The Lord of the Ring Roads

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Hello hello hello,’ said Inspectre Hovis to the constable that held the umbrella. ‘What do we have here then?’

  Constable Meek, for it was he, said, ‘trouble sir, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Trouble indeed my bonny lad. Blow your whistle, draw your truncheon, cry God for Harry and St George and—’

  ‘Get stuck in?’ asked Constable Gwynplaine, drawing out his truncheon.

  In a bold attempt to both blow a whistle and draw out a truncheon Constable Meek lost control of the umbrella and Inspectre Hovis looked on sadly as it blew across the rain lashed cobbles and vanished into the distance.

  ‘Right,’ cried Hovis. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Considering the intensity of the violence and the extent of the damage done to the Rusty Trombone, the arrests made that day were remarkably few.

  As Hovis and his two-man team burst into the war-torn drinkery their entrance affected an almost magical transformation. Of a sudden it seemed that there was no ruckus at all. No fisticuffs, no Kung Fu fighting and no kicks to the groin. Folk stood frozen in martial poses, but only for a moment. Then they smiled and furtively laid aside their weapons. Engaged in merry converse, dusted down each other with politeness.

  ‘Now, now, now,’ called Inspectre Hovis.

  ‘What, what, what?’ went innocent folk all around and about.

  Omally once more helped Jim to his feet. ‘Time we were off,’ said he.

  Inspectre Hovis held high his hand. ‘Not so fast, chummy,’ said Hovis.

  ‘We were just passing by,’ said John. ‘And came in to help.’

  Inspectre Hovis nodded his head and looked John up and down. ‘Nice suit,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said John.

  ‘Most distinctive,’ said the Inspectre.

  ‘A bit damp now,’ said John.

  ‘Yes,’ said Inspectre Hovis. ‘It looked so much smarter last night when you were up on that stage pulling the bogus lottery ticket.’

  ‘Ah,’ said John.

  And ‘Ah,’ said Hovis. ‘Constable, arrest this man.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ said Jim.

  ‘And his accomplice too,’ said the Inspectre.

  The Brentford nick has just the one cell, for crime is rare in Brentford. Those arrested the previous evening had been carted off in meat-wagons to the cop-shops of Hounslow and Ealing.

  Only one prisoner sat in the one Brentford cell. He was lost in the shadows when John and Jim were thrust in through the doorway.

  ‘Now you just be good boys,’ said Hovis. ‘Myself and my constables are going to lunch, so if you make any fuss no-one’s going to hear you.’

  John sighed and Jim sighed. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

  ‘Bloody anarchists,’ said Hovis, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Well,’ said Jim. ‘That might have gone better.’

  ‘It might have gone a lot worse,’ said John, ‘be grateful.’

  ‘Well now,’ came a voice from the shadows. ‘Don’t I an’ I be knowing dese voices?’

  John peered into the darkness. ‘Hello, Leo,’ he said.

  Councillor Felix removed himself from the shadows. ‘What you do den, eh?’ he asked.

  ‘All a misunderstanding,’ said Jim. ‘You know the way it goes.’

  ‘I’m a black man,’ said Leo. ‘I know exactly the way it goes.’

  There was nothing John and Jim could add to this.

  ‘But den, it is lucky,’ said Leo. ‘You bein’ here and me bein’ here. Dead lucky I would be callin’ it.’

  ‘I have known better luck,’ said John.

  ‘Me too, Babylon. Liken it bein’ only yesterday when me truck all shiny wid not a dent in sight.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ queried John.

  ‘Oh yes, Babylon. Den me girlfriend come in here dis morning to see me and she tell that after I get arrested she be lookin’ out de window and spy you creepin’ into me yard and stealin’ me truck.’

  ‘Hiring your truck.’ Said John.

  ‘And bringing it back later all mash up with a handprint like Jah come down angry on de roof and the suspension all gone to buggery. Bloodclart!’

  ‘Ah,’ said John Omally.

  ‘And if dis ain’t outrage and disrespect enough,’ said the follower of Jah Rastafari. ‘I check in me shoe dis morning to count me money you do pay me and what I find there, wicked man?’

  John knew all too well what Leo must have found.

  When Inspectre Hovis returned from his meat-free plant-based repast he was quite surprised to see the extent of the injuries sustained by the two latest captives.

  Inspectre Hovis dripped puddles onto the cold stone floor. ‘You,’ he said to Leo Felix. ‘You can go home. The downpour is bringing the canal into flood and you may have to evacuate your premises.’

  Leo rose. And so did John and Jim.

  ‘Oh no, not you two lads,’ said the sodden policeman. ‘I’ve got a dozen drenched townsfolk upstairs lodging complaints. All about funny money, it seems. It is my duty to inform you that I am arresting you both under Section 15 of the 1981 Forgery and Counterfeiting Act. You are not obliged to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  John Omally nodded gloomily.

  ‘Actually I don’t,’ said Jim. ‘What’s happening?’

  23

  Upon a single narrow cot within a single cell, two men sat and nursed their wounds and grumbled to each other.

  In accordance with the terms of the Geneva Convention they had been served lunch. In accordance with Inspectre Hovis’ dietary predilections this lunch had consisted of Chinese leaf upon wholemeal bread washed down with a cup of green tea.

  Requests from the prisoners that this be augmented by ale had been politely denied. Requests that Amnesty International be immediately contacted as ale was a basic human right, had not been met with a kindly response.

  ‘You should consider yourselves lucky men,’ the Inspectre told the luckless two. ‘In the good old days convicted counterfeiters could expect to be hanged. The drawing and quarterings were optional of course, but generally taken up to please the crowd. Nowadays, however, the penalty is a measly ten years’ imprisonment. Paltry porridge, as hardened criminals as yourselves would have it.’

  Inspectre Hovis then went on to inform the captives that he and his officers were now going home, as the weather was growing worse by the minute. But that he would leave the lights on and he would be in first thing tomorrow morning to take their statements and serve them bowls of muesli.

  ‘Fairy money,’ said Jim unto John.

  ‘Regrettably so,’ said John.

  ‘A ten year prison sentence,’ said Jim.

  ‘Such seems likely,’ said John.

  ‘And who do you think I might personally blame for my misfortune?’ Jim asked.

  ‘The town clerk?’ John suggested.

  Jim Pooley shook his head.

  They sat a while in silence. Silence but for the sounds above of severely worsening weather.

  Great storm clouds blackened the heavens. Torrential rain heaved down from the sky. The force of the ever-growing storm was such that modern shop signs were torn away from their mountings exposing names from bygone times. Stone-cladding fell from house fronts to reveal the London stocks beneath. Diners fled the McDonald’s, as the garish roof tiles and composition wall cladding fell away and the rain rushed in to punish the vile interior. Drains overflowed and Pooley Plaza became a raging waterway.

  ‘I need the toilet,’ said Pooley. ‘Where is the bathroom?’

  ‘The bathroom as you so charmingly put it, is there,’ John pointed towards the stainless steel toilet bowl which graced the western wall of their snug abode.

  ‘It’s a good job I don’t need a poo,’ said Jim.

  ‘But you likely will tomorrow.’

  Jim rose, took himself two feet
away and attended to his business. ‘We have to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t last a week in prison. I can’t even pee if someone’s watching.’

  ‘I’m all for escaping,’ said John. ‘But how?’

  Jim zipped himself into respectability. ‘How, is not my concern,’ said he. ‘You got us into this mess, so you should get us out.’

  ‘I could pick the lock,’ said John.

  ‘Well do so.’

  ‘I could, if there was a keyhole on this side of the door. But as you can see, there is not.’

  Pooley beheld the grim iron door and as he did the lights began to flicker.

  ‘Do something,’ cried Jim, ‘and do it now, before the lights go out.’

  And the lights were going out all over Brentford. As water seeped into electrical circuits, bubbled into fuse boxes and waged war against its voltaic enemy. And now too came the lightning, bringing down the steeple of St Joan’s. Popping lightbulbs, wreaking further havoc.

  John Omally arose from the cot, crossed to the door and gave it a mighty kick.

  Jim looked on as his companion now took to hopping about on one leg.

  ‘Under normal circumstances I would find that amusing,’ said Jim.

  ‘Oh no no no no no,’ said John.

  ‘I really would,’ said Jim.

  ‘Not that, no, this,’ John pointed to the floor of the cell, a puddle was spreading under the door.

  ‘Oh wonderful,’ said Jim. ‘And now we’ll get wet feet.’

  John Omally shook his head. ‘More than our feet,’ he said as he resumed his pointless kicking of the door.

  ‘More?’ asked Pooley.

  ‘We’re in the basement, Jim. A good ten feet below ground level. And it’s starting to flood and—’

  ‘Help!’ wailed Jim Pooley. ‘Men in distress, not waving but drowning. HELP!’

  ‘Help!’ agreed John and together they bashed at the door.

  Whatever storm drains Brentford had now overflowed with monumental gusto. Chimney-pots tumbled, slates fluttered into the maelstrom. Hardly a street was passable now as torrents of rainwater gushed and foamed, swirling at a breakneck speed throughout the battered borough.

  Upon that single narrow cot within that single cell, two men stood and called for help as loudly as they could. Their voices penetrated the steel door and echoed in the passageway beyond. But that passageway was now awash with rapidly rising water.

  ‘What do we do? What do we do?’ Pooley’s hands began to flap, but due to the restricted standing room he was quite unable to turn around in small circles.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ John told him. ‘You’re somehow making it worse.’

  ‘John we are going to die. We are going to drown.’

  Shamefaced, John Omally said, ‘I am so sorry, Jim.’

  ‘Do something! Anything!’

  Water lapped now at their feet.

  And the light went out.

  Darkness fell upon Brentford. A stygian darkness. A darkness of the tomb. Black, the skies and seeming black the rain. The bursts of lightning brought fragmentary illumination. Jagged glimpses of a borough in its death throes. The torment of the rain, the fury of the wind. The unforgiving storm ripped through the borough.

  And in the darkness there beneath the ground. A still small voice said, ‘John, I am afraid.’

  ‘And I, my friend and I.’

  ‘I do not want to die. Not yet. Not here.’

  ‘I am so sorry Jim.’

  ‘I know, my friend. I know.’

  ‘John,’ said Jim. ‘We have lived as the bestest of friends have we not?’

  ‘We have,’ said John. ‘We have.’

  ‘And then it is perhaps fitting that we die in the same fashion.’

  ‘Oh Jim,’ said John. ‘My dear friend, Jim.’

  ‘Please hold my hand,’ said Pooley.

  John took his best friend’s hand in his as in that dreadful darkness there, the water covered them.

  From the darkness of death it is said, there grows a golden light. And a golden stairway that the soul ascends. For the good and faithful there awaits eternal joy. For the evil, dark eternal torment down in horrid depths. Had John and Jim been good and true? Would they find mercy in the eyes of their Divine Creator? Or would the Almighty view them both as wicked men?

  Or then, perhaps, beyond death there is nothing. No ever-lasting happiness, no endless pain and sorrow. Simply nothingness. A black and timeless nothingness eternal.

  Who can say?

  An earthquake?

  An eruption?

  A tearing up, a smashing down of concrete.

  And through the darkness and into those black icy waters of the grave, two hands. Two mighty hands reached down. Took hold of drowning men and lifted.

  ‘Come with me if you want to live,’ said Mr Julian Adams.

  Through that afternoon made night. Through the rushing torrents, beaten by the wind and mighty rain, the Man of Courage carried John and Jim, beneath his arms away from that icy well of death that would have swallowed them forever more.

  Through thunder, lightning, storm and bitter flood.

  Away.

  Although barely conscious Jim viewed by lightning’s flash the terrible destruction of the borough. He saw the façade of the Memorial Library crumble. Mighty oaks on The Butts Estate keel over. A broken body carried by the flood. And when they reached Professor Slocombe’s house Jim thought that his wits had surely deserted him.

  For though the giant stood knee deep in water, he lifted John and Jim up to the professor’s French windows. The house hung magically in the air above the water rushing by beneath. And then Jim Pooley closed his eyes as once more darkness coldly closed about him.

  A night of untold horrors passed and dimly did the dawn come unto Brentford. The waters were subsiding, but the devastation was profound.

  Neville crept down the stairs to view the ruination of the Swan. The saloon bar swam six inches deep in water. Chairs and bar stools overturned and piled against the rearward wall, the door torn off its hinges and bobbing in the waves. A tear came to the part-time barman’s eye, a lump came to his throat and then a silent scream to his lips.

  For flashing away, unharmed and unscathed, the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine now greeted him with a merry ‘bitow, bitow’.

  Norman’s shop had escaped any serious damage. The giant ice cream cornet, which had stood unmentioned for more than thirty years before his door, had blown away in the night of terror, but as Norman had never cared for it much, he wasn’t really bothered.

  Old Pete leaned upon his cane and peered at the allotments. Gone, all gone to ruination. Plants torn up and sheds demolished, trellises shredded, cold frames washed away. Years and years of love and care all gone in a single storm.

  The ancient nodded his head in grief, stooped and patted his dog and then shuffled away.

  Jennifer Naylor stood before all that was left of Brentford’s Memorial Library. Sodden books littered the surrounding area, the library’s roof sagged and it seemed doubtful that this historic building, a gift from the philanthropist Andrew Carnegie could ever be restored.

  The sight of all those ruined books all but broke the senior librarian’s heart. And it was the heart, it seemed to Jennifer Naylor, that had been torn out of the borough of Brentford.

  Upon a single sofa, within a book-bound study two men sat. Swathed in blankets and haunted of eye. White of face and bruised and bashed about.

  Before them stood a sprightly elder fellow. His eyes fairly glittered as he viewed his quivering guests.

  The ancient scholar wore this day most curious apparel. An antiquated safari suit and a Victorian pith helmet. His feet encased by rugged walking boots, a staff with a knobbly tip held in one hand.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘How would you feel about getting away from Brentford for a while?’

  24

  And so it came to pass that upon the twenty-seventh day of July in th
is year of our Lord, 2017, four men did set out upon a great and sacred quest.

  That they would enter a magical kingdom within the hollow hill and there battle forces diabolic which had laid the town of Brentford to ruin.

  What terrible trials and torturous torments lie ahead of them must as yet remain unspoken of. For we have but reached the end of the beginning and now begin the middle of our tale.

  That these heroes, for heroes they are, will endure dreadful hardships, can be assured. That what can go wrong, will do so, is a given. But they will struggle bravely as all heroes do and we must send good tidings and offer them our hopes.

  For so it is written (here) that the fate not only of Brentford and her people, but of all humankind lies in the hands of these four.

  In the hands of a magician and a giant and two blokes from down the pub.

  TO BE CONTINUED…