The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (The Brentford Trilogy Book 5)

by Robert Rankin

‘Really?’ said John once again.

  ‘Oh, yes. Umbrellas, packs of cards, a couple of top hats, some flintlock pistols, even a monk’s satchel.’

  Omally tried to say ‘Really?’ but the word wouldn’t come.

  ‘I should have a clear-out, I suppose,’ said Neville. ‘But I never seem to find the time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind doing it for you,’ said John, in a curious strangled kind of whisper.

  ‘Something wrong with your voice, John?’

  ‘No.’ John cleared his throat. ‘Lead me to it. I’ll clear it out right now.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t put you to the trouble.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, I assure you. Consider it my good deed for the day.’

  ‘Well, if you really want to.’

  John rubbed his hands together.

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ said Neville.

  ‘Oh, it does, it really does.’

  ‘Well, please yourself,’ said Neville. ‘But there’s nothing of value down there.’

  ‘I never thought there was.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Neville, ‘then you won’t be disappointed when you don’t find the Brentford Scrolls.’

  John returned to Jim’s table with the drinks.

  ‘Why is everyone up at the bar laughing?’ Jim asked. ‘And why have you got a face like a smacked bottom?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said John, in a bitter tone.

  ‘Am I to assume that we will be continuing our search elsewhere?’

  ‘You are. Let’s have another look at those maps.’

  ‘I don’t think it will help. Look here, I photocopied a present-day map of the borough. The whole place has been built over. See what stands on the site of the old monastery?’

  John saw. ‘The police station,’ he said.

  ‘We’re not going to find it from maps.’Jim sipped some ale. ‘How many people must have tried before us?’

  ‘At least two dozen in here, apparently,’ said John through gritted teeth.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Never mind. All right, throw away the maps. Let us apply our wits.’

  ‘You’re not hoping for an early result then?’

  ‘If the scrolls exist, we will find them. Trust me on this.’

  ‘Oh, I do. But we’ll have to come up with something pretty radical.’

  ‘Necromancy!’ said John.

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty radical. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Calling up the spirits of the dead.’

  ‘Get real, John, please.’

  ‘Spiritualists do it all the time.’

  ‘I got thrown out of a spiritualist church once,’ said Jim.

  ‘Did you? Why was that?’

  ‘Well, I went along because they had this guest medium, Mrs Batty Moonshine or someone, and she kept saying, “There are spirits here, I can see them all around, they’re trying to communicate,” and then she said, “I’m getting a message for someone called John.” ’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, ‘curiously enough they always say that.’

  ‘And she did and there’s Johns all over the church putting up their hands. So I called out “Ask the spirit for John’s surname,” and they threw me out.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘I was only trying to be helpful. But I don’t think it works really, do you?’

  ‘Probably not. But if it did and we could speak to the monk directly––’

  ‘The only way you could do that is if you had a time machine.’

  Omally laughed.

  But Pooley didn’t. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what?’

  ‘A time machine.’

  ‘Did you suck a lot of lead soldiers when you were a child, Jim?’

  ‘No, I mean it. That’s how we do it. Travel back in time.’

  ‘Travel back to the bar and get some more drinks in.’

  ‘No, John, I’m not kidding. I’ve been doing these mental exercises for months. Trying to travel forwards in time through the power of the mind.’

  ‘In your search for the winning lottery numbers. I’ve tried hard not to laugh.’

  ‘But I can only travel backwards. I relive my childhood over and over again.’

  ‘That’s not time travel, Jim. You recall your childhood memories because they are memories. Just memories.’

  ‘I could do it. I know I could.’

  ‘Away into the night with you.’

  ‘I could do it.’ Jim made a most determined face.

  ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘I’ll get these in,’ said John, taking up the glasses. ‘And we’ll speak some more of this.’

  At a little after lunchtime closing, John and Jim were to be found once more strolling the thoroughfares of Brentford.

  ‘All right,’ said John. ‘We’ll give it a go. Where do you want to do it?’

  ‘I’ve always done it on the bench outside the Memorial Library.’

  ‘It’s a bit public there. Do it in the park.’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’

  John and Jim strolled down to the park. There were few people about, a dog-walker or two, a pram-pushing mum. Jim sat down with his back against a tree.

  ‘What exactly do you do next?’ John asked.

  ‘I just sort of go to sleep.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘But it’s not a real sleep. It’s an altered state.’

  ‘Are you usually sober when you do this?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘You could make a noise like a road drill.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, they’ve been digging up the road near the library and I find the noise seems to help.’

  ‘Brrrrrrrt!’ went John Omally, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘Curiously that sounds just like a Vespa.’

  ‘Raaaaaaaa!’ went John.

  ‘Not bad, but can you do it in A minor?’

  ‘A minor,’ said John. ‘That takes me back.’

  ‘It takes me back also, but why does it take you back?’

  ‘A minor. Blues harmonica. I had a Hohner. It was in A minor. The blues are always in A minor.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s significant. Go on then, do it in A minor.’

  Omally did it in A minor.

  A lady in a straw hat walked by. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed,’ she said.

  John continued in A minor as Pooley settled back against the tree and readied for the off. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes.

  And soon the dreaming mind of Jim went once more on its walkabout.

  Lottery balls went pop, pop, pop and the Blue Peter bloke poured out the same old spiel. Jim saw himself in the audience again with his left foot bandaged up. Then there it was again, the breakfast-then-the-bookies-the-bookies-then-the-pub-the-pub-then-home-for-tea––

  ‘Back,’ commanded Jim. ‘Go back.’

  ‘Mmmmmm,’ went John Omally.

  Back went Jim. To his teenage years, the Blue Triangle Club and Sandra of the rhyming slang. Then back to the childhood holidays and school and the headmaster’s room.

  ‘Go back.’

  To nursery school, the cradle, the maternity ward, then––

  WHACK!

  And it wasn’t the sound of a door on a wall. It was a WHACK of a different persuasion. ‘I’m going,’ whispered Jim. ‘I’m off and going now.’

  ‘Then go with God, my friend,’ said John, for this seemed the right thing to say. And so Jim drifted back.

  Streets of houses rose up before him and fell away behind, women in mob caps with babies on their hips, gentlemen with high wing collars, splendid in their sideburns. Hansom cabs and broughams, horses and pony traps, then dandies in coloured waistcoats, fops and dollymops, ladies with pompadours, hoop skirts and silken drawers–

  Back.

  Jim felt heat upon his face.
Where was he now? It was hot here. In the distance rude dwellings. Jim thought himself closer. Phew! What a stink! So that’s why they were called rude. But who’s this?

  Jim saw him marching over a hill, his robes blowing about him. Brown robes, knotted at the waist, bare legs and sandals. He was clutching something to his chest, something wrapped in a velvet cloth.

  The monk marched ever closer.

  Jim could see his face now. It was the face of an Old Testament prophet. Noble-browed, wild of eye, with a great beak of a nose, a chin thrust forward.

  And on he marched. Right past.

  ‘Hold on,’ cried Jim. ‘I want a word with you.’ But the monk didn’t turn.

  He didn’t see Jim.

  But who was this?

  A hooded rider was coming out of the East, as though borne on the wind. He rode towards the monk, reigned in his horse and dismounted.

  ‘Ho there, holy father,’ he cried.

  ‘Out of my way, villain.’

  Rather harsh words for a monk, thought Jim, but he stared in awe at the rider. For the rider had now pulled back his hood and his face could clearly be seen.

  ‘I go with God,’ declared the monk. ‘Do not stand in my way.’

  ‘But I am God’s messenger, or rather the messenger of his messenger.’ The rider smiled wickedly. ‘I have something to deliver.’

  ‘I want nothing from you, odorous one. I smell the breath of Satan on you. The sulphur of the pit.’

  ‘Your words are unappealing, monk. What have you in your bundle?’

  ‘I have the Days of God. And God will not be denied them.’

  ‘God may not be denied his days. But I deny you yours.’

  ‘Stand aside, Antichrist.’

  ‘Your days are numbered, monk. Your end is now.’

  ‘Stand aside.’

  ‘Recommend yourself to your maker.’

  And then a blade flashed in the sunlight and the searing wind and drove in again and again. And then Jim saw more. Much more. Horror piling on horror.

  And then he awoke with a scream.

  Omally was shaking him. ‘Are you all right, Jim? You’re white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’m OK. I’m OK.’

  ‘You’ve a terrible sweat on you.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Did you see him? The monk, did you see him?’

  ‘I saw him all right. I saw everything. It was terrible, John. Terrible.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘It was the stuff about me in Compton-Cummings’s book. “Surely this is the breath of Pooley.” An assassin came out of the East with the wind and the assassin was me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘One of my ancestors. One of my ancestors murdered the monk.’

  ‘Holy Mary!’

  ‘He was sent by the Pope. You see, the Pope couldn’t rescind the papal bull. Those things are supposed to be inspired by God. And God isn’t noted for changing his mind. So the Pope called in an assassin to murder the monk and destroy the Brentford Scrolls.’

  ‘And this assassin was one of your blokes?’

  ‘He looked just like me.’

  ‘And did he destroy the scrolls?’

  ‘No. He tried to blackmail the Pope. Demand piles of gold for the scrolls.’

  ‘So what did the Pope do?’

  ‘He sent an assassin to assassinate the assassin.’

  ‘The rotter.’

  ‘Too right. That assassin was a Mr Sean Omally.’

  ‘God’s teeth and trousers.’

  ‘So then the assassin of the assassin tries it on with the Pope and the Pope gets another assassin to assassinate him. And then this assassin––’

  ‘Does this go on for very long?’

  ‘For years.’

  ‘So who fetched up with the scrolls in the end?’

  ‘One of my blokes.’

  ‘And did he destroy them?’

  ‘No, he buried them.’

  ‘Where, Jim? Did you see where?’

  ‘I saw exactly where.’

  ‘So do you know where they are now?’

  ‘I know exactly where they are now.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s so weird,’ said Pooley. ‘I mean, the thing must have been locked into my genes. Part of some ancestral memory, perhaps. Passed down from father to son from generation to generation.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I must have known all along. It’s the place I always go to, you see. My kind of spiritual haven. I’m drawn to it whenever I want to be at peace and think. I never knew why, but something inside always told me to go there.’

  ‘So where is it, Jim?’

  ‘The bench outside the library. The scrolls are buried in a casket underneath.’

  12

  ‘Would you look at that?’ said John Omally. ‘Did you ever in your life see a bench more firmly cemented into the ground than this lad?’

  Jim Pooley shook his head. ‘But I suppose if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be here for long.’

  ‘True enough. But how are we going to get it up?’

  Jim stroked his chin. ‘All right,’ said he, ‘considering that we have got this far by doing it our way, I suggest we apply our unique talents and effect a speedy and successful conclusion.’

  ‘Well said,’ said John. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Go on what?’

  ‘Apply your unique talents.’

  ‘Right.’ Jim looked the bench up and down and around and about, scuffed his heels upon its mighty concrete base and then stood back with his hands upon his hips and his head cocked on one side. ‘We will just have to blow the blighter up,’ said he.

  ‘Blow the blighter up?’ Omally flinched.

  ‘Easiest solution. No messing about.’

  Omally sighed. ‘Jim,’ he said. ‘Exactly how deep in the ground are the scrolls?’

  ‘I give up,’ said Jim. ‘Exactly how deep?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. But we can’t blow up the bench in case we blow up the scrolls also.’

  ‘Controlled blast. You know all about explosions, John.’

  ‘Not so loud.’ John put sshing fingers to his mouth. ‘It’s a bad idea. And don’t you think that the sound of an explosion might just attract the attention of passers-by?’

  ‘We could do it at night, when everyone’s asleep.’

  John let free a second sigh. ‘Do you have any more inspired ideas of a unique nature?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘I do. We could tunnel under.’

  ‘Tunnel under?’

  ‘Like in this film I saw. The Wooden Horse, I think it was called. These prisoners of war built this vaulting horse and they went out every day and exercised with it. But there was a bloke inside with a spoon and a bag and he dug this tunnel and––’

  ‘Wasn’t Trevor Howard in that one?’

  ‘He might have been. I think John Mills was.’

  ‘Didn’t Anton Diffring play the Nazi officer?’

  ‘With the long leather coat?’

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t you always want a coat like that?’

  ‘I still do.’

  ‘I’ll buy you one when we get our first pay cheque.’

  ‘Thank you very much, John. Now what exactly were we talking about? I think I’ve lost the plot here.’

  ‘You were just telling me that we should build a vaulting horse and carry it out into the library garden every morning so that while I exercise on it you can be underneath with a spoon tunnelling to the bench.’

  Jim nodded enthusiastically. ‘I have to say’, he said, ‘that when you put it that way, it comes across as a really stupid idea.’

  ‘Doesn’t it though.’

  ‘So,’ said Jim, ‘that leaves us with Marchant.’

  ‘Marchant?’

  ‘Once he’s restored to his former greatness, we’ll hitch him to the bench with a length of chain and––’

  John was shaking his head.

 
‘You’re shaking your head,’ said Jim.

  ‘I am,’ said John.

  ‘All right then, I give up. I’ve offered you three perfectly sound suggestions and you’ve pooh-poohed every one. It’s your turn.’

  John offered up another sigh. ‘There has to be some simple way to shift it,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and discuss it somewhere else. The sound of all these road drills in A minor starting up again is giving me a headache.’

  And John looked at Jim.

  And Jim looked at John.

  And then they both smiled.

  And Early the Very Next Morning

  ‘And what do you think you’re doing there, my good man?’ asked the official-looking gent with the bowler hat, the big black moustache and the clipboard.

  ‘Me, guv?’ asked the bloke down the hole.

  ‘Yes you, guv.’

  ‘Cable TV,’ said the bloke. ‘We’re laying the cable.’

  ‘Does anyone in Brentford actually want cable TV?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s all rubbish, isn’t it? Presented by a lot of has-beens, like that Blue Peter bloke who had that spot of bother with the––’

  ‘I believe I read of it in the Sunday Sport. But if no one actually wants cable TV, what’s the point of all this digging?’

  The bloke down the hole grinned. ‘Now you’re asking,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you. You see, I drill the hole and then my mate here takes this big saw and cuts off the important roots of the roadside trees.’

  ‘But won’t that kill them?’

  ‘It certainly will. Within two years from now there won’t be a single tree left in any town or city in the country.’

  ‘But surely that’s a very bad thing?’

  ‘Depends whose side you’re on, I suppose. It will be a bad thing for us, but not for the alien strike force drifting secretly in orbit around the planet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, this is only my personal theory, and I may be well off the mark, but I believe that the cable television network is run by space aliens bent upon world domination. And they’re seeing that all the trees get cut down so the atmosphere on Earth changes to one more suitable for themselves.’

  ‘Great Scott!’ said the official-looking gent.

  ‘Nah, only kidding,’ said the bloke down the hole. ‘The truth is that we only do it because we’re stupid. Blokes who dig holes in the road are all working class and all the working class are stupid.’