The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

by Robert Rankin

  And most of the town council were there, and Celia Penn was there, and a lady in a straw hat who had been passing by was there. She was there with her friend called Doris, who had also been passing by. They were chatting with a couple of cabinet ministers, one of whom used to play the blues with John Coltrane. And of course Pooley and Omally were there, and so too was Norman Hartnell.

  Fred was not there and neither were Derek and Clive.

  Professor Slocombe called the meeting to order, made a brief speech regarding the history of the scrolls and the Days of God, and then invited each Professor in turn to view the documents and make their informed pronouncements regarding authenticity.

  One after another these scholarly fellows leaned low over the Brentford Scrolls, cocked their heads from one side to the other, smacked their lips and tickled their noses. Then they withdrew into a little cabal in the corner, whispered amongst themselves, turned as one and gave Professor Slocombe the old thumbs-up.

  ‘Gammon, the champagne,’ said the Professor.

  By two of the afternoon ticker, the champagne bottles were shells of glass and all the dead posh chocolates eaten, farewells had been belched out, hands had been shaken. Professor Slocombe sat down at his desk. John and Jim stood with their hands in their pockets and quite foolish looks on their faces.

  ‘You did it, Professor,’ said Jim. ‘You did it.’

  ‘You did it, Jim,’ the ancient replied.

  ‘Well, we all did it,’ said John. ‘But it’s done. We’ve cracked it. Brentford will host the millennial celebrations two years ahead of the rest of the world. And it’s official.’

  ‘Yes.’ Professor Slocombe rolled up the scrolls. ‘These will now go, under heavy security, to the Bank of England. And I will prepare myself to perform the ceremonies. We shall triumph, gentlemen. We shall triumph.’

  ‘We certainly shall.’ John took out his little notebook. ‘Now where exactly should we start, I wonder?’

  ‘With The Jim Pooley,’ said Jim. ‘Definitely The Jim Pooley.’

  Omally nodded thoughtfully. ‘Or possibly the John Omally Millennial Massage Parlour.’

  ‘Are we knocking down the flatblocks for Pooley Plaza straight away, do you think?’

  ‘We’ll have to give that a lot of thought. I’m not quite certain where the best place to build Omally’s will be.’

  ‘Omally’s?’ Jim asked. ‘I don’t think you mentioned Omally’s.’

  ‘It’s a casino. Very exclusive.’

  ‘I bet it’s not as exclusive as my one’s going to be.’

  ‘How much do you want to bet?’

  ‘Gentlemen?’ Professor Slocombe raised a pale thin hand. ‘Gentlemen, what exactly do you think you’re talking about?’

  ‘How best to spend all the millions from the Millennium Fund,’ said John. ‘Great care must be taken to do the job properly. You can rely on us.’

  ‘I’m sure that I can. But hate as I do to rain on your parade, what makes you think that the Millennium Fund will contribute one single penny to your schemes?’

  ‘Well, they’ll have to now, won’t they? What with the scrolls and everything.’

  ‘You really think so, do you?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ said John.

  ‘And so you’ll be asking Fred personally, will you?’

  ‘Won’t Fred have to cough up?’ Jim’s face took on a look of alarm. ‘Won’t he be made to?’

  Professor Slocombe shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t think so for one moment. He will not draw attention to himself by actively refusing out-right. On the contrary, when interviewed by the media, I expect he will be all smiles and generosity. But, but, when it comes to actually handing over any money, he will prevaricate, tie you up in paperwork more tightly than a Blue Peter presenter in a cling film codpiece.’

  ‘You mean––’John’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Not a penny,’ said the Professor. ‘Not a bean, not a farthing, not an old bent nickel. Zero, zilch. I’m sorry.’

  ‘But––’ John’s jaw hovered in the dropped position.

  A small sigh escaped from the lips of Jim Pooley. Though small, it was so plaintive, and evocative of such heart-rending pathos, that had there been a King Edward potato present this sigh would have brought a tear to its eye.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said John. ‘You’ve made all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.’

  ‘But, John, but, oh oh oh.’

  ‘Look at him,’ John told the Professor. ‘You’ve made him cry now.’

  ‘I’m not crying. I’m just, oh oh oh.’

  ‘Jim,’ said the Professor. ‘You mustn’t be downhearted. What you have done by finding the scrolls is something so wonderful that mere money could never reward you. You will go down in the annals of history as the man who changed the world.’

  ‘Will I get a pension?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Probably not. But certainly a round of applause. Would you care for one now?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, that’s that then. So it only remains for me to thank you on behalf of the people of the world. Wish you well in whatever field of endeavour you choose next for yourself. And bid you a fond farewell. I’d offer you a late lunch, but I have much to do and you must be pretty stuffed with all those chocolates you’ve eaten.’

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Jim in a grumpy tone.

  ‘Well, eat all the other ones I saw you slipping into your pockets.’

  ‘So is that it?’ John shrugged hopelessly.

  ‘That’s it. I must prepare myself for the ceremonies. I have a great deal to do over the coming months.’

  ‘So we’ll say goodbye, shall we?’

  ‘Yes. Goodbye, John.’

  ‘Goodbye then, Professor.’

  ‘And goodbye to you, Jim, and thank you very much indeed.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Oh, Jim. Just one thing before you go.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked the sorrowful one.

  ‘Only this.’ Profesor Slocombe rose from his desk and strode over to Pooley. He stared him deeply in the eyes and nodded thoughtfully. ‘One clouted ear, a pair of black eyes, a bloodied nose, a grazed chin and a dented forehead.’

  ‘And a few cracked ribs,’ said Jim. ‘Not that I’m one to complain.’

  ‘Well, you deserve better than that.’

  ‘On this we’re both agreed.’

  ‘Kindly close your eyes.’

  Jim closed his eyes.

  Professor Slocombe whispered certain words and passed his hands over Jim’s face. ‘You can open them now,’ he said.

  Jim opened his eyes. Professor Slocombe held up a small hand mirror. Jim gazed into it.

  ‘I’m cured,’ whispered Jim. ‘All my bumps and bruises gone.’

  ‘The very least I could do. Farewell to you now, Jim, and may God go with you.’

  ‘Give us another chocolate,’ said John.

  Jim rooted in his pockets. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘And that’s the last one.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’

  ‘It’s the last one you’re getting.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  As the library bench was now in Old Pete’s back garden, John and Jim sat on the rim of the hole, their feet dangling down.

  ‘I don’t even have a bench to sit on any more,’ sighed Jim.

  ‘The scrolls are yours,’ said John. ‘By the Finders Keepers law, or whatever. You could sell them. They must be worth a few bob.’

  ‘I don’t think the Professor would be very happy about that.’

  ‘It’s outrageous.’ John made fists and shook them in the air. ‘After all we’ve been through, we come out of it with absolutely nothing.’

  ‘So no change there, then.’

  ‘We’re not beaten yet.’

  ‘I think I am.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not.’

  ‘Oh yes I am.’

  ‘You’re not,’ said John. ‘And neither am I. There must be some way
for us to get our hands on all that money. If it wasn’t for Fred––’

  ‘We could kill Fred,’ said Jim.

  ‘Kill Fred?’ Omally shook his head.

  ‘Well, it’s not as if we wouldn’t be doing the world a favour. He is in league with the Devil, after all.’

  ‘So we should kill him?’

  Jim shook his head, then lowered it dismally. ‘No, of course not. But if he wasn’t in charge of all the Millennium money, maybe then we could get a share of it.’

  ‘There’s wisdom in your words, Jim Pooley. Perhaps there might be some way to oust Fred and get someone favourable to our cause into his position. Me, for instance.’

  ‘Or perhaps we should just forget the whole damn’ thing. Put it down to experience, go off about our business.’

  ‘And what business would that be?’

  Jim made grumbling sounds. ‘I shall continue with my time travelling. I’ll get forward eventually. And when I do––’

  Omally now sighed, something he rarely did. ‘There’s a fortune to be made in this millennial celebrating and we are the ones who should be making it.’

  ‘No.’ Jim shook his head once more. ‘I’ve had enough, John. We nearly got killed yesterday. And we nearly got killed the day before. And we nearly got killed the day before that. Today no one has tried to kill us. Tomorrow, I hope, will be even better. I’m quitting, John. I’ve had it. Honestly.’

  ‘Come on, man.’

  ‘No, John, I quit. No more mad schemes. No more risks to life and limb and sanity. I’m going home to bed. I may well remain there for a number of days. If not for ever.’

  ‘Jim, this is a temporary setback, nothing more.’

  ‘I’m sorry, John.’ Jim climbed wearily to his feet. ‘Enough is enough. Goodbye.’

  ‘No, Jim. You can’t go like this, you can’t.’

  ‘Look, John, if I call it quits now, at least I can survive this day unscathed. I mean, what else could possibly happen?’

  And so saying, Jim turned dismally away, slipped upon the loose soil and fell heavily into the hole.

  21

  Summer was coming to an end, and with it Jim’s stay in the Cottage Hospital. He was out of traction now and the plaster casts were off. There was still considerable stiffness, but he could walk all right with the aid of a stick.

  Jim had not spent his time in idleness though. He had written a book. The Brentford Scrolls: My Part in Their Discovery.

  Well, it had started out with that title anyway. But Jim had favoured later excesses, Raiders of the Lost Scrolls, Scrollrunner, and finally, for no apparent reason, other than it sounded good, The Brentford Chainstore Massacre.

  Although purporting to be a strictly factual autobiographical account, few who knew Jim personally would have recognized the lantern-jawed, hardbitten, Dimac-fighting sex machine hero with the devastating wit and the taste for fine wines and bird-puller Porsches.

  Jim had sent off copies to several major publishers, but was still awaiting replies. He had not sent a copy to Transglobe.

  He had quite given up on the time travelling, even though he’d had plenty of time to perfect it. He could only go back. And back didn’t seem to be a joyful place to go.

  During Jim’s months of hospital incarceration, John had made many visits, and Jim had been forced to listen to the Irishman’s vivid accounts of great fund-raising ventures. Of whist drives and raffles and pub quiz competitions, of wet T-shirt contests (there seemed to have been many of these) and of guided tours and sponsorship deals. But the millions were as far away as ever, as were too the thousands and the hundreds.

  ‘I have so many expenses,’ John told him.

  Jim plodded homeward on his stick. The trees in the Memorial Park were taking on their autumn hues, and Autumn Hughes the gardener was sweeping up some leaves. The sun was sinking low now and the air had a nip to it. Thoughts of a nip turned Jim’s thoughts to the Swan. And the optimist in him put what spring it could into his plod.

  When Jim reached the Swan, however, the optimist went back to sleep.

  A large neon cross blinked on and off and the sign of the Flying Swan no longer swung. The Road to Calvary, spelled out in coloured lights, flashed red, then amber, green, then red again.

  Jim offered up a prayer, hung down his head and plodded on.

  He settled himself onto the new bench before the Memorial Library. But the new bench, being built entirely from concrete, was uncomfortable. Jim offered up another prayer, hung his head lower still and plodded home.

  He turned the familiar key in the familiar lock and sought sanctuary. There were no letters of acceptance from publishers to greet him on the mat; the house smelled damp and dead. Jim sighed. The optimist in him was now in a coma.

  Jim closed the door and put on the safety chain. A lesser man than he might well have plugged up the gaps and turned on the gas at a time like this, but not Jim. Jim had no change for the meter.

  He was just about to turn from the door when he heard the first click. It wasn’t loud but, as all else was silent, it was loud enough.

  The second click was louder. It was a very distinctive click, the sort of click which, had it been able to speak instead of just click, would have said, ‘I am the click made by a gun being cocked.’

  And then there was the third click, very loud indeed. And then the bright, bright light.

  Jim pressed back against the door. ‘My dear God, no,’ he cried. And then came the noise.

  A screaming, shouting, yelling noise.

  ‘Surprise!’ screamed Celia Penn.

  ‘Welcome home!’ shouted John Omally.

  ‘Happy homecoming!’ yelled Norman Hartnell.

  Jim stood and stared as the hall about him filled. Professor Slocombe was there, and Old Pete and Small Dave and three young women from the wind-screen wiper works (one of whom Jim had always fancied) and Sandra the shot-putting lesbian uniped. And there was the lady in the straw hat and her friend Doris and the medical student named Paul who knew all about the blues. And there was someone else and someone else and even someone else. But these folk were still in the kitchen as you really couldn’t get that many people into Jim’s hall. (Mind you, you could never have got nearly fifty people into Profesor Slocombe’s study, but as that seemed to have slipped by unnoticed we’ll say no more about it.)

  ‘Hip hip hoorah!’ went those in the hall. And those in the kitchen. And others still in the front room. The couple making love in Jim’s bed would probably say it later.

  ‘Welcome home, old friend,’ said John Omally, wringing Jim’s hand between his own.

  Jim tried to speak, but he just couldn’t. There was a big lump in his throat and a tear in each of his eyes.

  ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,’ sang the assembled multitude, as John led Jim towards the kitchen and a drink.

  Now, there are parties, and then there are PARTIES!

  At parties, you stand around sipping sherry and making polite conversation with doctors and dentists and architects and women with severe haircuts and halitosis. But at PARTIES! – at PARTIES! you do things differently.

  At PARTIES! there is a fight in the front garden, someone being sick in the wardrobe, a couple making love in the host’s bed (you see, Jim’s had already got off to a good start). There’s a bloke who climbs onto the roof and moons at the moon, there’s another so well and truly out of it that he tries to tunnel under the garden fence, convinced he’s escaping from a prison camp. There are discussions about seemingly ordinary matters that turn into great Zen mind-boggling mystical all-encompassing trips into cosmic infinity, which sadly will never be remembered in the morning. There are ugly women who become tantalizingly beautiful as the night wears on. And ugly men who do not. There is laughter, there is gaiety. There are several visits from the police about turning down the noise. And if you’re really lucky there’s a woman who takes off all her clothes and dances on the kitchen table. And if you’re really, really, really lucky you migh
t just get to meet a blonde choreographer with amber eyes and a fascinating mouth and––

  ‘Nice PARTY!, Jim,’ said a blonde choreographer with amber eyes and a fascinating mouth.

  ‘Who is that?’ whispered Jim, as the beauty vanished into the crowd.

  ‘Oh, forget her,’ said John. ‘She’s with her uncle Rob.’

  ‘This is some PARTY! thought, John. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t let you come home to an empty house. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The lady with the straw hat said ‘Cheers’ also, and then she said, ‘That Old Pete bloke is up on your roof mooning at the moon.’

  ‘Magic,’ said John. ‘Having offended almost everyone on Earth he is now turning his attention to the cosmos.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Jim.

  ‘There’s some policemen outside,’ said Small Dave. ‘They’ve come about the music.’

  ‘There isn’t any music,’ said Jim.

  ‘That’s what they said, so they’ve lent us this ghetto-blaster.’

  ‘Magic,’ said John, hoisting it onto the unspeakable kitchen worktop and plugging it into the socket.

  Howl, shriek and scream.

  ‘It’s the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of Death,’ shouted Jim above the cacophony. ‘They’re beginning to grow on me.’

  Professor Slocombe stuck his head round the kitchen door. ‘There’s some policemen outside,’ he shouted. ‘They say to turn the noise down.’

  ‘Magic,’ said John Omally once more, turning it down by the merest fraction.

  In Jim’s back garden, a chap who was well and truly out of it tried to tunnel under the fence. Upstairs someone was being sick into Jim’s wardrobe.

  ‘Couldn’t you do that somewhere else?’ asked the couple who were making love in Jim’s bed.

  It was a different couple.

  ‘You know, John,’ said Jim, as John topped up his glass from the dangerous blue vodka bottle, ‘you’re a good friend to me.’