathing.

“Round to the front. But slowly. Take a little peep.”

“I’m right behind you.”

“Come on, then.”

John crept along the garden wall.

Jim put down the empty casket and followed.

John reached the corner and took a little peep around it.

“All clear,” he whispered. “A couple of soldiers over the other side of the square having a fag, but they’re not looking over here.”

“It could be a trap. Perhaps we should come back later.”

“Poltroon,” said Omally. “Let’s knock at the front door. See what happens.”

“OK. I’ll stay here as look-out.”

“Good idea.”

“Why, thanks very much.”

“I was joking. Come on, let’s do it.”

John marched up to the front door and knocked. KNOCK from the outside sounds different from the inside. There’s not quite so much of it. KNOCK went Omally again, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“All right,” called the voice of Gammon. “I’m coming.”

“It’s Gammon,” said John.

“And he’s coming,” said Jim.

Gammon put his eye to the little spy hole. “Are you alone?” he asked.

“I am,” said John. “What about you, Jim?”

“Yes, I am too.”

“All right, come in.” Gammon pulled upon numerous bolts and turned several keys in heavy locks. “Hurry, now. They’re back, Professor,” he called.

“Send them in then.”

Gammon hustled the pair towards the study.

Professor Slocombe sat at his desk, quill pen poised above a sheet of vellum. “I didn’t expect you back,” said he.

“We came at once,” said Omally. “As soon as we could.”

“Very good. And you put the scrolls somewhere very safe?”

Jim Pooley groaned.

“Why are you groaning, Jim?”

“The casket was empty.”

Professor Slocombe laughed. “A most convincing ruse, you will agree.”

“What?”

“An illusion,” said Professor Slocombe. “A little magical camouflage. It obviously had you convinced. Let’s hope it does the same should anyone else take a look in the casket. So where did you put it? In the priest hole?”

John looked at Jim.

Jim looked down at his empty hands. “Aaaaaagh!” went Jim.

The garden gate opened without difficulty from the inside. Jim plunged through it and out into the street. And stared down at the place where he had put the casket.

“Aaaaaagh!” went Jim again.