‘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 moon-dancers.’
‘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 ruined 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.
Or. rather, The Road to Calvary.
28
‘And I’m telling you,’ said Neville, ‘if it wasn’t for this,’ he held up a bottle of Hartnell’s Millennial Ale: the beer that tastes the way beer used to taste, ‘you would be roasting in that grate instead of my yule log.’
Omally gave a sickly grin. ‘I will get it sorted, I promise. You are serving the ale strictly in rotation, as I told you?’
‘Yes, yes, yes. Numbered crates, red bottle top last week, amber bottle top this week, green bottle top next week. I know all that. The beer has to be served fresh, it doesn’t keep. You’ve told me again and again, and so has Norman. I’m a professional, you know.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just very very important that you use each batch within a week. It will go off otherwise.’
Jim, who had been drinking at the bar, coughed into his ale, sending much of it up his nose. ‘Go off. Oh my God.’
John steered him away to a side table.
‘Do try to control yourself, Jim,’ he said.
‘Control myself? John, what if he overlooks a crate, or something? The whole pub will go up. People will die, John. Supplying him with that beer is such a bad bad idea.’
‘I only supply him with just enough. It’s the most popular beer in the borough – there’s never any left over the following week. And it’s the only reason we’re allowed to drink here.’
‘It’s no fun to drink here any more, with it done up like this.’ Jim cast an eye over the religious trappings. They were getting pretty knackered from all the constant moving in and out and in again, but actually they didn’t look all that bad, what with the Christmas decorations and everything.
‘I’ll get it sorted.’
‘Of course you won’t. You won’t get it sorted, the same way Norman will never get the beer sorted.’
‘And is the free rock concert in the football ground sorted, Jim?’
‘Well.’ Jim made the now legendary so-so gesture. The one that means, “No, actually.”
‘No,’ said John, ‘I thought not.’
‘I’ve had a definite yes from the Chocolate Bunnies, and Sonic Energy Authority are coming, and the Lost T-Shirts of Atlantis.’
‘I don’t wish to be sceptical, and these are very fine bands. But it’s not exactly your all-star Wembley line-up, is it?’
‘We would have had the Spice Girls.’
‘Ah,’ said John.
>
‘Yes, “Ah”. If you hadn’t had the Spice Girls, we would have had the Spice Girls.’
‘I didn’t have all of them, Jim. I only had one.’
‘And which one was that?’
‘The vacant-looking one.’
‘That hasn’t really narrowed it down.’
‘Look, never mind about that. They split up because of artistic differences.’
‘You’re only making it worse for yourself. And how is Omally’s by the way? I’ve been expecting my invite to the grand opening.’
Omally made the so-so gesture.
Jim shook his head. ‘Guggy,’ he said.
‘But look on the bright side. The entire borough will be celebrating, just as the Professor wanted.’
‘The few remaining who aren’t already in the Caribbean.’
‘We only lost a couple of hundred, don’t exaggerate. And if you’d spent a little less time at your girlfriend’s experimenting with the contents of her fridge––’
‘Stop that!’
‘All right. But if you had spent more time concentrating on the job, a lot more would have been done.’
‘Shall we consult our list, just to clarify exactly what has been done?’
Omally took a very small piece of paper from his pocket. ‘There’s the concert in the football ground,’ said he.
‘Which I have been organizing.’
‘There’s the beer festival.’
‘Oh yes. One of yours. The one that will probably end in a nuclear holocaust.’
‘The beauty pageant. Ah, no, not the beauty pageant.’
‘Not the beauty pageant?’
‘I don’t wish to talk about it. There was some unpleasantness regarding my interview techniques...husbands, boyfriends...let’s not discuss the beauty pageant.’
Jim gave his head another shake.
‘The street party,’ said John.
‘Oh yes, the street party named desire. Or should that be the street party named it’s-too-damned-cold-at-this-time-of-year-for-a-street-party?’
‘The beer festival.’
‘We’ve done that.’
‘The synchronized paragliding.’
‘Oh yes, the synchronized paragliding. Half a dozen grannies plummeting to their deaths from the top of the gasometer. That should draw a big crowd.’
‘There’s the fireworks.’
‘Fireworks?’
‘Ha, you didn’t know about the fireworks, did you?’
‘No, I confess that I did not. And who is putting on the display?’
‘Mmmmph,’ mumbled Omally.
‘Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.’
‘Norman.’
‘Norman. Oh, perfect. Fireworks the way fireworks used to be, I suppose.’
‘Something along those lines.’
‘So we can expect to see the word GUGGY lighting up the sky.’
‘Norman will be fine. He’s constructed a mobile de-entropizer that will reconstitute the fireworks again and again. Until the car battery runs down, anyway. It will be a spectacular event. Trust me on this.’
‘Well, with that and the paragliding grannies, I think we have the situation firmly under control. What a night to remember, eh? I only hope I can contain myself and not simply die from an overload of sheer enjoyment.’
‘You’ll be giving your girlfriend’s kitchen a miss, then?’
‘I’m warning you, John.’
‘It’s fun though, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is. But listen, John, in all truth, we’ve really fouled this up. All the money that we’ve given away, we’ve not got much to show for it, have we?’
‘I’ve personally got nothing to show for it. The Professor’s been really stingy regarding my expenses.’
‘And making us do our community service, that was rubbing it in a bit.’
‘He said it was good for our souls.’
Jim stared into his empty glass. ‘What do you think will really happen when he performs his ceremony on New Year’s Eve?’
‘Search me. But he seems convinced that it will be something wonderful. Dawn of a new age, step closer back to THE BIG IDEA.’
‘THE BIG IDEA.’ Jim pushed his empty glass aside. ‘I think I’ll go round to see Suzy,’ he said.
‘Well, steer clear of the live yoghurt. It gives you thrush.’
‘John!’
‘Well, it does.’
‘I’ll steer clear of it then. What are you going to do?’
‘Relax.’ John drained the last life from his pint. ‘Have a few more beers here and relax. Nothing’s going to happen tonight, is it? I mean, what could possibly happen tonight?’
Jim looked at John.
And John looked back at Jim.
‘Why is it’, Jim asked, ‘that I really wish you hadn’t said that?’
As Jim left the Flying Swan he passed between two men who were entering it. They were tall men and well proportioned. They looked to be in their early thirties and were dressed identically in grey tweed suits. One had long golden hair and a golden beard, the other’s hair was dark and so too were his whiskers. As Jim passed between them he experienced a most alarming sensation. It was as if one side of him had turned as cold as ice and the other fiery hot.
Jim gathered his senses together with some difficulty and put what spring he could into his step.
Suzy’s flat was in Horseferry Lane, a little up from the Shrunken Head. It was one of those smart newish three-storey affairs, peopled by good-looking arty types with whom Jim had absolutely nothing in common. He spent a great deal of time agonizing over exactly what Suzy saw in him. He was a layabout, there was no getting away from it. A dreamer and a romantic maybe, but a layabout. An individual, she kept on telling him, in a world where few exist. And the two of them did have something. Something wonderful. Something that made differences in their lifestyles totally irrelevant. And when two people know that they’re meant for each other, nothing will stand in their way.
Jim had been given a key of his own. Well, it hadn’t been a proper key, not in Jim’s opinion anyway. It had been a plastic card thing that you pushed into this little black box by the front door. Jim had almost got to grips with it on several occasions. The engineer who had come to fix the little black box said he was totally mystified by the way it kept breaking down. Jim didn’t have the plastic card thing any more, Jim had to ring the bell.
Jim rang the bell.
But there wasn’t any answer.
Jim inspected the bell push. It was possible, just possible, that the bell push was broken. Stone at the window? No, that wasn’t such a good idea, not after what happened last time. Jim shrugged. She was probably out somewhere. Should he hang around, or just go home? Jim leaned back against the front door. The front door swung open and Jim fell backwards into the hall.
‘Ouch,’ said Jim, struggling to his feet.
The door swung shut, but it didn’t lock. The keep was hanging off the wall.
‘Well, that wasn’t my fault,’ said Jim. ‘I didn’t do that.’
Jim now did those dusting downs that people do after they’ve fallen over. They do them no matter where they fall, even if there isn’t any dust. It’s probably some racial memory thing, or a primordial urge, or a basic instinct or a tradition or an old char lady, or something.
Jim straightened his shoulders and marched upstairs. Suzy’s flat was number three on the second floor. Lovers of illuminati conspiracy theory could get something meaningful out of that.
Jim didn’t bother with the bell push. He knocked on the door. And as his knuckle struck the black lacquered panel the door swung open to reveal––
A scene of devastation.
Jim stepped inside, in haste and fear. The flat had been ransacked. And viciously so. Curtains torn down, cushions ripped to ribbons, vases broken, books shredded, pictures smashed from their frames.
‘Suzy.’ Jim plunged amongst the wreckage, righting the sofa, flinging aside the fa
llen drapes. Into the kitchen, the bathroom.
The bedroom.
The bed was made. The duvet spread. The pale silk curtains hung, untorn. An eye of calm in the centre of the evil hurricane.
Jim felt sick inside. As he stood and stared into that bedroom, the reek came to his nostrils. Jim flung himself across the room, dragged aside the duvet and the bed cover. To expose a human turd lying in the middle of the bed.
‘My dear God, no.’ Jim turned away.
The bedside phone began to ring. He snatched it up.
‘I’ll bet you’re really miffed aren’t you?’ said the voice of Derek.
‘Who is this?’
‘You remember me, or at least my nine-gauge auto-loader.’
Jim’s heart sank. His knees buckled. ‘Suzy,’ he whispered, ‘You have Suzy, don’t you?’
Jim heard the noise of struggling. And then a slap. And then the awful sound of Suzy weeping.
‘I’ll kill you.’ Jim shook uncontrollably. ‘If you harm her I’ll kill you.’
‘I’m sure you’ll try. But it won’t be necessary. You can have her back. Possibly even in one piece, if you do what you’re told.’
‘And what is that?’
Derek spoke and Jim listened. And Jim’s face, pale and ghostly as it was, grew even paler and ghostlier still.
29
And the band played ‘Believe It If You Like’.
A big brass band it was, of big beer-bellied men. They had such smart uniforms, scarlet with golden sashes, the borough’s emblem of the Griffin Rampant resplendent upon them. And big black shiny bootsand trumpets and cornets and big bass bassoons.
They marched through the Butts Estate and they played ‘Believe It If You Like’.
Children cheered and waved their Union Jacks.
Old biddies cheered and fluttered their lace handkerchiefs.
Old men nodded their heads to the beat.
A lady in a straw hat said, ‘They’re playing in the key of C.’
And a medical student named Paul said, ‘Oh no they’re not.’
The weather forecast said ‘no rain’. And the winter sun shone brightly and today was a special day indeed.
The Brentford Chainstore Massacre Page 22