The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (11 page)

“I am building a de-entropizer.”

“Ah,” said John. “One of those lads, eh?”

“It’s for the sweeties,” said Norman informatively.

“I give up,” said Jim. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Well.” Norman sipped ale. “You know what entropy is, don’t you?”

Jim made a thoughtful face and then he unmade it.

“Exactly,” said Norman. “Well mimed. Entropy is how everything falls apart into chaos rather than order. Eventually culminating in the heat death of the universe when everything that can be burned up will have been burned up and there’s nothing left. I am working on a device to de-entropize. Reverse the process. It’s for the sweeties, as I said. My shop is full of jars of old sweeties. They’re quite inedible but I can’t bring myself to part with them. Old folks come in and wistfully look at them and remember the good times.”

Old Pete made a wistful face that was quite out of character. Then, in keeping with the law of entropy, he said, “Bollocks.”

“My device,” Norman continued, “will de-entropize my sweeties. Reconstitute them. Break them down to their atomic substructure then rebuild from the nucleus up. I hope to have it on-line by the end of the week. Then I shall produce sweeties the way sweeties used to taste, because they will be those very sweeties.”

John Omally grinned. “Perfect,” he said. “Ideal for the millennium. Sweeties the way sweeties used to be.”

“Any chance of doing it with beer?” Jim asked.

“I heard that,” said Neville.

“No offence meant,” said Jim.

“Once the process has been perfected, then I suppose I could do it with anything.” Norman sipped further ale. “Beer, wines, spirits.”

John Omally took out a little notebook and wrote the words The John Omally Millennial Brewery at the top of an empty page.

Scoop Molloy, cub reporter for the Brentford Mercury, now entered the bar. His head was bandaged and his left arm in a sling. John and Jim turned away. As no mention had been made so far of the riots and mayhem, especially by Old Pete, who now had a nice library bench in his back garden, low profiles were the order of the day.

Scoop limped up to the bar and ordered a half of shandy.

Neville, who abhorred such abominations, and cared not for members of the Press, topped it up from the drip tray. Scoop downed it in one. “Same again,” he said.

“Been in an accident, Scoop?” asked Old Pete, trying to keep a straight face.

“A spot of bother, yes.”

“You do have an exciting time of it. Nothing ever happens to folk like us.”

“There was a riot,” said Scoop. “Stone-throwing mobs, baton charges, special forces helicopters.”

“Really?” Old Pete stroked his grizzled chin. “My pension day. I must have missed it.”

“And I missed it too.”

“Then what happened to you?”

“Bloody mad doctor.” Scoop swallowed further drippings as Neville looked on appreciatively. “I got word that something weird had happened at the Cottage Hospital the night before last. And I go around to see the duty physician, Dr Steven Malone. And I say, ‘Hello, my name is Scoop Molloy from the Brentford Mercury.’ And he puts me in an armlock and throws me down his front steps.”

“Occupational hazard,” said Old Pete.

“Yeah, well, I accept that. But I missed the bloody riots and now I don’t have a story for tomorrow’s paper.”

John Omally turned.

And so did Jim.

“Oh yes you do,” they said.

Now we’ve all heard about the Corridors of Power. But their exact location is not altogether certain. Are they in Westminster, or in Whitehall? Or are they perhaps underground corridors, where the real rulers of our country, those beloved of conspiracy theorists, edge and sidle in a low light? And why Corridors of Power anyway? What goes on in corridors, for pity’s sake? Don’t these people, whoever they are, who do whatever they do in these corridors, have rooms to do whatever it is in? Chambers of Power, that’s what they should have.

But maybe they do. And all this talk of corridors is just to throw us off the scent.

Fascinating, isn’t it?

No?

Well check this out.

This corridor was big and broad and high of ceiling. One wall was dressed with enormous canvases, framed in heavy gilt. Biblical scenes most seemed to be. All very Judgement Day. John Martin’s Fallen Angels Entering Pandemonium was there, which was odd, because it should have been in the Tate. And Goya’s terrifying Saturno, which should have been in the Prado, Madrid. And La Chute des Anges by Frans Floris definitely should have been in the Koninklijk Museum, Antwerp. And so on and so forth. Evidently whoever had clothed the walls of this particular corridor with the robes of fine art had ACCESS. And they also had sense enough to keep the curtains drawn on all the windows in the wall opposite. The light was low in this corridor. And it was gentle and the temperature was regulated. This had to be a Corridor of Power!

And so it was.

Two figures appeared through a doorway at the end of this corridor. They were a good way off. A very long corridor was this. The two figures marched forward. In step. Determined. They wore identical grey suits and, given the preponderance of art here, it might have come as no surprise to find they were none other than Gilbert and George.

But they were not. They were just two anonymous-looking blighters you wouldn’t have thought to look at twice.

They stopped before a mighty door. Straightened clothes that didn’t need straightening. Then one or other of them knocked.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, went this knocking as had knockings previous. Although these KNOCKS really echoed. K-N-O-C-K they went.

“Come,” called a voice from within.

And those without pushed upon the mighty door and entered.

The room within revealed itself to be nothing less than a Chamber of Power. There could be no mistake. The furniture, the fixtures, the fittings. The Faberge, the famille, the Fantin-Latours. The ferns, the fiddle-backs, the finery. This was one effing Chamber of Power.

And furthermore.

With his feet up on the fender and a flat cap on his head sat a fleabag of a fellow by the name of Fred.

Fred was filing his filthy fingernails with a piece of flattened flint.

“Friends,” said Fred.

“Fred,” said the friends, fondling their forelocks.

“Forget the forelock-fondling,” said Fred. “Fetch over that form and fill me in the facts.”

One of the anonymous duo fetched over the form and both of them sat down upon it (which must have meant that it was a bench, rather than a piece of paper).

“There’s been a flipping foul-up,” said the form-fetcher.

“Foul-up?” said Fred.

“Foul-up,” said the fellow who hadn’t fetched the form.

“Foul-up?” said Fred.

“Foul-up,” said the first fellow. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”

“Hm,” said Fred. “What are you feckless furtlers on about?”

The form-fetcher unfolded a newspaper and displayed its front page.

BRENTFORD TO HOST MILLENNIAL CELEBRATIONS TWO YEARS EARLY

and it’s official

“Fuck me!” said Fred, and fell off the fender.

The duo hastened to his aid.

“Get off me. Just give me that frigging newspaper.” Fred snatched away the copy of the Brentford Mercury and began to pace up and down, reading as he paced. Words all beginning with the letter F spilled from his mouth but, what with the law of diminishing returns and everything, they will remain unrecorded.

“No!” cried Fred. “No! No! No!”

“I’m afraid it’s yes,” said one or other of his visitors.

“If I say it’s no, then I bloody well mean it.” Fred tore the newspaper to shreds and flung the pieces all about. “We’ve worked too long and hard on this,” Fred shouted. “How could it happen? Tell me how?”

“One of Compton-Cummings’s books escaped the pulping. It fell into the hands of this Pooley chap and somehow he and another chap called Omally located the Brentford Scrolls.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

“Sorry, Fred.”

“Don’t you Fred me, you bastard. I want this sorted and I want it sorted now. Don’t you realize the gravity of this?”

“Well, I do, sir, yes. But it might be helpful if you were just to run through it all one more time.”

“To clear up any confusion that might exist, sir.”

“Which one of you said that?”

“I did, sir.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t him?”

“No, but I was thinking it, sir.”

“Right,” said Fred. “One more time and try to pay attention. First question. Where are we now, at this precise moment?”

“In the Chamber of Ultimate Power, sir.”

“Correct, not just any old Chamber of Power, you will notice. But the Chamber of Ultimate Power. And who am I?”

“You are our worst nightmare, sir.”

“Correct again. And why am I this?”

“Because you are a jumped-up, talentless un-charismatic little nobody who, driven by ruthless ambition, has managed to claw his way to the top of the tree and now occupies the position of absolute control, literally holding our very lives in the palm of his grubby unwashed hand, sir.”

“Correct once again. And how did I achieve this?”

“Popular opinion would sway towards the belief that you sold your soul to Satan, sir.”

“And popular opinion would, upon this rare occasion, be right on target there, wouldn’t it?”

“It certainly would, sir, yes.”

“And so, bearing all this in mind, what exactly do you think I would be up to now?”

“You would be furthering the hideously evil schemes of your unspeakable master, sir.”

“Which are?”

“Too numerous to mention, sir.”

“Yes, well, I do try to keep myself busy. But within the parameters of the present discussion, would you care to clarify my position?”

“You represent, indeed embody, the nexus of power behind the millennial celebrations. It is your job to see that these do not take place on the correct day of the correct year, as he of the cloven hoof would be dead miffed to have peace and love breaking out all over the world.”

“Wouldn’t he just! Go on.”

“And so you, and others before you, have striven to see that the Brentford Scrolls are not recovered and the Days of God are not used to ensure that…”

“Yes, well, that’s pretty much all of it. But somebody has fouled up, haven’t they?”

“I think we’re all agreed on that,” said the form-fetcher, or it might have been the other one, it doesn’t really matter.

“So,” said Fred. “What are you going to do about it?”

“He means you,” said the form-fetcher.

“He doesn’t,” said the other one. “It’s you he means.”

“Oh well. If it’s me,” said the form-fetcher, “I think I’ll just panic and run around like a headless chicken, if that’s all right by you.”

“It’s fine by me,” said Fred. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?”

“You.”

“Could I just run about like that too?”

Fred shook his head.

“Then I suppose that I must put certain wheels into motion.”

“I like the sound of that. Would you care to be a little more specific?”

“Not really.”

“Then I shall tell you both exactly what you are going to do.” Fred took up a fire-iron from the fender and struck the chap who was running around like a headless chicken a blistering blow to the skull. “Firstly I want Brentford sealed off from the outside world. I do not want the media getting in and I do not want the scrolls to get out. What I do want is a professional team in position, to buy off whoever can be bought off and dispose of anyone who can’t. Who has the scrolls now?”

“Professor Slocombe, sir.”

Fred drew a finger across his throat. “He gets this,” he said. “As for the rest of them, use your discretion.”

“I don’t have any discretion,” said the fellow with the dented head. “In fact, I’m a God-damn crazy ape-shit one-man killing machine when I get going.”

“Fine. I’ll put you in charge of the disposing side of it, then.”

“Thanks a lot, sir.”

“Call me Fred.”

“Cheers, Fred.”

“But listen now and hear me well. I want this thing done quickly. Quickly and quietly and efficiently.” Fred stood with his back to the fireplace and rose upon his down-at-heels. And Fred began to tremble. A terrified look appeared on his face and it stayed. A tortured look it was, as of one tormented from within. Muscles twitched and spasmed. Eyes bulged from their sockets. Sweat broke from the pores. “I want those scrolls,” cried Fred in a voice no longer his. “I want them here to rip them and to burn.” The voice was a growl, an atavistic growl, a real bowel-loosening bed-wetter of an atavistic growl. And the lips of Fred turned blue and the tongue of him grew black. And that tongue darted from the mouth and curled all around and about. “Bring the scrolls to me, and bring me more. Bring me the heads of Pooley and Omally.”

The anonymous two were prostrate now, their faces pressed against the cold marble floor. And the floor trembled and shook to the sound of that hideous voice.

That terrible voice.

That eldritch voice.

That voice of the Evil One himself.

“This world is mine!” The voice boomed and echoed. “Mine for another thousand years and I will not be denied it. Nothing and no one will stand in my way. Nothing and no one, do you understand?”

“Oh, we do. We do.” And cowering and trembling, the minions of Fred crawled to the mighty door, clawed it open, pushed on through, flung it shut and ran.

Ran and ran along that Corridor of Power. And the voice came after them, rushing like a great and fiery wind. Ripping at the curtains and tearing at the gilt-framed canvases.

And the two men ran before it.

Ran and ran.

“Nothing and no one.” Howl and shriek and scream.

And howl and shriek and scream.

In another chamber of some power, in Brentford, something small and pink and soft and shiny howled and shrieked and screamed.

And Dr Steven Malone wrapped it in a towel and held it to his chest. “Just two alive,” said he, “but two will do nicely for my purposes. And nothing and no one will stand in my way.” And Dr Steven laughed aloud.

And howl and shriek and scream.