The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

by Robert Rankin

‘I can’t see them.’

  ‘You can feel them, though.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Jim groped in the casket. Drew out the invisible scrolls, which reappeared as he did so. ‘Clever,’ said Jim. ‘Very clever.’

  ‘Run,’ said John.

  ‘I’m way ahead of you.’

  ‘Up that way.’

  ‘I can see them. I’ve got the glasses on now.’ Derek had a great big gun on his lap. He began to push great big shells into the breech. ‘Nine-gauge auto-loader,’ he said.

  ‘Phase plasma rifle in a forty-watt range?’

  ‘Only what you see on the shelves, buddy.’

  ‘God, I love those movies.’

  ‘They’re running that way. After them!’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘Are we going to make for the canal again?’ Pooley puffed.

  ‘No, you can only pull off a trick like that just the once. Down here.’ Omally ducked into an alleyway.

  Jim joined him, huffing now, as well as puffing. ‘Well, they can’t drive down here.’

  ‘You can’t drive down there,’ shouted Derek. ‘Stop the car, we’ll chase them on foot.’

  ‘In the movies they turn the car on its side to go down alleyways.’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Derek. ‘They do, don’t they?’

  ‘Aaaaaagh!’ went Jim, as the limo swerved onto its side and shot along the alley, making glorious showers of sparks.

  ‘Run faster.’

  ‘I’m running. I’m running.’

  ‘You know,’ said Clive, as he clung to the wheel, ‘I much prefer this kind of job to all that farting around in the Corridors of Power.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Derek fed another shell into his gun. ‘This definitely has the edge on accountancy.’

  ‘We’re coming to the end of the alleyway now. When I bump the limo back down onto its wheels, what say you lean out of the window and let off a few rounds?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  John and Jim ran out into Moby Dick Terrace.

  ‘John,’ Jim huffed and puffed and gruffed, ‘pardon me for asking a really stupid question, but why didn’t we just run back into Dr Malone’s house, where we would have been surrounded by policemen?’

  John said nothing and the two ran on.

  The limo smashed down into the terrace and Derek bashed out a back window with his gun butt.

  ‘You only had to press the button, Derek.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s much more exciting this way.’

  Now, you’d have thought that there would have been someone around. Someone, or lots of someones, what with the army cordoning off streets and setting up border posts and everything. But there wasn’t, because the army had, as usual, ballsed it all up. They had cordoned off a road here and there, and set up a border post here and there, but the plucky Brentfordians, rather than engage in another riot, had simply decided to ignore them. They had taken to skirting the roadblocks by going down alleyways, or through people’s houses and out of their back gates. And as few folk in the borough actually drove motor cars, there weren’t any traffic build-ups either.

  So that explains that, really.

  They were not making particularly good progress up Moby Dick Terrace. Dustin Hoffman may have done all that stuff in Marathon Man, but this is John and Jim here. The limo soon caught up and cruised in pace with the pavement runners. Derek stuck his head out of the shattered window. And he stuck his gun out also.

  ‘Do you want to stop?’ he called to Jim. ‘Or should I just shoot your face off?’

  Jim clutched the scrolls to his bosom. ‘All right. All right,’ he gasped. ‘I give up, don’t shoot.’

  ‘You too, asshole.’

  ‘Me too,’ said John.

  ‘Okay, now get into the car.’

  Derek moved across the back seat as John and Jim climbed in beside him. ‘Close the door,’ said Derek.

  John closed the door.

  Clive struck a match on the dead chauffeur’s head and lit up a Zigger cigar. ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  ‘Round to Fred’s,’ said Derek. ‘And burn a bit of rubber on the way.’

  19

  From a bedroom window in Moby Dick Terrace, Dr Steven Malone watched as the black limousine roared off in a cloud of smoking rubber. ‘And bloody good riddance to them,’ he said.

  He had left very little to chance. He had known of the secret tunnel when he bought Kether House and he had later bought this one, where the tunnel emerged in the back garden shed. The occupants of this house, an old couple with no living heirs, hadn’t wanted to sell. Their death certificates said natural causes. Dr Steven had signed them himself.

  The mad and monochrome medic turned away from the window and smiled at the two little babies on the bed.

  ‘All right, my boys?’ he said.

  ‘All right, dada,’ said the golden one.

  The dark one simply growled.

  ‘All right, boys,’ said Fred. ‘Wheel ‘em in.’

  Derek and Clive pushed John and Jim from the Corridor of Power into the Chamber of the same persuasion.

  ‘Superb,’ said Fred, eyeing up the arrivals. ‘And do I spy the Brentford Scrolls?’

  ‘You certainly do,’ said Derek.

  ‘And do I spy a nine-gauge auto-loader?’

  ‘You certainly do, sir, yes.’

  ‘And you walked through this building, carrying that?’

  ‘Er,’ said Derek.

  ‘Dork,’ said Fred. ‘But very well done all the same.’

  ‘I picked up this machete on the way,’ said Clive, brandishing same. ‘Do you want Derek to chop their frigging heads off now?’

  ‘Ooh, yes please,’ said Derek.

  ‘All in good time. What exactly is that prat doing?’

  ‘He’s flapping his hands and spinning round in small circles, sir.’

  ‘Well, make him stop.’

  Derek clouted Pooley in the ear.

  Jim ceased his foolish gyrations, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. John clenched his fists, but there was nothing he could do.

  Fred’s feet were up on the fender. ‘Drag him over here. And pick up those scrolls. Valuable items, they are. We wouldn’t want any harm to come to them, would we?’

  ‘Wouldn’t we, sir?’

  ‘Of course we would. I was being ironic.’

  Derek picked up the scrolls and handed them to Fred.

  ‘Right,’ said Fred. ‘So, here we are then. The Brentford Scrolls.’ He held them up and gave them a good looking over. ‘Pretty fancy, aren’t they? Good quality parchment. I suppose I should savour this moment, but I don’t think I’ll bother. I’ll just toss them on the fire.’

  ‘No.’ John took a step forward.

  Derek barred his way.

  ‘What are you no-ing about?’ Fred asked.

  ‘Don’t burn them. You can’t.’

  ‘That’s a rather foolish remark to make, isn’t it?’

  ‘All right. So you can. But why do you want to burn them? And who are you anyway?’

  ‘He’s your worst nightmare,’ said Clive.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said John. ‘After what I’ve seen during the last few days he doesn’t even come close.’

  ‘But he is,’ Clive insisted. ‘He’s a jumped-up little nobody who’s clawed his way to the top of the tree and––’

  ‘Clive,’ said Fred.

  ‘Fred?’ said Clive.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘If you’re going to burn the scrolls and kill us both,’ said John, ‘you could at least have the decency to tell us why.’

  ‘I could,’ said Fred, ‘but I won’t. I know there is a long and acknowledged literary and cinematic tradition for the villain to make the great explanatory speech to the heroes before he kills them. And then at the last minute, when all seems lost for the heroes, the clever unexpected twist comes and––’

  ‘If you burn the scrolls and kill us,’ said John, ‘you’ll never learn about The Great Secret.’r />
  Fred shook his head. ‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘But it’s all such a cliché, isn’t it?’

  ‘Look out behind you!’ shouted Jim. ‘Zulus, thousands of them.’

  Nobody moved. Nobody even batted an eyelid (or bowled a maiden over).

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jim. ‘Just thought I’d give it a try.’

  ‘All right,’ said Fred. ‘So, Brentford Scrolls into the fire and two heads onto the floor. And here we jolly well go.’

  Fred took the scrolls in both hands and moved to toss them onto the roaring fire.

  John turned his face away.

  Jim closed his eyes.

  ‘Eh?’ said Fred. ‘What’s all this?’

  John turned back his face and Jim reopened his eyes.

  Fred was struggling with the scrolls. He appeared to be doing something similar to that act mime artists do with a balloon, where it’s in the air and they pretend it’s immovable and struggle to shift it.

  As Clive had both hands free he took to clapping. ‘Very good,’ he cried. ‘Very good indeed.’

  Fred fought to force the scrolls into the fire. But they wouldn’t be shifted. He let them go, but instead of falling to the floor they simply hovered.

  Fred made a most unpleasant growling sound deep down in his throat and grabbed the scrolls once more. But they wouldn’t be shifted, not a smidgen, not a titchy bit, not a lone iota.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Clive, going clap-clap-clap. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘Stop that bloody clapping, you pranny, give us a hand with these.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clive. ‘Oh, all right then.’

  And Clive took to struggling and forcing and straining and then things got tricky for Clive. The scrolls took a sudden lurch upwards, dragging Clive from his feet.

  ‘What’s happening, John?’ whispered Jim.

  ‘The Professor,’ whispered John. ‘Remember he said some words over the scrolls before we left Malone’s. It would be that spell of return he told us about.’

  ‘Get me down,’ wailed Clive, from somewhere near the high ceiling.

  ‘Shoot the bloody things out of the sky!’ shouted Fred.

  ‘But I might hit Clive, sir.’

  ‘As if I give a toss!’

  ‘Righty-ho, sir.’ Derek angled up his gun and let off several rounds in a manner which could only be described as indiscriminate.

  And down came lots of nicely stuccoed ceiling. Very noisily and heavily. John and Jim leapt aside as lath and plaster crashed about them.

  ‘Give me that gun, you bloody fool.’ Fred snatched the auto-loader from Derek and let off several rounds of his own. Down came much more ceiling and a chandelier.

  ‘Aaaaagh!’ went Derek, as the chandelier came down on him.

  ‘Aaaaagh!’ went Fred as Clive came down on him.

  Lath and plaster, dust and mayhem. Lots of very bad language.

  Fred struggled up, hurling Clive aside and fanning dust and rubble about him. The scrolls now took to zig-zagging backwards and forwards across the ceiling and Fred took to running beneath them, firing and firing again.

  Clouds of dust and gunsmoke choked the air, obscuring vision. Flashes of gunfire tore like lightning, thunder followed with smashings and crashings as sections of ceiling hurtled down, flattening furniture, shattering showcases, pulverizing porcelain. With the screams and cries and coughings and croakings and very, very bad language, it all contrived to create a fair facsimile of that evil abode where Fred’s employer dwelt.

  And then, with a final effing and blasting, Fred ran out of shells. And there followed a very tense silence indeed.

  White with dust and terror to an equal degree, Clive and Derek held their breath as the air slowly cleared to reveal the extent of the devastation. Somehow the Chamber of Power didn’t look quite so powerful any more. Rather woebegone, in fact. A battle zone, an indoor wasteland.

  Fred stood upon what once had been his desk, bloody about the cap regions and very wild of eye. Most of the windows had been shot out and in the distance could be heard that distinctive on-cue sound of approaching police car sirens. Fred turned his damaged head from one side to the other.

  The Brentford Scrolls were gone. And so, too, John and Jim.

  Having endured several hours of mind-numbing horror at the house of Dr Steven Malone, Professor Slocombe now leaned back in his chair and allowed himself the luxury of considerable mirth.

  Before him, on his desk, lay the Brentford Scrolls, pristine and undamaged. Framed in the French windows stood two individuals who looked anything but.

  ‘Would you mind ringing your little brass bell?’ Jim asked.

  Professor Slocombe rang his little brass bell. ‘Come on in,’ he said, stifling another chuckle. ‘Sit yourselves down and relax.’

  The two men slumped into fireside chairs. And then they gazed into the fire, shook their heads and reseated themselves elsewhere. They did not, however, relax.

  ‘And where exactly have you been?’ asked the Professor.

  ‘Penge,’ said Jim.

  ‘Penge?’ Professor Slocombe tugged upon an earlobe. ‘I understand that it’s a very nice place, although I’ve never been there myself.’

  ‘Delightful,’ said Jim. ‘Especially the offices of the Millennium Committee.’

  ‘Ah.’ Professor Slocombe nodded. ‘Of course. It all falls rather neatly into place.’

  ‘The ceiling didn’t,’ said Jim, rubbing at a dent in his forehead.

  ‘Then I assume you met Fred.’

  ‘We did.’ Omally picked dust from eyebrows. ‘And Fred is not a very nice man at all.’

  ‘Fred is your worst nightmare.’

  ‘He’s rapidly rising up the chart, yes.’

  Gammon entered without knocking.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ said Jim.

  On Gammon’s tray stood three pints of Large. Gammon offered them around.

  ‘Just the job, Gammon,’ said Jim, accepting his eagerly.

  ‘Cheers,’ said John, raising his glass.

  Gammon placed the last pint before the Professor and stood quietly by.

  Jim took a large swallow and said, ‘My oh my.’

  ‘Oh my,’ said John, peering into his glass. ‘This is splendid stuff.’

  Professor Slocombe took a sip or two. ‘I am no connoisseur of ale,’ he said, ‘but I believe this to be of superior quality.’

  ‘And then some.’ Jim did further swallowings. ‘I’m sure this is how beer is supposed to taste, not that the ale in the Swan is much less than perfect.’

  ‘Where did you get this?’ John asked. ‘Did you brew it yourself?’

  ‘On the contrary. It was a gift from Normal Hartnell. He had a bit of a breakthrough this afternoon with his latest experiments and dropped a barrel round to get my opinion.’

  ‘All hail to the scientific shopkeeper.’ Jim raised his now empty glass in salute. ‘A whole barrel, did you say?’

  Professor Slocombe smiled. ‘Gammon,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Best roll in the barrel.’

  ‘So go on.’John Omally topped up his glass from the barrel that now stood upon the Professor’s desk. ‘Tell us what you know about this Fred. The last we saw of him, he and his cohorts were being dragged in handcuffs into a police car. Fred looked far from jovial.’

  ‘Well, I doubt whether he will remain in custody for very long. Fred has many friends in high places. And also in low places.’

  ‘Now that would be what is known as a sinister emphasis,’ said John.

  ‘About as sinister as it is possible to get. Fred is indeed your worst nightmare. Fred is in league with the Devil.’

  Pooley groaned.

  ‘Well, what else would you have expected?’

  ‘Not a lot, I suppose. So what do you propose to do about him?’

  ‘Me? Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t look at us.’

  ‘No, no.’ Professor Slocombe sipped further ale and nodded approvingly a
t his glass. ‘I have not been idle since last I saw you. I have made several calls to certain prominent persons of impeccable character, authorities in their particular fields. A meeting will convene here tomorrow at ten, for the authentication of the scrolls. Carefully chosen representatives of the media have also been invited. Once the scrolls are confirmed as authentic, the world’s press will be informed. Fred may squirm and plot as much as he likes after that, but he will not be able to stop the celebrations and ceremonies taking place on the final day of this year. Now it is absolutely necessary that no word of this meeting leak out. This is all strictly Above Top Secret.’

  ‘You can trust us,’ said Jim, raising two fingers, boy scout fashion.

  ‘Of that I have no doubt at all. But I hope you will pardon me if I ask you not to leave this house tonight. Please stay here, wine and dine, finish the barrel of Large, taste brandy, smoke cigars. But do not take one footstep out of the door until everything is tied up tomorrow at ten. How does all that sound to you?’

  ‘Sounds pretty good to me,’ said Jim. ‘Much obliged.’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much.’ John raised his glass. ‘But then look at it this way, Professor. After all we’ve been through today, what else could possibly happen?’

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

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Jim.

  And ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went John.

  And, ‘sorry, went professor Slocombe, wiggling his mystical fingers. ‘I just couldn’t resist it.’

  20

  At a little after ten of the morning clock, nearly fifty people stood, sat or generally lounged about in Professor Slocombe’s study Gammon moved amongst them, dispensing drinks and those Ferrero Rocher wrapped-up chocolate things that are dead posh.

  There were Professors a-plenty here. Professors of linguistics, Professors of theology, Professors of history, Professors of this thing, that thing and the other. Learned men were these, who held seats. Seats of this thing, that thing and the other. Media men were much in evidence, Scoop Molloy holding court amongst them. And the Mayor of Brentford had been invited too. He was accompanied by several members of his gang, dubious Latino types with names such as Emilio and Pedro, who favoured sleeveless denim jackets, brightly coloured headbands and impressive tattooing.