The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (18 page)

“Sixty-nine’s the number you’re thinking of”

“What a surprise,” said Jim. “But you couldn’t…”

“Predict the numbers on the National Lottery? No.”

“Shame,” said Jim. “But incredible, none the less. Can your brother do this?”

“Abel can do other things.”

“And Abel knows all about computers too?”

“Abel might not choose to help you. I will.”

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Because,” said Cain, “something wonderful is about to happen. I can feel it in the air. Can’t you?”

Jim stared into the eyes of Cain. The golden eyes blinked, became a pair of amber eyes. The amber eyes of Suzy. Those marvellous, wonderful, beautiful eyes, that made Jim ache inside.

“Give me the disc,” said Cain.

And Jim gave Cain the disc.

“Who is he?” Suzy asked, over her bowl of Dilli ka sang ghosht.

“I don’t know.” Jim pushed nan bread into his mouth. “But he can read minds and he said to me exactly what you said to me when we were on the canal bridge.”

“You’re going to see this through now, aren’t you?”

“Well, I have to, don’t I? I’m part of it.”

“You’re a very big part of it. But what changed your mind?”

“Just that. That I am a big part of it. That one of my ancestors murdered the monk. That I found the scrolls. All of it. I can’t walk away. I have to do it. I know that I do. But when it’s done – if it gets done, and I get out of it in one piece I am going to ask you that question.”

“I’ll be waiting for you when you do. And the answer will probably be yes.”

“Probably?”

“You have to ask it first. Do you want to come back to my flat after we’ve finished our meal?”

“For a cup of coffee?”

“Perhaps for more.”

“Perhaps?”

“Probably for more.”

“How could I refuse? But you remember what I told you.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“You matter, Jim.”

“I do?”

“You know you do.”

“Suzy.” Jim wiped crumbs from his chin.

“Yes, Jim?”

Jim took a very deep breath. “I’m in love with you,” he said.

Suzy smiled. That fascinating mouth, those marvellous, wonderful, beautiful eyes. “I love you too,” she said.

“No,” said John. “Oh, no Jim, no Jim, no Jim, no.”

They were in the Swan now.

Lunchtime of the next day.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Jim. “The time seemed right and it just came out. And she said she loved me too. She said, ‘I love you too,’ just like that. I got all knotted up in my throat then, and I knocked a bowl of Punjabi rajma right into her lap.”

“Very romantic.”

“Do you think so? She didn’t seem to think so.”

“And you went back to her flat?”

“We did, yes.”

“And what happened?”

“We had a cup of coffee. Two cups in fact.”

“And?”

“Biscuits,” said Jim.

“And?”

“Just biscuits.”

“Then you didn’t, you know…?”

“No, John, we didn’t.”

“Jim, you have got to pull yourself together. All this soppy stuff is all right in its place. But if you don’t do the business, you’ll lose the woman.”

“Do the business?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“There’s more to a relationship than that.”

“Yes, you’re right, there’s much more. But, in my opinion, doing the business is the best part.”

Jim sighed. “I’m gagging to do the business,” he said. “But the time has to be right. I want everything to be special.”

“Believe me, Jim, whenever you do the business, it’s special.”

“Like it was for you at my PARTY, do you mean?”

Omally finished his pint. “Same again?” he asked.

“So,” said Old Pete, “there’s this, er, this…”

“Irishman?” asked a lady in a straw hat.

“Welshman?” asked Paul the medical student.

“Dwarf?” asked Small Dave.

“Er…” said Old Pete.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said John Omally.

“Bloke,” said Old Pete. “And he goes into this bar, or was it a…”

“Library?” asked the lady.

“Church?” asked Paul.

“Wendy House?” asked Small Dave.

“Some place,” said Old Pete. “And he’s with this other bloke or was it a…”

“Woman?” asked the lady.

“Gorilla?” asked Paul.

“What’s going on?” asked John Omally.

Neville did the business. This was the other business. The business that most men do much more often than the other other business.

“He’s run out,” said Neville.

“Of what?” asked John.

“Jokes,” said Neville. “He’s dried. Look at him.”

“Has this operation,” said Old Pete, “or did he go into a monastery?”

“Perhaps it was a bank,” said the lady.

“An Irishman went into a bank once,” said Paul. “He said, ‘Stick ’em up’ and the bloke behind the counter said, ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you?’ and the bank robber said, ‘How do you know that?’ and the bloke behind the counter said, ‘You’ve sawn the wrong end off your shotgun.’…”

The lady in the straw hat laughed uproariously.

“I don’t get it,” said Old Pete.

“Young Master Robert came in here earlier,” said Neville, presenting John with his pints.

“Oh,” said John. “Did he?”

“He was looking for you. I asked him about the decor.”

“Oh yes?” said John.

“He said they’d be coming in to change it all back tomorrow.”

“Oh good,” said John.

“And I gave him your home address.”

“Oh bliss,” said John. “Are these on the house, by the way?”

“No,” said Neville. “They’re not.”

“Chimpanzee,” said Old Pete. “No, nun, no chimney sweep…”

“I wonder when we’ll hear from the wee boy,” said John, returning to Jim’s pew.

“Cain? That was wrong, you know, letting him go off with the disc.”

“He seemed to know what he was up to. He seemed to know every damn thing.”

“It will all go guggy,” said Jim. “It was all too fast.”

“No it won’t, it will be fine. There was something about him, wasn’t there? Something almost inspirational. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Nor me, but I know what you mean. Very strange.”

“Very strange indeed.”

“The Midwich Cuckoo, you called him.”

“He’s a pretty weird lad.”

“Not that weird,” said Cain.

“Aaaaagh!” went Jim.

“I’ll join you in one of those,” said John. “Aaaaagh!”

“I’m sorry,” said Cain. “Did I startle you?”

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” whispered Jim. “You’re under age.”

“But this is a church, isn’t it?” Cain glanced around.

“No,” said Jim, “it’s not a church. It’s a pub.”

“Den of Vice,” said Cain. “D is for Den of Vice. Also depravity, debauchery, dereliction, dipsomania, delirium tremens…”

“Delight and dominoes,” said John.

“Dominoes?” said Jim.

“Discussion,” said John. “A place of discussion.”

“Drink not only water,” said Cain, “but take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.”

“My sentiments entirely. How did it go with the disc? Did you…”

“All wrong,” said Jim. “This is so wrong.”

“I put it into the computer,” said Cain. “In Penge, which is a very nice place, I might add.”

“You did it?” Jim shook his head. “And nobody saw you do it?”

“I don’t have to be seen if I don’t want to be.”

“Buy the child a lemonade,” said Jim. “And a packet of crisps.”

“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Cain.

“Cup of tea?” asked Clive.

“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Derek.

“That’s hardly a macho drink, Derek.”

“James Bond used to drink Martini. And he was pretty macho.”

“Martini is a tart’s drink.”

“Babycham is a tart’s drink.”

“No, a Bacardi and coke is a tart’s drink.”

“Posh tart’s drink.”

“I’ve never met a posh tart.”

“Is a tart the same as a slapper?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

“It wasn’t an unreasonable question.”

“It wasn’t me going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!’…”

“Who was it then?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

“Fred,” said Derek. “It was Fred.”

Clive and Derek raced along the Corridor of Power. They reached the Chamber of Power. Derek won by a short head. Clive pushed open the mighty door.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Fred again. He was standing behind his desk. The desk was still covered by the dust sheet. Not too much more had been done to the ceiling. Fred held a computer print-out in his hand. It was one of those financial jobbies. A bank statement affair. Fred went “Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” once again.

Now Small Dave was a postman.

A postman, Small Dave was.

At one time he had the reputation for being a vindictive grudge-bearing wee bastard. But after a very nasty experience involving the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe, a zero-gravity camel named Simon and a mothership from the lost planet Ceres, he had mellowed somewhat and was now, for the most part, quite easy-going.

For the most part.

But not this morning.

This morning Small Dave was all in a lather. All in a lather and a regular foam. He’d arrived at the Brentford Sorting Office with the not-unreasonable expectation of finding the usual two sacks of mail awaiting him.

But not this morning.

This morning there were twenty-three sacks.

“Aaaaaagh!” went Small Dave, all in a lather and a regular foam. “Twenty-three sacks! Aaaaagh!”

Mrs Elronhubbard the postmistress looked Small Dave up and down. Though mostly down, due to his lack of inches.

“I’m terribly sorry, Small Dave,” said she. “But all these printed pamphlets arrived last night and one is to go into every single letterbox in Brentford.”

“Outrage!” Small Dave knotted a dolly-sized fist and shook it. “Outrage! Outrage! Outrage!”

“I’m sorry, but there it is.”

Small Dave kicked the nearest sack, spilling out its contents. He stooped (though not very far) and plucked up a pamphlet. And at this he glared, fiercely.

FREE MONEY ran the headline, in a manner calculated to gain the reader’s attention.

“Eh?” went Small Dave.

THE BRENTFORD MILLENNIUM FUND IS OFFERING YOU A CHANCE TO SHARE IN THE BOROUGH’S GOOD FORTUNE.

“Oh,” went Small Dave.

ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS COME UP WITH A PROJECT FOR THE NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATIONS AND THE FUND WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE CASH YOU NEED.

“It’s a wind-up,” said Small Dave.

THIS IS NOT A WIND-UP.

“Blimey,” said Small Dave.

SO FILL IN THE ATTACHED APPLICATION FORM. STICK IT IN THE ATTACHED PRE-PAID ENVELOPE AND POP THAT INTO AN UNATTACHED POST BOX. AND LOTS OF MONEY WILL BE YOURS!

“Incredible,” said Small Dave.

YES, ISN’T IT!

“Paragliding,” said Mrs Elronhubbard.

“What?” went Small Dave.

“Synchronized paragliding, like synchronized swimming only up in the sky. I’m going to put in for a grant.”

“But you’re nearly eighty.”

“You’re only as old as the men you feel.”

Small Dave sighed. “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,” said he. “But of course there’s a law against that kind of thing.”

“Quite,” said Mrs Elronhubbard. “And there should be another about recycling old gags. So, Small Dave, up and at it.”

“I am up.”

“Oh, so you are. Well then, get at it.”

Small Dave made grumbling noises. “It’s no bloody use,” he complained. “It takes me nearly a day to deliver two sacks. It would take me a month to deliver this lot.”

“Then God bless the Brentford Millennium Committee.”

“What?”

“They’ve supplied you with ten part-time workers, who are out in the car park even now, awaiting your orders.”

“My orders?”

“Yours. You have been awarded the title Millennial Postman First Class and your salary’s been doubled.”

“Oh.” Small Dave puffed out his pigeon chest. “Right then, let’s get to it.”

“Well,” said Professor Slocombe, reading through the pamphlet. “When you get to it, John, you certainly get to it.”

“Thank you.” John Omally buttered toast and grinned across the ancient’s breakfast table. “I think it should provoke a positive response.”

“Guggy.” Jim dipped a bread soldier into his boiled egg. “It will all turn guggy, like this yolk.”

“Why so?” asked the Professor.

“Because every conman and nutcase in the borough will apply.”

“That is the general idea.”

“But they’ll only be doing it to grab the cash. There won’t actually be any projects.”

“He might have a point there, John.”

“No, Professor.” John Omally shook his head. “I know who’s who in Brentford. Trust me to weed out the wide boys and the moondancers.”

“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said Jim.

“I resent that.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Let’s look on the bright side, shall we?”

“Jim, I think at long last we’re actually on the bright side.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. So would now be a good time to raise the matter of our salaries?”

“Now would be a good time to raise our salaries.”

“Jolly good.”

Fred’s voice rose. It rose and rose. It rattled the crystals of the new chandelier, it made the window panes vibrate, it caused the nose to drop off a toby jug on the mantelpiece, and if chaos theory is to be believed it buggered up the sprout crop in Upper Sumatra.

“Bring me their heads!” screamed Fred. “Bring me their frigging heads.”

Clive had his hands firmly clasped over his ears. But his nose was beginning to bleed. “I really don’t think that heads are the solution,” he shouted.

“I do,” shouted Derek. “I think we should cull the entire population of Brentford.”

Fred’s hands were all of a quiver. They clutched in their fingers one of Omally’s pamphlets. They ripped this pamphlet into tiny little pieces and flung these pieces into the air. “I want this sabotaged!” screamed Fred in an even higher register. “And I want my money back.”

But he didn’t get it.

Early the next morning John and Jim sat in the Brentford Sorting Office viewing the twenty-three sacks of application forms which had all arrived by return of post.

“I think we can chalk this up as a one hundred per cent positive response,” said John. “Shall we dig in?”

“Is this what we’re being paid for?” Jim asked.

“Of course. Whatever did you think?”

“Well, it was always my opinion that company directors spent their days swanning about in limousines, eating at expensive restaurants, smoking large cigars and taking the afternoons off with their secretaries.”

“Ah.” John made thoughtful noddings. “I take your point. You feel that a task such as this should be left to underlings.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m getting above myself. But I do have pressing business of my own that I should be attending to.”

“Millennial business?”

“Precisely.”

“And what business would this be?”

“The building of the Jim Pooley.”

“Ah. But don’t I recall you saying that there isn’t enough time left for anything like that?”

“Aha.” Jim tapped his nose.

“You tapped your nose, Jim,” said John. “This is a new development.”

Jim tapped it again. “I have decided to enlist the services of our two local builders, Hairy Dave and Jungle John. They are going to construct the Jim Pooley in the traditional style of a rude hut. A couple of weeks and it will be up.”

“One light breeze and it will be down again.”

“I shall oversee the building work myself.”

“Neville isn’t going to like it.”

“I don’t think I’ll mention it to Neville.”

Omally shrugged. “Well, please yourself, Jim. If you think this bit of self-indulgence is more important than helping the Professor.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s my personal contribution to the celebrations.”

“You are, as ever, altruism personified. But regrettably, as I am the managing director of the Brentford Millennium Committee, and so one up the chain of command from your good self, I hereby inform you that you can’t have the time off.”

“What?”

“And you’d be wasting it anyway. Hairy Dave and Jungle John are already at work on Omally’s. Arse-ends and everything.”

AND EVERYTHING

Now there is much that might have been written of what occurred during the months that led up to December. Of the many and various projects which were put into operation and the many and various plain folk of Brentford who absconded with large quantities of cash and now live on an island in the Caribbean. Of Fred’s doomed attempts to recover his money, of more hair-raising life and death struggles, of how the Flying Swan was restored to its former glory, and then converted once more to the Road to Calvary and then restored yet again, converted yet again, restored yet again and so on and so forth.

And some tender passages might have been included regarding Jim’s relationship with Suzy and how the old business was finally conducted. And how the old business was not the old business at all when it came to Jim and Suzy. But how it was making love.

And of just how special making love can be.

But time does not allow. And so let us move forward to Monday, December the twenty-ninth 1997. To early evening, a new moon rising in the sky, a considerable nip in the air and words being spoken in the Flying Swan.

No, excuse me, the Road to Calvary.