The Sprouts of Wrath (The Brentford Trilogy Book 4)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Why, are you going away then?’

  ‘No, I mean that with all the coming changes, the beer will be the first thing to suffer.’

  ‘It will not,’ said Neville whose pride was his beer.

  ‘Come now.’ Omally held up his glass and examined its contents. ‘We’ll be seeing some strange faces behind this bar counter I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘You what?’ exclaimed Neville.

  ‘Well, if the brewery are in for changes, then they’ll be supplying new bar personnel I would have thought.’

  Neville halted in mid-pull of Pooley’s pint. ‘By the gods,’ said he, ‘do you think so?’

  ‘Well, you haven’t had a full complement since Croughton left.’

  ‘Left?’ said Neville. ‘He’s now serving eighteen months, his hand was in my till up to the arm pit!’

  ‘Young Master Bobsmuck will want one or two of his lady friends in here I shouldn’t wonder.’ Neville’s face contorted into a mask of horror, his good eye started in its socket. He was not by nature a misogynist, but he did not believe there was a woman alive who could pull a decent pint. ‘I’d cover yourself now,’ continued Omally, ‘just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Yes... yes.’ Neville dragged at the pump handle, filling Jim’s glass with foam. ‘Yes, I must.’

  ‘There must be someone locally who knows the trade,’ said John, ‘someone who understands good ale, respects the brewer’s art, someone who would uphold the high standards of this noble edifice, someone trustworthy, someone...’

  ‘Someone like yourself perhaps?’ said Neville.

  ‘Me?’ Omally made deprecating gestures. ‘Why, I’ve never.’

  Neville turned the full force of his good eye upon Omally. The two men gazed at one another in silence. Along the bar dissatisfied patrons beat upon the counter with empty glasses and expressed doubts over Neville’s parentage.

  ‘I pay a basic wage,’ said Neville. ‘If it is acceptable to the applicant and I consider the applicant suitable to the post, all well to the good. If, however, my choice proves erroneous and the applicant chooses to rob me, then that is a matter for the magistrates’ court.’

  ‘I seek only honest employment,’ said John. ‘My reasons are my own. My word is my bond, I shall not rob you. I can start tomorrow.’

  ‘All right,’ said Neville, ‘then you are hired. Give me no cause to regret my decision, we have known one another a long time.’

  ‘I shall not,’ said Omally. ‘Let us consider these two pints a clincher to the deal. My thanks.’

  ‘No,’ said Neville, ‘we shall consider these two pints to be a physical illustration of an ever-popular maxim, and one that you will come to know and understand when you work for me. Namely, that you only get out of life what you put into it. Cough up.’

  Omally coughed up. The mob closed in about Neville.

  ‘You were a long time at the bar,’ Pooley observed. The service here is not what it used to be.’

  ‘No,’ said Omally, ‘but it soon will be again. For I now work here.’

  22

  The days passed into a week and work upon the five Olympic sites pressed on relentlessly. The stadium ‘legs’, elegant columns of chromium and glass, some forty feet each in diameter, rose higher with the passing of each single hour. Finally there stood five slim towers, their lofty pinnacles dwindled by perspective into needle points five hundred feet above Brentford. The raising of these towers to such perfection in so short a length of time was in itself a marvel of engineering, but it was nothing when held up before the face of what was yet to come.

  Early on the evening of the second Wednesday, the first dirigible appeared in the darkening sky. The gentle drone of drazy hoops announced its coming as it appeared from out of the setting sun, a flattened disc of black, lit below by many twinkling lights, and trailing in its wake the first segment of the great Star Stadium. The borough’s curious thronged the byways to view the spectacle, oohing and aahing like sprogs at a firework display.

  Old Pete leant upon his Penang lawyer and squinted disapprovingly through a pair of ex-army field glasses. ‘Remember the R101,’ he told Young Chips. His canine companion grinned up at him, lifted his furry leg up against Marchant’s front wheel and followed Pete into the Flying Swan.

  The saloon bar was already crowded. Gentlemen of the press filled the air with rowdy conversation and cheap cigar smoke and Old Pete was forced to make free with his cane to clear a path to the bar. Terribly sorry, guvnor,’ he apologized to a newly maimed photographer as he shuffled by. ‘No damage done, I hope.’ The pressman glared daggers at the retreating reprobate and nursed his shattered kneecap.

  ‘Evening, Pete.’ The voice belonged to John Omally, the cleanly shaven and neatly turned-out barman in the white shirt and clip-on dicky. ‘What will it be then?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, John.’

  Omally shook his head and applied a finishing touch to a dazzling pint pot. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘More than my job’s worth.’

  Pete grumbled to himself. ‘I’ll never get used to you being that side of the counter,’ said he. ‘A light ale if you will, and not a warm one.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Neville watched his Celtic barman from the corner of his good eye. Omally’s behaviour, thus far, had been exemplary. His manner was courteous and his skill at the pump handle a pleasure to behold. Neville had hardly to say a word, Omally was always one jump ahead, quick to replenish an optic or replace a failing barrel. His dedication even stretched to the escorting home of young ladies who had imbibed too freely. He was almost too good to be true, which was proving a little difficult for Neville, a man from whom trust had long departed.

  In truth Omally, who had spent his formative years as a lounge boy in Clancy’s, was thoroughly enjoying himself and had now decided that when he got his share of Pooley’s winnings he was going to open a pub.

  Jim Pooley now entered the bar and elbowed his way through the crush.

  ‘Did you wipe your boots?’ Omally enquired. Neville tittered foolishly and went off about his end of the business.

  ‘Watchamate John, Pete,’ said Jim, nodding to the elder and ignoring the Irishman’s remark. ‘A pint of Large, please.’

  ‘A rough day on the herbaceous border?’ asked Pete as John pulled the pint of Jim’s preference.

  ‘I fear the Professor is taking liberties with me.’ Jim took out baccy and rolled a cigarette. ‘Each time I dig a hole I look around to find the earth unturned. Each spadeful of leaves seems to weigh a hundredweight.’

  Old Pete chuckled. ‘His good self the Professor wishes to make a man of you,’ he suggested. ‘He pays a fair daily wage though, I bet. Cash up front, didn’t you say?’

  Pooley, who was learning always to keep at least two sentences ahead when conversing with Old Pete, dismissed the remark. ‘Scarcely enough to make ends meet, and none whatever to permit a largess.’ He accepted his pint and passed the exact amount in pennies and halfpennies into Omally’s outstretched palm. ‘Great stuff all this, eh, Pete?’ Jim gestured upwards and outwards. ‘Great days for Brentford.’

  Old Pete made a contemptuous face. ‘Fol de rol,’ he muttered. ‘Now don’t get me wrong, I’d like to see it, I saw the last one over here when it was on at the White City. But this lark, fairy castles in the sky, it can’t hold water.’

  ‘It will keep the rain off Brentford.’

  ‘Yes and ruin the allotment crops.’

  ‘Free ringside seats though, think of that.’

  ‘You’ll not get me up there.’ Pete waggled his cane in the air, causing nearby pressmen to fall back in distress. ‘I shall sell my ticket and take a few weeks in Eastbourne till it’s over.’

  Pooley looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder what they will do with the stadium once it’s taken down.’

  ‘They should stick it up on Sydenham Hill like they did with the Crystal Palace. Mind you, they haven’t got it up yet.’

  ‘I ca
n’t see anything stopping them,’ said Jim.

  ‘Oh, can’t you now.’ Old Pete drew Pooley closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Not everyone is as keen as you two to have this thing built. Some think the whole thing is an abomination. There is a small group of people who call themselves "Action by Informed Individuals against a Positive Threat".’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said John.

  ‘Oh, yes, and they are thinking of engaging themselves in a little, shall we say . . .’

  ‘Not sabotage?’ The perilous quaver in Jim’s voice was not lost upon the elder. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Old Pete finished his light ale and peered into the empty bottom of the glass, possibly searching for a reply that might be written there upon.

  Pooley dug deeply into his trouser pocket. ‘A dark rum?’ he asked with resignation.

  ‘My thanks,’ said Pete. Omally did the business and at Pooley’s insistence hovered near at hand to catch what was said. They’re not local nutters, this lot, in fact they are out-borough.’ Old Pete used the all-inclusive and uncomplimentary term, which was applied by Brentonians to all who lived beyond the borders of the Brentford Triangle. ‘Ecologists, Earth Mysteries Investigators, call them what you will. A little coven of them there is. They reckon that the stadium screws up some kind of ley line configuration that runs through the borough.’

  ‘Are you taking the Mickey?’ John asked. His outspokenness cost him a dark rum, which Neville, ever watchful, observed Omally pay for out of his own pocket.

  ‘My thanks, John. Now as I was saying, these boys consider themselves to be upon some kind of divine mission. They intend to form a circle about each of the stadium legs and chant some kind of exorcism.’

  Pooley shrugged. ‘That can’t do any harm I suppose.’

  ‘Possibly not, except I overheard them saying that it was to be a "fire ceremony".’ Old Pete raised his glass and took rum. Pooley and Omally exchanged worried looks.

  ‘You didn’t happen to overhear when, by any chance?’ Omally asked.

  Old Pete perused his glass. ‘My memory is not what it was,’ said he.

  ‘Your conversation, although of passing interest, incurs too great an expense upon my person,’ said John, turning away to serve a customer. ‘I must away to my work.’

  Old Pete shrugged and turned towards Pooley. ‘I am two to the credit and have no wish to put undue strain upon our friendship. Tonight it is, and midnight, on Griffin Island. For your information, that’s them over there.’ Pete nodded through the crowd to a small conclave, clad in duffle coats and Wellington boots. They sat at a side table whispering seriously over their fruit juices.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jim, ‘thanks very much. Whose round is it?’

  ‘Yours, I think,’ said Old Pete.

  23

  Griffin Island had until the great flap of ‘84 been known as the Brentford Ait; a picturesque parcel of land about one hundred yards in length standing about another fifty out from the Brentford shoreline of the River Thames. To its rear the glorious gardens of Kew, and before it the new Arts Centre, which it faced with apparent lack of concern. Prior to the Hitlerian war it had supported one of the last great boatyards near abouts, but now the dry dock was choked with weeds beneath the iron skeleton of the old glass roof. It was very much a wildlife sanctuary, given over to nesting herons, cormorants and black-necked geese. At the island’s heart was a natural grove of thirteen cedars wherein, local legend held, certain rites were performed in the times of yore, by wizards of the day. Now it was the haven of courting couples who, armed with Wellington boots and a tide-table, performed their own tantric rituals, with one eye open to the rising Thames.

  At eleven-thirty upon this particular evening, a tiny coracle, built in the traditional manner from willow and hide, and one of several that Omally maintained at well-hidden moorings, slipped out silently from a dilapidated quayside and drifted downstream upon the night-time river. Pooley steered the circular craft with the single oar and John sat before, gazing out into the darkness.

  Ahead, at the western tip of the island, the glass and chromium tower rose from the foreshore to lose itself in darkness. Above, the stars came and went at irregular intervals as airships drifted to and fro about their extraordinary business. The dull hum of their engines had an almost somnambulant quality and the light mist, hovering upon the water, added the final touch to what seemed a dream landscape. The beauty and feeling of it was not lost upon the two boatmen.

  ‘There is a little bay upon the north shore,’ Omally whispered, ‘we’ll beach there.’ Pooley swivelled the oar and the current bore the tiny craft onward without effort.

  They had not as yet formed a definite plan of campaign. So far, they were down to watching and listening and only to actually intervening should things look as if they were actually getting out of control. As to exactly what form their intervention might take, or what exactly might constitute ‘out of control’, these were matters as yet undecided upon.

  The craft beached soundlessly and Omally drew it up beyond the tide mark, turned it over and secured it to a tree. On furtive feet, the two men slipped into the undergrowth, moving towards the grove. If ceremonies were to be performed, it seemed to them likely that it was there they would be done.

  Ahead, through the darkness, Pooley espied a flicker of firelight. He placed his hand upon Omally’s arm and pointed. With a sobriety which was unnatural to them, the two crept nearer until they reached a suitable vantage point.

  Five figures could be clearly seen, seated in a ring about a small fire of driftwood. In their duffle coats it was impossible to discern the sexes of the campfire sitters, but earlier observation suggested that they were the same five as seen in the Swan. Two young men and three women, each in their late teens or early twenties.

  Omally uncorked his hip flask and pressed it to his lips. He took a slug. ‘Seems harmless enough so far,’ he whispered. ‘A bit of a ging-gang-goolie.’

  Jim accepted the proffered flask and drew upon it. ‘If the sausages on sticks come out then I suggest we join them.’

  In the distance the Memorial Library clock did its duty, and struck the midnight hour. As its last chime faded into silence, the five figures climbed slowly to their feet and removed their duffle coats. The skulking duo pressed their faces forward in rapt attention. As the duffle coats dropped to the ground it was revealed that all five wore nothing whatever beneath. They were stark naked.

  ‘Would you look at that?’ said John Omally.

  ‘Just try and stop me.’

  The celebrants now kicked off their Wellington boots, linked hands and began a slow, clockwise perambulation about the fire, chanting softly.

  ‘This has definitely got the edge on the boy scouts,’ said Jim in a hushed voice. ‘I wonder how you join.’

  The vigour of the dance increased, the chanting became more audible. Words reached the two voyeurs, words they neither knew nor understood: ‘SHADDAI EL CHAI ARARITA ADONAI TETRAGRAMMATON, SHADDAI EL CHAI ARARITA ADONAI TETRAGRAMMATON.’ The words had a hypnotic quality and Pooley soon found his head bobbing to the rhythm as the naked bodies cavorted in the glow of the twinkling firelight. It was as if he had flown back through the ages and was witnessing some ancient fertility rite at a time when the earth was young and men and the elements were but a single body.

  Omally, however, was made of sterner stuff. This may not be too clever,’ he croaked into Pooley’s mobile ear.

  ‘Ssssh!’ said Jim. ‘It’s just a singalong. Good clean fun.’

  ‘It’s witchcraft,’ said John, ‘witchcraft.’

  ‘Really?’ Jim looked on with renewed interest. ‘Orgies, do you mean?’

  ‘We will have to stop it.’

  ‘Are you mad? You don’t get this stuff on the telly.’

  ‘We will have to stop it, Jim.’ Omally rose to his feet, he made as if to cry out but the words, whatever they might have been, never left his throat.

  With a sudde
n rush something swept down from above. It was large, dark and ferocious and it dropped directly into the fire with a great shriek, scattering the dancers to every side.

  As the two men looked on in horrified fascination the thing drove down amidst the flames, extinguishing them. And now the light was uncertain and the terror could only be glimpsed. Cries and screams rose in the darkness, above them horrible roars as of some jungle beast. Great wings buffeted the air and Omally saw a gigantic head, like an eagle’s, though grossly magnified, rise and fall, driving its cruel beak amongst the writhing bodies that tumbled and fled before it. Yet the thing was not altogether bird - it moved upon four feet and a hellish barbed tail whipped and dived.

  Pooley and Omally, numb and speechless, fell back as a naked female plunged by them into the darkness beyond, crying and screaming. They saw a man lifted from his feet and wished to see no more. Turning tail they ran. The cove glowed silver-white in the moonlight, the naked woman was nowhere to be seen. In blind panic, knowing not what could or should be done, numb with fear and horror, they tore the coracle from its mooring, thrust it into the Thames and rowed away.

  24

  The french windows of Professor Slocombe’s study were,’ as ever, open. John and Jim tumbled through them, panting and wheezing. The old man sat at his desk, before him a galleried silver tray held three glasses and the inevitable whisky decanter.

  The Professor raised his ice-blue eyes from his books as the two white-faced survivors blinked at him. Laying aside an ivory-handled magnifying glass, his gaze left his uninvited guests and came to rest upon the decanter.John did not require a verbal invitation. Grasping the thing by the neck he splashed Scotch into the three glasses.

  ‘No ape,’ said he, ‘no ape, Professor.’

  ‘No,’ said the sage, ‘no ape. Now if you are able, contain your feelings and tell me what you have seen.’