The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

by Robert Rankin

  ‘We did them at school. Something to do with Pope Gregory changing the calendar from the Julian to the Gregorian which meant cutting eleven days out of the year and this batty monk from Brentford going on a pilgrimage to Rome to demand God’s Days back.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, didn’t the Pope get so fed up with him going on and on about it that he said the people of Brentford could have two extra days a year if they wanted them?’

  ‘That was it, and gave him a special decree authorizing it.’

  ‘The Brentford Scrolls.’

  ‘Those very lads.’

  ‘But the monk was murdered when he got back home, so Brentford never got the extra days that it didn’t want anyway and everyone lived happily ever after.’

  ‘Well done, Jim. In a few short sentences you have reduced the most significant event in Brentford’s history to a load of old cabbage.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see the significance of this significant event. Especially how it will make us rich.’

  ‘Then allow me to explain. The Pope told the monk that Brentford could have two extra days a year, the Days of God, in perpetuity. But the option was never taken up. Now all this happened in 1582 and it’s now 1997, four hundred and fifteen years later, which means...?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest,’ said Jim. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means that by the end of this year Brentford has eight hundred and thirty days owing to it. That’s over two years, Jim.’

  ‘Do pardon me for missing the point here, John. But so what?’

  ‘Jim, what is going to happen on December the thirty-first 1999?’

  ‘A very big party.’

  ‘Correct. The millennial celebrations. The biggest, most expensive, most heavily funded bash in history.’

  ‘So?’

  Omally threw up his hands. ‘So the people of Brentford are actually entitled to celebrate the millennium two years earlier than the rest of the world, by special decree of Pope Gregory. He reorientated the calendar and what he decreed goes.’

  Jim opened his mouth to say ‘So?’ once more, but he said ‘Come again?’ instead.

  ‘You’re catching on, aren’t you, Jim? The Millennium Fund. Millions and millions of pounds, set aside for all kinds of projects and schemes. And the people of Brentford are actually entitled to grab it two years before anybody else.’

  ‘You have got to be jesting.’

  ‘All the details are in this book of yours. All we have to do is to quietly check whether the Pope’s decree was ever revoked, which I’m certain it never was. And then we put in our absolutely genuine and pukka claim for millions.’

  ‘The Millennium Fund blokes will never swallow it.’

  ‘They’ll have no choice, Jim.’ Omally pulled a crumpled piece of foolscap from his pocket. ‘Now I’ve drawn up a bit of an itinerary here. Obviously as co-directors of the Brentford Millennium Committee we will require salaries suitable to our status. How does this figure seem to you?’

  Pooley perused the figure. ‘Stingy,’ said he. ‘Stick another nought on the end.’

  ‘I’ll stick on two, to be on the safe side. So, we’ll want a big parade and a beauty contest.’

  ‘Belles of Brentford,’ said Jim.

  ‘Belles of Brentford. I like that.’ Omally made a note.

  ‘And a beer festival,’ said Jim.

  ‘Let’s have two,’ said John, ‘again to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Let’s have two beauty contests. Three, in fact. We’d be on the panel of judges, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally. And I thought we should build something.’

  ‘How about a new library?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the old one?’

  ‘The heating’s pretty poor in the winter.’

  ‘Right. Tear down the library, build a new one,’ said Omally, making a tick. ‘That’s the John Omally Millennial Library taken care of.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Well, it will have to have a new name, won’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so, but if you’re having a library named after you I want something too.’

  ‘Have whatever you like, my friend.’

  Pooley thought. ‘I’ll have The Jim Pooley,’ said he.

  ‘The Jim Pooley what?’

  ‘No, just The Jim Pooley. It’s a public house.’

  ‘Nice one. I’ll join you there for a pint. Do you think we should tear all the flatblocks down and build some nice mock-Georgian terraces, or should we––’

  ‘John?’ asked Jim.

  ‘Jim?’ asked John.

  ‘John, about these Brentford Scrolls. The papal decree that papally decrees all this. Where exactly are the scrolls now?’

  ‘Ah,’ said John.

  ‘And what exactly does “Ah” mean?’

  ‘ “Ah” means that when the monk got murdered, the scrolls disappeared. No one has actually seen them in over four hundred years.’

  Jim Pooley swung his fist once more at John Omally.

  And this time he didn’t miss.

  7

  ‘Twenty of us in a ditch with just a bit of torn tarpaulin to keep the weather out.’ Old Pete slumped back in his chair, then, gaining strength from the reaction of his audience, after-office types who had popped into the Swan for a swift half, he gestured meaningfully with the spittle end of his pipe. ‘That’s what I call hard times. None of this namby-pamby stuff about pyjamas and nightlights.’

  Old Pete had certainly known hard times. For after all, hadn’t he grubbed in the fields for roots to feed his four younger brothers? And didn’t he once live for three months inside a barrel, until his beard was long enough to hide the shame that he could afford no shirt to be married in? And when his uncle died in a freak indecent exposure/hedge strimmer accident, hadn’t it been Old Pete who gathered up the pieces and dug the grave himself?

  Old Pete had seen real poverty. His tales of one jam sandwich between six and four to a cup never failed to bring a tear to the eye of the listener and a free drink or two to himself.

  ‘How come’, asked Omally, who had heard it all before, ‘that out of the twenty of you down the ditch, not one had the nous to earn the price of a dosshouse bed for the night?’

  ‘There is always some cynical blighter’, said Old Pete, ‘prepared to spoil a good tale well told.’

  Omally led Jim up to the bar.

  ‘Good evening, Neville,’ he said. ‘Two pints of Large, please, and an unshared jam sandwich for Jim, who has missed his tea.’

  Jim made a scowling face as Neville went about his business.

  ‘So,’ said the part-time barman, presenting his patrons with pints. ‘Allow me to hazard a guess. My first thought was Caught in a cattle stampede, but this I feel is unlikely. So I am going to plump for Taking a course of training with the SAS.’

  ‘Whatever are you on about?’ Jim asked.

  ‘You two,’ said Neville, ‘standing here utterly dishevelled, hair all over the place, cuts and bruises, bits of bramble hanging off your suits and a black eye apiece.’

  ‘I’d rather we didn’t discuss it,’ said Jim.

  ‘Quite so. Then tell me, John, have you come up with any sensational disclosures in Jim’s book yet?’

  Omally opened his mouth to speak.

  Jim said, ‘No he hasn’t.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Neville. ‘I had hoped that it might bring a few pennies more across the bar. The goddess knows, times are as ever against the poor publican.’

  ‘The sufferings of the poor publican are well known,’ said John. ‘You are an example to us all, Neville.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Neville and went on his way to polish glasses.

  ‘Let’s go and sit over there,’ said John, indicating a discreet corner. Jim followed him across, placed his ale and jammy sandwich on the table and sat down.

  ‘I’m drinking this and eating this and then I’m going home to bed,’ said Jim. ‘This is one day I do not wish to
prolong any further.’

  ‘Come on, Jim. You can’t quit the game when there’s so much to play for.’

  ‘There are no cards on the table to play with, John. The scrolls have probably gone to dust a hundred years ago. The whole idea is absurd. Why don’t you just admit it?’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. Look upon this as a holy quest. Like Raiders of the Lost Ark.’

  ‘Although it has been remarked that I do bear a striking resemblance to Harrison Ford, I have no wish to waste my time on any such foolish venture. Now allow me to eat and drink and go my way.’

  ‘You have a wicked sense of humour, Mr Pooley. So how do you feel we should best go about this? Hire a couple of metal detectors, bring in a dowser––’

  ‘No.’ Jim shook his head, wiped breadcrumbs from his chin, finished his ale and rose to his feet. ‘I am not interested, John. I want nothing to do with it. I am going home. Goodnight.’ And he turned away and left the Flying Swan.

  ‘Then I woke up’, Old Pete was heard to say, ‘and my big toe was missing. There was just this little note stuck into the stump which said, “This little piggy has gone to market”.’

  John Omally had another pint, then he too left the Flying Swan. Whatever was the matter with that Jim Pooley? he wondered as he wandered aimlessly down the Brentford streets. Had he lost all his spirit? Or was he simply getting on in years?

  Omally came to a sudden halt. Why had that thought entered his head? Getting on in years? He and Jim were the same age. And they were only…Omally stroked his chin. It was hardly only any more, was it? It was, well, as much as.

  Omally paused and, finding himself beside Pooley’s favourite library bench, sat down upon it. He and Jim had certainly enjoyed an adventure or two in the past. They’d got drawn into some really terrible stuff, but they’d always come out of it with their heads held high, even if their pockets remained empty. This Brentford Scrolls business was right up their street. An adventure if ever there was one. Tracking down the valuable artefacts, no doubt pursued by some evil maniac bent upon snatching them for himself. Life and death struggles, thrills, risks...

  Omally gave his chin another scratch. Perhaps Jim was right. Perhaps the whole thing was stupid. The scrolls were probably lost for ever anyway. And even if they were to be found, would the Millennium Committee really hand over the dosh to a pair of Brentford louts who had come across a bit of old parchment?

  ‘I am not a lout,’ said Omally, startling a solitary cyclist.

  ‘And I am not a transvestite,’ the other called back. ‘So I like to cross-dress once in a while, but who doesn’t, eh?’

  Omally let that pass. And then he looked down at his wrist to the place where, had he worn a watch, he would have worn it. ‘Half past eight,’ said John Omally. ‘So, what shall I do? Knock up old Jim and try to change his mind? Take a walk over to Professor Slocombe and ask him what he knows about the Brentford Scrolls? Go back to the Swan for another pint? Go home to bed?’

  A wry smile appeared upon the face of John Omally. He might perhaps go to someone else’s home and go to bed. And half past eight just happened to be the time when Jack Bryant began his night shift. And Old Pete, that observer of the incubus, was ensconced in the Swan.

  Omally rose from the bench, stretched, tucked in his shirt, ran his fingers through his curly hair and set off to the bus stop with a whistle.

  Jim Pooley’s kettle didn’t whistle. It was an electric one and those lads never whistle, they just sort of switch themselves off. Well, most of them do. Jim’s didn’t, because it was Jim’s and it was electric and Jim and electric appliances didn’t get on. And even if Jim’s kettle had been meant to whistle, it wouldn’t have been able to now, because it was full of baked beans. Jim lifted the lid and peered in at the bubbling brew. ‘Nearly done,’ said he. The slice of bread that was destined to become toast rested perilously upon the protective grill of the two-bar electric fire. Both bars were on, because the switch that isolated one of them just happened to be broken. Jim turned the bread over, scorching his fingers as he did so.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Jim, the way that people do.

  But Jim had a whistle left in him. All right it had been a pretty bum day, but there was always tomorrow. It was beans on toast for now and then an early night. Perhaps he might even be able to break the dreaded cycle of up-and-out-the-bookies-then-the-pub-the-pub-then-the-bench-the-bench-then-home-for-tea––

  Well, he might.

  ‘I shall start anew tomorrow,’ said Jim. ‘I might even go down to the Job Centre and see what’s doing.’ He froze and glanced around. And then he shook his head. ‘No one heard me say that, did they? No,’ he concluded. ‘Now, let’s get stuck into these beans.’

  Knock, knock, knock, came a knocking at Pooley’s front door.

  Knock, knock, knock, went John Omally at Mrs Bryant’s kitchen door. The light flicked on and through the frosted glass John could see the lady of the house approaching. That silhouette, back-lit by the reproduction coach lamps on the kitchen wall, never failed to stir something in John Omally.

  ‘Who is it?’ called Mrs Bryant.

  ‘The man of your dreams,’ whispered John.

  ‘Jim, I told you only to come on Thursday nights.’

  Jim? Omally’s jaw dropped open. Thursdays? Didn’t Pooley always leave the Swan early on a Thursday night with talk about some gardening programme he had to watch on TV? But, Pooley? Surely not.

  ‘It’s John,’ called John.

  ‘Oh, John. Oh, ha, ha, ha.’ (the sound of hollow laughter). ‘Just my little joke. Come in.’ Mrs Bryant opened the door and Omally grinned in at her.

  ‘Your husband’s not about, is he?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t come home this evening. I’m getting rather worried.’

  ‘Should I go away and come back another night?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Mrs Bryant took John by the jacket lapels and hauled him into the kitchen.

  Knock, knock, knock, knock, went the knocking again at Pooley’s front door. Jim dithered about, trying to hook his toast off the bar fire and pull the plug from the kettle at the same time. ‘Hold on,’ he called. ‘I’m coming.’

  Knock, knock, KNOCK.

  Pooley tossed the toast from hand to hand, blowing onto each in turn and performing a rather foolish dance as he did so.

  Knock, knock, KNOCK!

  ‘Oh, stuff it.’ Pooley flung the toast over his shoulder and stalked along the passage to the front door. Dragging it open he shouted, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I know what you want,’ purred Mrs Bryant, blowing into John Omally’s ear.

  And of course she did. But John paused for a moment, taking stock. Certainly he wanted sex. But then he always wanted sex. Most men want sex most of the time. Most men would drop whatever they happened to be doing at a moment’s notice in the cause of sex. But did he, John Omally, really want this? Sneaking into a married woman’s house for a cheap thrill? It was pretty tacky stuff when you came right down to it. Not that he felt any guilt about Jack Bryant. Jack was an amiable buffoon. But then, what did this make him? A lout?

  ‘I am not a lout,’ said John Omally.

  ‘I never said you were. Shall I get out the ice cubes?’

  ‘Oh yes please,’ said John. ‘And––’

  WHACK! went Pooley’s front door as it burst open and whacked against the passage wall.

  ‘Hey, hang about,’ went Jim, as hands were laid upon him. ‘Stop this,’ he continued, as the hands thrust him back along the passage.

  And WHACK! went the front door one more time as other hands slammed it shut.

  Mrs Bryant left the fridge door open.

  Although this may sound incredible to the reader, there are still some folk left in the world who do not recognize the fridge for the sexual treasure house it is. You may scoff, but it’s true. These tragic, unenlightened beings open up their fridges and see food. Food and drink and nothing more.

  Certainly they may have a comprehen
sive range of marital aids stored away in the bedside cupboard, for after all, who doesn’t? But when it comes to the fridge, they just see food and drink.

  The connoisseur of kitchen copulation, however, sees the contents of the fridge in all its naked splendour.

  The erotic possibilities of the fruit and vegetable section are of course well known. Who in their right mind could fail to be moved to arousal by sight of all those corn cobs and parsnips, bananas and cucumbers? But the connoisseur disdains the obvious and passes on to savour the exquisite pleasures of the half-squeezed lemon and the fiendish red-hot chilli pepper, here a pinch and there a dab. Moving upwards, he views the shelf of lubricants and creams and lotions: the butter and the margarine, the tub of lard, the mayonnaise, the extra virgin olive oil, the salad dressings and the HP Sauce.

  And then to the preserves. Did you know that if you take ten small pickled onions and thread them onto a string, you can gently push them...

  ‘Don’t push me about,’ cried Jim. What’s going on here? Let me go.’

  ‘Mr Pooley? Mr James Arbuthnot Pooley?’ A large hand held Jim firmly by the throat and pushed his head against the passage wall.

  Pooley glared into the face of his tormentor. It was an impressive face. A face that had seen a bit of service. A face with a flattened nose and a beetling brow, its mouth bound by tightly corded muscle, its chin unshaven. It was a face that said, ‘Don’t mess about with me,’ without actually having to speak.

  ‘Who are you?’ Pooley asked. ‘And what do you want?’

  ‘Police,’ said the mouth on the impressive face.

  Jim viewed the head and body that went with it. Equally impressive. Big and burly. Two more such big and burly men lurked in Jim’s passage.

  ‘Police?’ said Jim in a timorous tone. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘We have come to search the premises.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jim. ‘Ah. I don’t suppose you have a warrant.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we do.’