The Lord of the Ring Roads

by Robert Rankin

It was all Jim Pooley’s fault.

  Not that Jim was some kind of technophobic iconoclast. Some present day Luddite. Not a bit of it! Jim considered himself to be a thoroughly modern fellow, well-versed in all the subtle nuances of computer technology. A man of his time. But sad indeed it must be told, Jim and computers just did not get on. There had been some unpleasantness. Some shouting on Jim’s part. Some drumming of fists onto keyboards. And now there was only one serviceable computer and Jim sat before it.

  luckyjim@brentfordlibrary.co.uk

  Jim sat back whilst things of a cybernetic nature took place. Jim sat forward, then Jim whistled.

  ‘Forty-two new emails,’ whistled Jim and he moved the mouse and did clickings. So many young and beautiful women, all lonely and looking for love.

  ‘Soon enough, my dears,’ said Jim. ‘As soon as I have some money.’

  Then ‘ah,’ said Jim and ‘ah,’ once more. Yet another email from Goodwill Jeremy, the deposed Nigerian prince. Jim really felt for this unlucky fellow, erstwhile ruler of a gold and diamond-rich province so exclusive that it was not to be found on any map. Jim shook his head, and as for the prince himself, benign and generous ruler, ousted from his palace by mercenaries in the pay of an evil warlord. And forced to flee without his cheque book.

  Jim sipped at the thoroughly modern coffee he had purchased from the thoroughly modern coffee shop which had lately appeared in the High Street. Mrs Naylor the senior librarian hissed at him. Pooley placed his paper cup on the floor and perused the prince’s email.

  Although apparently educated at Oxford, the prince employed a form of pidgin English which oft times had Jim guessing. But on this occasion the message was clear enough. If “deer frend Pooley” would be so kind as to send a paltry one hundred pounds sterling, the prince would have just enough to board a London-bound aeroplane and resolve his financial issues. The handsome remuneration promised Jim for aiding in this noble quest was of eyebrow-raising gob-smackery.

  And Jim did have a bank account.

  Even if it was as empty as a politician’s promise.

  Jim sighed, he felt certain that his bank manager would have no objection to him wandering slightly into the red. In so good a cause and with the promise of the prince’s largesse soon to be flowing into Jim’s account. And everything.

  Not to mention the potential profits from the online betting. Jim felt it definitely better not to mention those.

  ‘Onwards and upwards,’ said Jim and having dispatched an email to Prince Goodwill stating that a cheque would shortly be put in the post, Jim waggled the mouse and turned his attention to betting.

  But. And this was a ‘but’ not new to Jim. But he became distracted. There were just so many things to see upon the internet. So many links that might be followed. So many newsfeeds and chatrooms and heaven-alone-knew-what-else. And amongst all of these there was one continuing news story that held Jim’s attention above all others.

  And this was the tale of the giant.

  Certainly giants, as such, were not strange to Jim. He had met many at Count Otto Black’s Circus Fantastique, which had made yearly visits to Ealing Common when Jim had been a lad. In those days there were numerous interesting people to be met at the circus. Jim had shaken hands with strongmen, bearded ladies, alligator boys, fat chaps and giants. Such was the way of the circus back then.

  No, it was not the fact of there being a giant that held Jim’s interest. It was the fact that the internet newsfeeds were referring to him as the Goodwill Giant. The synchronicity with the name of His Nigerian Highness was not lost upon Jim, who, as a betting man, carried with himself all the superstitious baggage attendant to this perilous calling.

  The Goodwill Giant had first made the news in Hampton Court, where he had rescued a kitten from a drain. He was next heard of in Kingston where he had intervened to spare a young Asian fellow a brutal thrashing at the hands of a teenage gang. Folk at Teddington Lock had witnessed him save a drowning child and at Richmond he had not only helped an old lady across the road but had also carried her shopping all the way home.

  Jim was not wildly impressed by the Richmond incident, but one thing was abundantly clear, the Goodwill Giant was following the course of the River Thames. Which meant that he would soon be walking the streets of Brentford, no doubt bringing his good will with him.

  To Jim’s mind this all fell perfectly into place. If Jim did good things for Goodwill Jeremy then perhaps the Goodwill Giant might do good things for Jim. As well as the good things that Goodwill Jeremy would soon be doing also. So to speak.

  It was “joined-up thinking” in Jim’s opinion. A term he had gleaned from the internet. But one that he found both pleasing and appropriate.

  ‘So,’ whispered Jim to himself. ‘If the Goodwill Giant is coming to town, it is fitting that someone should greet him. Extend to him a welcome. Perhaps even stand him a pint of Large within the Flying Swan.’

  Jim logged out of the library computer, rose and stretched and stepped to take his leave.

  Kicking over his coffee as he did so.

  Mrs Naylor raised her voice and words that lacked for any good will followed Jim into the sunshine.

  Brentford Memorial Library, a gift to the borough by the philanthropist Andrew Carnegie, stands foursquare on the northern corner of the famous Butts Estate.

  Where, one thousand and one years before, Edmund Ironside had trounced King Canute in the area which was now the car park before The Seaman’s Mission.

  Where also, two hundred and sixty years before, Dr Johnson had attended the annual Goose Fair and viewed a live griffin in a showman’s booth. A griffin, which, according to local legend, had later escaped and gone to roost upon the Brentford Ait, a small island in the Thames. A griffin whose descendant might still be seen today. So local legend told.

  Jim had never seen the griffin, but he did like the story.

  Nowadays there was peace upon The Butts Estate. No sword-play nor any squawkings from a mythical chimera. The fine, unspoiled Georgian houses were the habitations of the wealthy. The ancient oaks brought shade to expensive automobiles. Ball games were discouraged. Raucous singing prohibited.

  Jim, a born and bred Brentonian, was unacquainted with any of these well-to-do residents. He knew but a single fellow who dwelt on The Butts Estate and this was Professor Slocombe.

  A learned ancient was this man and one recognised to be Brentford’s patriarch. Jim did the occasional bits of gardening for the professor, enjoyed his sherry and listened with pleasure to the wisdom of his words. If ever there was a man to be trusted, this was the man that there was.

  Jim whistled quietly as he paced along the tree-lined drive of The Butts Estate. When his ship came in he would definitely be buying one of these houses. Get himself one of those shallow television sets that hang upon the wall.

  He would live the life he had always dreamed of living. Oh yes indeed.

  The train of Jim’s thoughts was rudely derailed by a most annoying sound. A repetitive squeaking, as of a mouse in torment. As of a giant mouse by the growing din of it. Jim turned to view the source of the sound, for the source of the sound he knew.

  It was a bike named Marchant with a wheel that squeak-squeak-squeaked. Upon this bike rode himself the Omally, Pooley’s best friend.

  Now it must be firmly stated that Jim and John’s bike Marchant did not always see eye to head-lamp. There was a certain animosity. The relationship was more than a little strained. John and Jim were fine enough, but Jim and Marchant? No!

  It was, perhaps a “technology thing”. For although there was little more technological gubbinry aboard Marchant than his Sturmey Archer three-speed gear set, this alone seemed sufficient to make itself an enemy of Jim.

  ‘Squeak-squeak-squeak,’ said Marchant’s wheel.

  ‘God save all here,’ called John.

  Jim Pooley bid his friend a ‘watchamate,’ and Omally tugged upon Marchant’s brakes. The elderly sit-up-and-beg bike was having none o
f that, however and swept onwards with just the required momentum necessary to run over Jim’s left foot.

  Jim took to hopping and cursing. John took to chuckles, his hand to his gob. Marchant rang his bell in glee and rattled to a halt.

  ‘This lad needs a new set of brake blocks,’ said Omally, by way of conversation. ‘No damage done, I trust.’

  Jim cast bitter glances toward the wayward bike. ‘One day,’ he spat through gritted teeth. ‘One day I’ll do for that.’

  ‘Now now, Jim,’ said John. ‘Let us have no bitterness upon such a fine morning as this. What say I treat you to a nice cup of tea at the Plume?’

  ‘Treat me?’ said Jim. ‘You treat me?’

  ‘The cup that cheers,’ said himself. ‘Although I for one have never heard it do so—’ he paused in the hope of a grin from Jim.

  ‘Humour,’ said Pooley. ‘Not as easy as it might at first appear.’

  ‘To the Plume,’ said John.

  And to the Plume they went.

  The Plume Café had seen better days, but when these had been few if any remembered. By the unchanged décor it might be supposed that these days lay in the fifties.

  Certainly the proprietress Lily Marlene (not to be confused with the other Lily Marlene) had the look of one who had dwelt in a time when rock‘n’roll was king.

  The dyed and bouffant barnet. The hour-glass figure in its lacy blouse and pencil skirt. The shapely legs that tottered on those high stiletto heels.

  To John Omally, a man who greatly admired the female form, she was the woman. The very personification of all that was beauteous in Brentford. John yearned for Lily, but she, though ever a-teasing the lad, remained aloof to all of his entreaties. John, like Jim, was only left to dream of the day that his ship might come in.

  Jim seated himself by the window.

  John took himself to the counter.

  Jim viewed Brentford High Street.

  John viewed Lily’s bosoms.

  At considerable length John brought two cups of tea to Jim’s table.

  Jim gestured to the face of John. ‘I heard the slap,’ said he. ‘But in the spirit of loyal friendship I didn’t look over.’

  John Omally rubbed his reddened cheek.

  ‘It is never going to happen,’ said Jim in a kindly tone. ‘You have tried every trick. Give up and accept a gracious defeat.’

  John seated himself and smiled towards Jim. ‘How long have you known me?’ he asked.

  ‘For ever,’ said Jim. ‘From school. From as long as I can remember.’

  ‘And have you ever known me to “give up”?’

  Jim uttered a sigh as of infinite patience put to the test. ‘No,’ said he. ‘I have not.’

  ‘Once I am rich,’ said John. ‘And this I expect to occur quite soon. Once I am rich we shall see what we shall see.’

  Jim Pooley sipped his tea and finding it cold ceased sipping.

  ‘I have a business proposition that I would put to you,’ said John. ‘One that I feel you will find most appealing.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Jim, in a distant tone.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Omally and he pointed to the window. ‘What do you see out there, Jim?’ he asked.

  ‘Brentford High Street,’ was the reply. ‘For the most part unchanged and unchanging.’

  ‘Well, I know something,’ said John. ‘Something that will bring about considerable change out there.’

  ‘Change is greatly frowned upon in Brentford, John.’

  ‘This will be a change for the better, Jim.’

  ‘Is there any such thing?’

  ‘See this,’ John dug into the pocket of his old, yet dashing, jacket of tweed and drew forth a sheet of folded paper. Clearing aside the tabletop café clutter, he spread it out before Jim.

  ‘A map,’ said Jim. ‘A map of the borough.’

  ‘And?’ asked Omally.

  ‘A map upon which is printed in big bold letters, PROPERTY OF BRENTFORD COUNCIL. NOT TO BE REMOVED FROM TOWN HALL.’

  John made shushing gestures with his hands. ‘What else do you see?’ he whispered.

  Jim perused the map, then whistled through his teeth. ‘A ring road,’ he said. ‘These are the plans for a ring road that would encompass Brentford.’

  Omally nodded.

  ‘But why?’ Jim asked. ‘There’s never that much traffic. Why would Brentford need a ring road?’

  ‘Search me,’ Omally shrugged. ‘Who can fathom the vagaries of Brentford Town Council?’

  ‘It’s a rather odd ring road,’ Jim observed. ‘I mean, well, it is utterly circular. More like a gigantic roundabout really.’

  ‘A ring road is a ring road to me,’ said John. ‘But think, my friend, what does it say there?’ John pointed.

  ‘Pedestrian precinct,’ said Jim. ‘Well that would be nice, all the centre of Brentford freed from the bother of motor-cars. A place for a peaceful stroll.’

  ‘Upon the newly-laid paving stones and between the newly-planted trees.’

  ‘Something of the sort,’ said Jim. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  ‘Well, I’m so glad you like it. Because this is where our fortune is to be made.’ And Omally went on to explain. ‘I chanced to meet this fellow,’ said he, ‘named Pocklington. He is the new town clerk and holds sway over the planning committee. The ring road is very much his baby, so to speak. Well, he passed a copy of the plans to me in, how shall I put this, the spirit of free enterprise.’

  Pooley’s face displayed enlightenment.

  ‘Quite so,’ said John. ‘The taking of the old back-hander is in council circles a tradition, or an old charter, or something. So, he made it clear to me that should a company formed, for instance, by myself and yourself, put in a tender to pedestrianise the town centre, that company would most likely be given the contract.’

  Jim rolled his eyes.

  ‘And should that company choose to award Mr Pocklington a Christmas Box of a generous nature, where would be the harm in that?’

  ‘Just a couple of small matters,’ said Jim. ‘Before I go on my way and try to forget that this conversation ever took place. I heard mention earlier of paving stones and trees. Where might you be thinking to acquire these?’

  ‘Kew Gardens does be full of trees,’ said John.

  Jim groaned.

  ‘And the pavements of Chiswick are literally paved with paving stones.’

  ‘And so farewell,’ said Jim, a-rising from his chair.

  ‘I am assured by Mr Pocklington that it wouldn’t be stealing,’ John now assured his bestest friend. ‘Just relocating, councils do this kind of thing all the time.’

  ‘No,’ said Jim. ‘We will end up in prison.’

  ‘Mr Pocklington says that the Brentford nick is to be turned into a coffee shop and craft centre.’

  ‘No,’ said Jim ‘and no thrice more. It is a terrible idea, John. Give it up now, before you find yourself in big trouble.’

  John Omally threw up his hands. ‘Oh, such a shame,’ said he, ‘ that you would pass up this opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to play your part in bringing beauty to the borough.’ Jim opened his mouth, but John continued, ‘And don’t think I did not spy you out this morning looking longingly at those houses in The Butts Estate. One of them could so easily be within your reach.’

  Jim’s open mouth remained as such.

  ‘Your part in this venture would involve no actual physical effort,’ said John. ‘In case that is your worry. A comfy seat in an office by the radiator awaits you. As a director of the Goodwill Landscaping Company. You—’

  ‘What?’ said Jim. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘A comfy seat?’ said John. ‘With a personal coffee machine?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim. ‘The company’s name. Did you think that up?’

  ‘No, it was Mr Pocklington’s idea. It came “off the shelf” apparently. I do not pretend to understand such matters. But it seems appropriate enough, don’t you think? Has a certain ring to it.’


  ‘A certain ring to it?’ Jim Pooley dropped back into his chair. ‘Buy me some hot tea,’ said he.

  3

  The mug of tea that Norman had was growing somewhat cold. The shopkeeper was busy at his counter. Not with any customer, for nowadays these were few. Business had been tailing off of late.

  Norman, was, however, unconcerned regarding his lack of customers. Business would pick up again, of this he felt certain and spare time was to him a valuable commodity. He had plenty of other interests to pursue. Interests of a scientific persuasion. The creation of Old Pete’s hearing aid being very top of the list.

  The busyness that Norman was presently engaged with at his counter was a busyness of unpacking. Much torn brown paper littered a floor that yearned for a Hoover’s caress. Much string dingle-dangled all around and about.

  To anyone who had never entered Norman’s corner-shop yet craved a brief description thereof, it might best be said that the establishment had a “lived-in look”. A certain homely cosiness that is only to be found within business premises that have enjoyed long years of single ownership. Indeed Norman had run the corner-shop for many years now and all of them alone. The shop, in his opinion, was just the way he liked it. The way it had been, was, and ever hopefully would be.

  Certainly much of the confectionary was out of date, but as no-one ever sought to purchase any of it, this hardly mattered.

  Certainly the enamel advertising signs, which flattered fags of brands now long extinct, served no purpose whatsoever other than those of an artistic aesthetic.

  Certainly the light, filtered by dusty front windows, wasted itself upon a roundel loaded with VHS tapes.

  Certainly those greeting cards, that corner-curled in old mahogany racks, were brown as burnished bronze and quite unlikely to appeal.

  Certainly. Most certainly.

  But it was the way that Norman liked it.

  So there.

  The parcels that Norman was so busily unwrapping had been delivered to him only moments before by *****, the postman that dare not speak his name. There were two sturdy boxes and these had been well-wrapped. Norman flung away the last of the brown paper and prised open the larger of the two with his Savage Sword of Conan paperknife.