The Brentford Triangle (The Brentford Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Rankin

  When the sound of its departing bells had faded, along with those of the appliance, away into the night, the observers of the holocaust drifted away to brew cocoa and prepare for their beds. Eventually just two members of the jolly band remained, one a fellow of Irish extraction and the other a man with a twitching right forefinger.

  ‘What now?’ asked John Omally.

  ‘A nocturnal golf tournament?’ Pooley suggested. ‘One for the road before we turn in, how does double or quits suit you?’

  ‘Very well, I think you owe me something for the evening of embarrassment you have given me. Care to put an extra wager upon the course record?’

  Pooley, who considered his sobriety to give him the natural edge, nodded enthusiastically and the two men wandered off towards the allotment. Omally affected the occasional drunken side-step in the hope of adding weight to Pooley’s conviction and causing him to bet a little more recklessly.

  It was a clear night. A hunter’s moon swam above in the heavens, edging the corrugated sheds with a priceless silver. The course was illuminated to such a degree that there was no need for the employment of the miner’s helmets Pooley had improvised for late matches.

  The allotment gates were barred and bolted. An officious Council lackey had also seen to it that they were now surmounted by a row of murderous looking barbs and a tangle of barbed wire. Exactly why, nobody could guess. Pooley and Omally were obliged to use their own private entrance.

  ‘A nine-holer or the full eighteen, Jim?’

  ‘The night is yet young and I feel more than equal to the task, remembering that you are already deeply in my debt.’ Pooley quietly unlocked his shed and withdrew the two sets of hidden clubs.

  Omally tossed a coin. ‘Heads,’ he said, as the copper coin spun into the night sky.

  Had the falling coin actually struck terra firma, as one might naturally have assumed that it would, it is possible that the events which followed might never have occurred. It is possible, but it is unlikely. The coin tumbled towards the allotment dust, until it reached a point about three inches above it, and then an extraordinary thing occurred. The coin suddenly arrested its downward journey and hovered in the air as if now reluctant to return to the planet of its origin.

  The two golfers stared at it in dumb disbelief. ‘Now that is what I would call a trick,’ said Jim, when he eventually found his voice. ‘You really must teach it to me on some occasion. Wires is it, or magnetism?’

  Omally shook his head. ‘None of my doing,’ he said, crossing his heart solemnly, ‘but it has come up heads so I suggest that you tee off first.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Pooley replied. ‘The coin has not yet reached the deck, it might have a couple of turns left in it.’

  ‘It has clearly stopped falling,’ said John, ‘and that is good enough for me. Kindly tee off.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Jim, shaking his head slowly and firmly. ‘I am not a man to call cheat, but the coin’s behaviour leads me to believe that something a little suspicious, to say the least, is going on here. Kindly toss it again.’

  ‘You want the best out of three then?’

  ‘No, the best out of one. I should like the coin, as the biblical seed itself, to fall upon the stony ground!’

  Omally shrugged. ‘I confess my own astonishment at the coin’s anarchistic behaviour, but I feel deeply insulted that you should even hint at duplicity upon my part. Trust being the bond which cements our long friendship, I suggest that we simply let the matter drop, or in this case hover.’

  ‘Toss the coin again,’ said Jim Pooley.

  ‘As you will,’ said Omally, who had now determined that he would cheat the second toss come what may. He stooped down and reached out a hand towards the hovering coin. He was rewarded almost instantaneously by a crackle of blue flame which scorched his fingertips and sent him reeling backwards into the shadows as if suddenly hit by a speeding locomotive. ‘Ooh, ouch, damn and blast,’ came a voice from the darkness.

  Pooley sniggered. ‘Must be a hotter night than I thought, John,’ he said, ‘Get a touch of static did you?’

  Omally gave out with a brief burst of obscenities.

  ‘Tut tut.’ Pooley stretched out a tentative boot to nudge the copper coin aside. This, in the light of Omally’s experience, was an ill-considered move upon his part. For his folly he received a similar charge of energy which caught his steel toecap, arched up the back of his leg and hit him squarely in the groin. ‘Erg,’ he said, which was in technical terms basically accurate. Clutching at his privy parts, he sank to his knees, eyes crossed.

  Omally crawled over to his gasping companion’s doubled form. ‘I take the oath that this is none of my doing,’ he said, blowing upon his charred finger-ends.

  Pooley said, ‘Erg,’ once more, which was at least an encouraging sign that life still remained in him.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Omally suddenly. ‘Not again.’ The dust beneath the hovering coin had cleared to reveal the grinning metallic face of yet another runic ideogram. As the two men watched, a faint glow seemed to engulf it; growing steadily, as if somehow charged from beneath, it bathed the symbol in a sharp white light.

  But it was no light of Earth. Although the symbol glowed with a dazzling brilliance, the light seemed self-contained and threw no illumination on to the awe-struck faces of the two golfers. Then, with an audible crackle, the light rose in a green column, a clear laser-like shaft, directly into the night sky.

  ‘Erg, erg,’ went Jim, gesticulating wildly in many directions. All over the allotments identical columns of light were rising. They soared into the black void of space, and although they dwindled to whitened hairs, there seemed no end to their journeyings.

  ‘Say this isn’t happening,’ Omally implored.

  Pooley could only offer another ‘Erg’, which was of no comfort whatever. In fact, as a means of communication the word ‘Erg’ was proving something of a dead loss.

  Just then the lights went out. One by one they snapped off, leaving the night as it were untouched, although Pooley and Omally knew very much to the contrary. Pooley at last found a tiny croaking voice which had been hiding at the back of his throat. ‘What were they, John?’

  Omally shook his head. ‘I think that it is possibly God’s way of telling us to give up golf.’

  Pooley found this explanation doubtful to say the least. ‘God, I think, is generally a little more direct about these things. A great man for a thunderbolt is God. But whatever it was, it was the final straw, the allotment has lost its charm for me.’

  ‘I can sympathize.’ Omally struggled to his feet and took to dusting down his tweeds with his one good hand. ‘With wandering camels, vanishing council spies, symbols and searchlights, there does seem to be an unwonted amount of activity hereabouts of late.’

  ‘I’m for telling the Professor,’ said Jim, getting a perfect mental image of a whisky decanter.

  Omally had taken to soaking his scorched fingers in a nearby water-butt. ‘I think,’ said he, ‘that the Professor has pressing business of his own. But, as you see, the coin has now reached the ground.’ He pointed towards where the rogue penny now lay upon the exposed symbol. ‘And even though it is still “heads”, in the face of the unfortunate accident which befell you I am willing to concede the toss.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Pooley stroked his trouser region gingerly, the old three-piece suite was smarting like a good ‘un. ‘I have now quite gone off golf, I should prefer a glass or two of nerve tonic rather better.’

  ‘Aha!’ Omally tapped his nose. ‘I think there might be a bottle or two of such stuff maturing even now in my hut, would you care to step across?’

  ‘I would indeed, but slowly now, I am not feeling at my best.’

  The two men wended their way over the allotment, treading warily and taking great lengths to avoid those areas where the strange symbols lay glowing faintly in the moonlight.

  Omally’s plot was always a matter for discussion and debate amongst his
fellow allotment-holders. John tended to steer clear of the general run-of-the-mill, socially acceptable forms of crop and specialize rather in things with unpronounceable Latin names and heady fragrances. Sniffing moggies often emerged from his plot vacant-eyed and staggering.

  Pooley stepped carefully across Omally’s bed of flowering mandrake and gestured towards a row of towering belladonna. ‘You have an unsavoury looking crop on at present,’ he said, by way of making conversation.

  ‘Export orders mostly,’ John told him. The shed itself had a good deal of the gingerbread cottage about it, with its trelliswork of climbing wolfbane and its poppy-filled window boxes. Omally unpadlocked the door and picked up a couple of picture postcards from the welcome mat. One of these carried upon its face a rooftop view of Brentford. Omally read this one aloud: ‘Encountering difficulties digging out Ark, but am confident that I will be able to haul it back to Brentford in one piece. Regards to all, Archroy.’

  ‘Do you actually believe any of the stuff he writes?’ Pooley asked.

  Omally shrugged his broad and padded shoulders. ‘Who is to say? He sends these cards to Neville and one or two other prominent Brentonians. I suspect there will shortly be a request for financial assistance with the Ark’s transportation. No doubt he will wish to have the money orders forwarded to some post-office box in West Ealing.’

  ‘You are a hard man, John.’

  ‘I am a realist,’ said the realist.

  Omally’s bottles were unearthed and drinks were poured. The two lazed variously upon potato sacks, sharing a Woodbine and musing upon this and that. As the contents of the bottles dwindled, likewise did the musing upon this and that. More and more did this musing spiral inwards, its vagueness and generalities crystallizing with each inward sweep to become definites and absolutes. And thus did these definites and absolutes eventually centre upon the woes and anguishes of interrupted golf tournaments in general and, in particular, their own.

  ‘It is becoming intolerable,’ said Pooley, draining his enamel mug and refilling it immediately.

  ‘Unbearable,’ said Omally, doing likewise.

  ‘Something must be done.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Something drastic.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘My bottle is empty,’ said Jim.

  Omally tossed him another.

  ‘Good health to you, John.’

  ‘And to yourself.’

  Three hours and as many bottles later the matter was coming very near to being resolved. A vote was being taken and by a show of hands it was carried unanimously. It was agreed that with the aid of two long-handled shovels, each fitted with rubber handgrips as a precautionary measure, the mysterious symbols would be dug from the ground. They would be transported by wheelbarrow, similarly insulated about the handle regions, to the river and therein unceremoniously dumped. With these obstacles to play satisfactorily removed, attention would be turned towards the matter of the council spies. It had not been fully resolved as to the exact course of action to be taken over this, but it was generally agreed that the employment of stout sticks would play a part in it.

  The moon had by now run a fair distance along its nightly course, and when the men emerged from Omally’s hut the allotment had about it the quality of a haunted place. There was a harsh, collars-up chill in the air and the low moon now cast long and sinister shadows across a deathly-tinted ground. The prospect of digging up a potential minefield held little if any appeal whatsoever.

  ‘Best make a fresh start in the morning,’ said Pooley, rubbing his hands briskly together. ‘I’m for my cosy nest, bed ways is best ways and all that.’

  Omally grasped the retreating Jim firmly by his threadbare collar. ‘Not so fast, Pooley,’ said he, ‘you are not going to bottle out on this now.’ Jim thought to detect a lack of conviction in the Irishman’s tone. ‘I suggest a compromise.’

  Pooley hovered on his toes. ‘You mean do it in shifts, you dig tonight, I tomorrow, I applaud that.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Omally tightened his grip. ‘I mean rather that we go round and set markers beside the symbols so we will be able to locate them. Then we both dig tomorrow.’

  Pooley thought this not only sound but also far less strenuous. ‘That is using the old grey matter,’ he told John. ‘Now, if you will release your grip, which is causing no little interference to my general welfare about the throat regions, I shall do my best to assist you.’

  Now began the inevitable discussion upon the best method of accomplishing the task in hand. Pooley suggested the hardy sprout as a piece of vegetable matter suitable for the job. In the interests of good taste

  Omally put up the spud as the ideal substitute. The war then waged between bean poles loaded with tinfoil, shredded newspaper laid out in the form of pentagrams and a whole host of objects ranging from the noble and worthy to the positively obscene. Finally, after Pooley had made a suggestion so ludicrous as to bring the naturally short-tempered Irishman within a hairbreadth of killing him there and then, Omally put his foot down once and for all.

  ‘Enough, enough,’ he shouted. ‘We will not mark them at all, we shall merely pace around the allotment and make notes as to each location as we come upon it. That is that.’

  If Pooley had worn a hat he would have taken it off to his companion and cast it into the air. ‘Brilliant,’ he said, shaking his head in admiration. ‘How do you do it, John?’

  ‘It’s a gift, I believe.’

  Pooley pulled out the Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf and handed it to Omally. ‘Let us go,’ he said. ‘The field is yours.’

  Now, it is to be remembered that both men had imbibed copious quantities of potato gin, a drink not noted for its sobering qualities, and that the light was extremely poor. Had it not been for these two facts it is just possible that the job might have been accomplished with some degree of success. As it was, in no time at all, the two men found themselves crossing and re-crossing their tracks and scrawling illegible diagrams and unreadable locative descriptions all over the exercise book.

  ‘We have done this one already,’ said Pooley, lurching to one side of a glowing symbol. ‘I’m sure we’ve done this one.’

  Omally shook his head, ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘it is as clear as clear, look, you can see the way we came.’ He tapped at the notebook and as he did so the moon crept away behind a large cloud, leaving them in total darkness. ‘Bugger,’ said John, ‘I cannot seem to find my way.’

  ‘Best call it off then,’ said Pooley, ‘bad light stops play, nothing more to be done, bed is calling.’

  ‘My hearing is acute,’ Omally warned. ‘One move and I strike you down.’

  ‘But, John.’

  ‘But nothing.’

  The two stood a moment awaiting the return of the moon. ‘What is that?’ Omally asked, quite without warning.

  ‘What is what?’ Pooley replied sulkily.

  Omally gestured invisibly to a point not far distant, where something definitely untoward was occurring. ‘That there.’

  Pooley peered about in the uncertain light and it did not take him long to see it. ‘Right,’ said Jim, ‘that is definitely me finished. The Pooleys know when their time is up.’

  ‘Keep your gaping gob shut,’ whispered Omally, as he leapt forward and dragged the quitter to the dust.

  Coming from the direction of Soap Distant’s abandoned hut a soft red light was growing. The door of the heavily bolted shed was slowly opening, showing a ghostly red glow.

  ‘Would you look at that?’ gasped Dublin’s finest.

  ‘I should prefer not,’ said Pooley, climbing to his feet and preparing for the off.

  Omally clutched at his companion, catching him by a ragged trouser cuff. ‘Look,’ said he, ‘now that is a thing.’

  From all points of the allotment shadowy forms were moving, figures indistinct and fuzzy about the edges, striding like automata, ever in the direction of the weird red light. ‘Ye gods,’ whispered Jim
as one passed near enough to expose his angular profile, ‘the council spies, dozens of them.’

  Omally dragged Pooley once more towards terra. ‘1 would counsel silence,’ he whispered, ‘and the keeping of the now legendary low profile.’

  ‘I feel sick,’ moaned Jim.

  The gaunt figures strode ever onwards. Silently they moved amongst the many scattered obstructions upon the allotment soil. Never a one turned his head from his goal and each walked with a mechanical precision.

  Pooley and Omally watched their progress with wide eyes and slack jaws. ‘We should follow them,’ said John, ‘see what they’re up to.’

  ‘With the corner up we should.’

  ‘Poltroon. Come on man, let’s sort the thing out.’

  Pooley sloped his drunken shoulders. ‘John,’ said he, ‘are you honestly suggesting that any good whatsoever will come from following this gang of weirdos? I feel rather that we would be walking straight into a trap. This is only my opinion of course, and it is greatly influenced by the state of blind panic I find myself in at present. There is something altogether wrong about every bit of this. Let us leave the allotment now, depart for ever, never to return. What do you say?’

  Omally weighed up the situation. Things did seem a little iffy. They were greatly outnumbered and there was definitely something unnatural about the striding men. Perhaps it would be wiser to run now and ask questions later. But there were a lot of questions that needed asking and now might be the best time to ask them, emboldened as they both were, or he at least, by the surfeit of alcohol pumping about the old arteries. ‘Come on, Jim,’ he said, encouragingly. ‘One quick look at what they’re up to, what harm can it do? After the day we’ve had nothing else can happen to us, can it?’