The Brentford Triangle (The Brentford Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Rankin

  Norman snapped his fingers. ‘Eurekas,’ he whistled, taking up a Brentford street directory and thumbing through the dog-eared pages. The ideal spot. The St Mary’s Allotment. The day being hot, all those dedicated tillers of God’s good earth would by now be resting their leathern elbows upon the Swan’s bar counter and lying about the dimensions of their marrows.

  Norman punched in the appropriate coordinates and leant back in his chair, waiting for the power to build up sufficiently for transference to occur. He crossed his fingers, lisped what words he knew of the Latin litany and pressed a blood-red button which had until recently been the property of the local fire brigade.

  A low purring rose from the electronic throat of the machinery, accompanied by a pulse-like beating. The lights upon the console sprang into redoubled illumination and the radio valves began to pulsate, expanding and contracting like some vertical crop of transparent onions. The little bulbs blinked in enigmatic sequences, passing back and forwards through the spectrum. Norman clapped his hands together and bobbed up and down in his chair. A thick blue smoke began to fill the room as the humming of the machinery rose several octaves into an ear-splitting whine. A strange pressure made itself felt in the kitchenette as if the gravitational field was being slowly increased.

  Norman suddenly realized that he was unable to raise his hands from the console or his feet from the floor, and someone or something was apparently lowering two-hundredweight sacks of cement on to his shoulders.

  His ears popping sickeningly, he gritted his gums and made a desperate attempt to keep his eyelids up.

  The ghastly whining and the terrible pressure increased. The lights grew brighter and brighter and the pulse beat ever faster. The apparatus was beginning to vibrate, window panes tumbled from their dried-putty housings and a crack swept across the ceiling. Beneath closed lids, Norman’s eyes were thoroughly crossed. Without grace he left his chair and travelled downwards at great speed towards the linoleum.

  All over Brentford electric appliances were beginning to fail: kettles ceased their whistlings, television pictures suddenly shrank to the size of matchboxes, the automated beer pumps at the New Inn trickled to a halt in mid-flow, and at the Swan the lights went out, leaving the rear section of the saloon-bar in darkness and the patrons blindly searching for their pints.

  Omally groaned. ‘It is the end of the world as we know it,’ he said. ‘I should never have got up so early today.’

  Pooley, who had had carrots the night before, topped up his pint from the Irishman’s glass. ‘Steady on, John,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘It is a power cut, nothing more. We have been getting them more or less every Wednesday afternoon for months now.’

  ‘But not like this.’

  Old Pete’s dog Chips set up a dismal howl which was unexpectedly taken up by Neville the part-time barman. ‘Look at it! Look at it!’ he wailed, pointing invisibly in the darkness. ‘Look at the bloody thing!’

  Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow went the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine, scornfully indifferent to the whims of the Southern Electricity Board, or anyone else for that matter.

  In the tiny kitchenette to the rear of the corner shop there was a sharp and deafening twang, and a great bolt of lightning burst forth, charring the walls and upturning the banks of pulsating equipment. There followed a moment or two of very extreme silence. Smoke hung heavily in the air, cables swung to and fro like smouldering leander vines and the general atmosphere of the place had more than the hint of the charnel house about it.

  At length, from beneath the fallen wreckage, something stirred. Slowly, and with much coughing, gasping and sighing, a blackened toothless figure rose painfully to his feet. He now lacked not only his upper set but also his eyebrows and sported a fetching, if somewhat bizarre, charcoal forelock. He kicked away the debris and fumbled about amidst the heaps of burned-out valves and twisted gubbins. ‘Ahs,’ he said, suddenly wielding a smoke-veiled gauge into view, ‘success I thinks.’

  Something had come through, and by the measurement upon that gauge it was a relatively substantial, goodly few hundredweight of something.

  Norman wiped away a few loose eyelashes with a grimy knuckle, satisfied himself that there was no immediate danger of fire and sought his overcoat.

  Small Dave had finished his midday deliveries and was taking his usual short cut back from the Butts Estate towards the Flying Swan for a well-deserved pint of Large. As he shuffled across the allotment, his size four feet kicking up little dusty explosions, he whistled a plaintive lament, the title of which he had long forgotten. He had not travelled twenty yards down the path, however, when he caught sight of something which made him halt in mid-pace and doubt that sanity which so many had previously doubted in him.

  Small Dave took off his cap and wiped it across his eyes. Was this a mirage, he wondered, or was he seeing things? Something overlarge and definitely out of place was grazing amongst his cabbages. It was a foul and scruffy-looking something of bulky proportion and it was emitting dismal grumbling sounds between great munches upon his prizewinning Pringlea antiscorbutica.

  Dave screwed up his eyes. Could this be the Sasquatch perhaps? Or the Surrey Puma? Possibly it was the giant feral torn, which, legend held, stalked the allotments by night. The postman drew cautiously nearer, keeping even lower to the ground than cruel fate had naturally decreed. Ahead of him the creature’s outline became more clearly defined and Small Dave knew that at least he was staring upon a beast of a known genus. Although this gave him little in the way of consolation.

  The thing was of the genus Camelns bactrianus. It was a camel!

  Small Dave’s thoughts all became a little confused at this moment. He was never very good when it came to a confrontation with the unexpected. Arriving with a six-inch letter to discover a five-inch letter-box was enough to set him foaming at the mouth. Now, a camel on the allotment, a camel that was eating his precious cabbages, that was a something quite in a class by itself.

  Dave’s first thought, naturally enough, was that the thing should be driven off without delay. His second was that it was a very large camel and that as a species camels are notoriously malevolent creatures, who do not take kindly to interference during meal times. His third was that they are also valuable and there would no doubt be a handsome reward for anyone who should return a stray.

  His fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh thoughts were loosely concerned with circuses, Romany showmen who were apt to snatch dwarves away for side-shows, an old Tod Browning movie he had once seen, and the rising cost of cabbages.

  Small Dave’s lower lip began to tremble and a look of complete imbecility spread over his gnomish countenance. He dithered a moment or two not knowing what to do, flapped his hands up and down as if in an attempt to gain flight, gave a great cry of despair, took to his heels and finally ran screaming from the allotment.

  He had not been gone but a moment or two when a soot-besmirched head arose from behind a nearby water-butt. Apart from its lack of teeth and eyebrows, it bore a striking resemblance to Sir Lawrence Olivier in his famous portrayal of Othello.

  A broad and slightly lunatic smile cleft the blackened face in two and a wicked chuckle rose in the throat of the watcher.

  ‘Success indeeds,’ whistled Norman, rubbing his hands together and dancing out from his hiding place. With a quick glance about to assure himself that he was now alone, he skipped over to the cabbage-chewing camel and snatched up its trailing halter line. ‘Huts, huts,’ he said. ‘Imshees yallahs.’ With hardly the slightest degree of persuasion and little or no force at all, Norman led the surprisingly docile brute away.

  From behind Soap Distant’s padlocked shed, yet another figure now emerged. This one wore a grey coverall suit, was of average height, with a slightly tanned complexion and high cheek-bones. He looked for all the world like a young Jack Palance. Through oval amber eyes he watched the shopkeeper and his anomalous charge depart. Drawing from a concealed pocket an instrument somewhat resemb
ling a brass divining rod, he traced a runic symbol into the dusty soil of the allotment and then also departed upon light and silent feet.

  7

  When the lights returned once more to the Flying Swan, a moment or two after the holocaust in Norman’s kitchenette, they exposed a frozen tableau of deceit and duplicity, which was a sad indictment upon the state of our society.

  Neville stood poised behind the counter, knobkerry at the ready, to defend his optics against any straining hands.

  Pooley held Omally’s glass above his own, a stupefied expression upon his guilty face. Two professional domino players each had their hands in the spares box. Old Pete’s dog was standing, leg raised, to the piano, and a veritable rogues’ gallery of similar deeds was exposed the entire length of the bar.

  Neville shook his head in disgust, ‘You miserable bunch,’ was all that he could say.

  The only patron who had not shifted his position during the unscheduled blackout was a green-haired youth, who had been so engrossed in his war against the aliens that he had been totally oblivious to the entire event.

  Bitow Bitow Bitow Bitow crackled the machine. Bitow, Bitow. . . ‘Bugger!’ The lad restrained a petulant foot and slouched over to the bar counter. ‘Where’s me drink gone, Nev?’ he asked.

  The part-time barman shrugged. ‘Ask this mutinous crew,’ he suggested. Raffles Rathbone turned towards the assembled multitude, but they had by now returned to their previous occupations. Conversations hummed, darts whispered and glasses rose and fell. All was as it had ever been.

  ‘Same again then is it?’

  ‘Why not? Got sixteen thousand, personal high score, got me initials up there three times.’

  ‘Oh goody goody,’ sneered Neville. ‘Are you sure you only want the half of shandy, I shouldn’t crack a bottle of Bollinger, should I?’

  ‘The half will be fine, thank you.’ Neville did the honours.

  The Swan settled down once more to its lunchtime normality, and such it would no doubt have enjoyed, had it not been for certain distant screams, which were borne upon the light spring breeze to announce the approach of a certain small and disconsolate postman.

  ‘Camels! Camels on the allotment!’ The cry reached the Swan shortly before Small Dave.

  Omally choked into his beer. ‘No more!’ he spluttered, crossing himself. Pooley shook his head; it was proving to be a most eventful day and it was early yet. Neville reached once more for his knobkerry and Raffles Rathbone stood before the video machine, oblivious to the world about him.

  Small Dave burst into the Swan, looking very much the worse for wear. He lurched up to the counter and ordered a large scotch. Neville looked down at the distraught postman, and it must be said that the makings of a fine smirk began to form at the edges of his mouth. Turning away he drew off a single for which he accepted double price. Small Dave tossed it back in one gulp as Neville had calculated and ordered another.

  ‘C-C-Camels,’ he continued.

  Neville drew off a large one this time as a crowd was beginning to gather. ‘So, Posty,’ he said, pushing the glass across the counter towards the postman’s straining hand, ‘how goes the day for you then?’

  Small Dave made pointing motions towards the general direction of the allotments. His lower lip quivered and he danced about in a state of obvious and acute agitation.

  ‘No more postcards then?’ Neville asked.

  ‘C-C-Camels!’ howled the midget.

  Neville turned to Omally, who had dragged himself up to the bar counter. ‘Do you think our postman is trying to tell us something, John?’ he asked.

  ‘He is saying camels,’ said Jim Pooley helpfully.

  ‘Ah, that is what it is, camels, eh?’

  ‘C-C-Camels!’

  ‘Yes, it is camels for certain,’ said Omally.

  ‘He has a lovely way with words,’ said Neville, suddenly feeling quite cheerful, ‘and a good eye for a picture postcard.’

  ‘For God’s sake! Camels, don’t you understand?’ Small Dave was growing increasingly purple and his voice was reaching a dangerous, champagne-glass-splitting kind of a pitch.

  ‘Is he buying .or selling, do you think?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought to enquire.’ Neville squinted down at the postman, who was now down on all fours beating at the carpet. ‘He is impersonating, I think.’

  Old Pete hobbled up. He had experienced some luck recently over impersonating and wasn’t going to miss out on a good thing. ‘That’s not the way of a camel,’ he said authoritatively. ‘That’s more like a gerbil.’

  Small Dave fainted, arms and legs spread flat out on the floor.

  ‘That’s a polar bear skin,’ said Old Pete, ‘and a very good one too!’

  Small Dave was unceremoniously hauled up into a waiting chair. A small green bottle was grudgingly taken down from its haunt amongst the Spanish souvenirs behind the bar, uncorked and waggled beneath the midget’s upturned nose.

  ‘C-C-Camels!’ went Small Dave, coming once more to what there were left of his senses.

  ‘I find that his conversation has become a trifle dull of late,’ said Neville.

  ‘I think it might pay to hear him out.’ Pooley thrust his way through the throng with a glass of water.

  The postman spied out his approach. ‘What’s that for?’ he snapped. ‘Going to give me a blanket bath, are you?’

  Jim coughed politely. ‘You are feeling a little better then? I thought perhaps you might like to discuss whatever is troubling you.’

  ‘I should enjoy another scotch to steady myself.’

  The crowd departed as one man; they had seen all this kind of stuff many many times before. The ruses and stratagems employed in the cause of the free drink were as numerous as they were varied. The cry of ‘Camels’, although unique in itself, did not seem particularly meritorious.

  ‘But I saw them, I did, I did,’ wailed Small Dave, as he watched the patrons’ hurried departure. ‘I swear.’

  He crossed himself above the heart. ‘See this wet, see this dry. Come back fellas, come back.’

  No-one had noticed John Omally quietly slipping away. He had become a man sorely tried of late, what with vanishing Council men and everything. The idea of camels upon the allotment was not one which appealed to him in the slightest. He could almost hear the clicking of tourists’ Box Brownies and the flip-flopping of their beach-sandalled feet as they trampled over the golf course. It didn’t bear thinking about. If there were rogue camels wandering around the allotment, Omally determined that they should be removed as quickly as possible.

  John jogged down Moby Dick Terrace and up towards the allotment gates. Here he halted. All seemed quiet enough. A soft wind gently wrinkled the long grass at the boundary fence. A starling or two pecked away at somebody’s recently sown seed and a small grey cat stretched luxuriously upon the roof of Pooley’s hut. Nothing unusual here, all peace and tranquillity.

  Omally took a few tentative steps forward. He passed the first concealed tee-box and noted with satisfaction that all was as it should be. He crept stealthily in and out between the shanty town of corrugated huts, sometimes springing up and squinting around, eyes shaded like some Indian tracker.

  Then a most obvious thought struck him: there were only two entrances to the allotment and any camel would logically have to pass either in or out of these. Therefore any camel would be bound to leave some kind of spoor which could surely be followed.

  Omally dropped to his knees upon the path and sought camel prints. He then rose slowly to his feet and patted at the knees of his trousers. What on earth am I doing? he asked himself. Seeking camel tracks upon a Brentford allotment, he answered. Have I become bereft of my senses? He thought it better not to answer that one. And even if I saw a camel track, how would I recognize it as one?

  This took a bit of thinking out, but it was eventually reasoned that a camel track would look like no other track Omally had yet seen upon the allotment, and thus be recognized.
<
br />   Omally shrugged and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. He wandered slowly about, criss-crossing the pathway and keeping alert for anything untoward. He came very shortly upon the decimation of Small Dave’s pride and joy. Half-munched cabbages lay strewn in every direction. Something had certainly been having its fill of the tasty veg. Omally stooped to examine a leaf and found to his wonder large and irregular tooth-marks upon it.

  ‘So,’ said he, ‘old Posty was not talking through his regulation headgear, something has been going on here.’

  He scanned the ground but could make out nothing besides very human-looking footprints covering the well-trodden pathway. Some of these led off towards the Butts Estate entrance, but Omally felt disinclined to follow them. His eyes had just alighted upon something rather more interesting. Slightly in front of Soap Distant’s padlocked shed, an image glowed faintly in the dirt. Omally strode over to it and peered down. He was certain the thing had not been there earlier.

  The Irishman dropped once more to his hands and knees. It had an almost metallic quality to it, as if it had been wrought into the dirt in copper. But as to exactly what it was, that was another matter. Omally drew a tentative finger across its surface but the thing resisted his touch. He rose and raked his heel across it but the image remained inviolate.

  John peered up into the sky. It wasn’t being projected from above, was it? No, that was nonsense. But surely it had to come off, you couldn’t print indelibly on earth. He scuffed at the ground with renewed vigour, raising a fine cloud of dust which slowly cleared to reveal the image glowing up once more, pristine and unscathed.

  Omally stooped again and pressed his eye near to the thing. What was it? Obviously a symbol of some sort, or an insignia. There was a vaguely familiar look to it, as if it was something he had half glimpsed upon some occasion but never fully taken in. It had much of the rune about it also.