The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (14 page)

From a bedroom window in Moby Dick Terrace, Dr Steven Malone watched as the black limousine roared off in a cloud of smoking rubber. “And bloody good riddance to them,” he said.

He had left very little to chance. He had known of the secret tunnel when he bought Kether House and he had later bought this one, where the tunnel emerged in the back garden shed. The occupants of this house, an old couple with no living heirs, hadn’t wanted to sell. Their death certificates said natural causes. Dr Steven had signed them himself.

The mad and monochrome medic turned away from the window and smiled at the two little babies on the bed.

“All right, my boys?” he said.

“All right, dada,” said the golden one.

The dark one only growled.

“All right, boys,” said Fred. “Wheel ’em in.”

Derek and Clive pushed John and Jim from the Corridor of Power into the Chamber of the same persuasion.

“Superb,” said Fred, eyeing up the arrivals. “And do I spy the Brentford Scrolls?”

“You certainly do,” said Derek.

“And do I spy a nine-gauge auto-loader?”

“You certainly do, sir, yes.”

“And you walked through this building, carrying that?”

“Er,” said Derek.

“Twat,” said Fred. “But very well done all the same.”

“I picked up this machete on the way,” said Clive, brandishing same. “Do you want Derek to chop their frigging heads off now?”

“Ooh, yes please,” said Derek.

“All in good time. What exactly is that prat doing?”

“He’s flapping his hands and spinning round in small circles, sir.”

“Well, make him stop.”

Derek clouted Pooley in the ear.

Jim ceased his foolish gyrations, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. John clenched his fists, but there was nothing he could do.

Fred’s feet were up on the fender. “Drag him over here. And pick up those scrolls. Valuable items, they are. We wouldn’t want any harm to come to them, would we?”

“Wouldn’t we, sir?”

“Of course we would. I was being ironic.”

Derek picked up the scrolls and handed them to Fred.

“Right,” said Fred. “So, here we are then. The Brentford Scrolls.” He held them up and gave them a good looking over. “Pretty fancy, aren’t they? Good quality parchment. I suppose I should savour this moment, but I don’t think I’ll bother. I’ll just toss them on the fire.”

“No.” John took a step forward. Derek barred his way.

“What are you no-ing about?” Fred asked.

“Don’t burn them. You can’t.”

“That’s a rather foolish remark to make, isn’t it?”

“All right. So you can. But why do you want to burn them? And who are you anyway?”

“He’s your worst nightmare,” said Clive.

“I don’t think so,” said John. “After what I’ve seen during the last few days he doesn’t even come close.”

“But he is,” Clive insisted. “He’s a jumped-up little nobody who’s clawed his way to the top of the tree and…”

“Clive,” said Fred.

“Fred?” said Clive.

“Shut up.”

“If you’re going to burn the scrolls and kill us both,” said John, “you could at least have the decency to tell us why.”

“I could,” said Fred, “but I won’t. I know there is a long and acknowledged literary and cinematic tradition for the villain to make the great explanatory speech to the heroes before he tops them. And then at the last minute, when all seems lost for the heroes, the clever unexpected twist comes and…”

“If you burn the scrolls and kill us,” said John, “you’ll never learn about The Great Secret.”

Fred shook his head. “Nice try,” he said. “But it’s all such a cliché, isn’t it?”

“Look out behind you!” shouted Jim.

Nobody moved. Nobody even batted an eyelid (whatever that means).

“Sorry,” said Jim. “Just thought I’d give it a try.”

“All right,” said Fred. “So, Brentford Scrolls into the fire and two heads onto the floor. And here we jolly well go.”

Fred took the scrolls in both hands and moved to toss them onto the roaring fire. John turned his face away. Jim closed his eyes.

“Eh?” said Fred. “What’s all this?”

John turned back his face and Jim reopened his eyes.

Fred was struggling with the scrolls. If you’ve ever seen the act mime artists do with a balloon, where it’s in the air and they pretend it’s immovable and struggle to shift it, that was pretty much what Fred was doing now.

As Clive had both hands free he took to clapping. “Very good,” he cried. “Very good indeed.”

Fred fought to force the scrolls into the fire. But they wouldn’t be shifted. He let them go, but instead of falling to the floor they simply hovered there in mid-air (well, not exactly mid-air – they were certainly nearer to the floor than the ceiling – but hover they did, none the less).

Fred made a most unpleasant growling sound deep down in his throat and grabbed the scrolls once more. But they wouldn’t be shifted, not a smidgen, not a titchy bit, not a lone iota. “Brilliant,” said Clive, going clap-clap-clap. “Very impressive.”

“Stop that bloody clapping, you pranny, give us a hand with these.”

“Oh,” said Clive. “Oh, all right then.”

And Clive took to struggling and forcing and straining and then things got tricky for Clive. The scrolls took a sudden lurch upwards, dragging Clive from his feet.

“What’s happening, John?” whispered Jim.

“The Professor,” whispered John. “Remember he said some words over the scrolls before we left Malone’s. It would be that spell of return he told us about.”

“Get me down,” wailed Clive, from somewhere near the high ceiling.

“Shoot the bloody things out of the sky!” shouted Fred.

“But I might hit Clive, sir.”

“As if I give a shit!”

“Righty-ho, sir.” Derek angled up his gun and let off several rounds in a manner which could only be described as indiscriminate.

And down came lots of nicely stuccoed ceiling. Very noisily and heavily.

John and Jim leapt aside as lath and plaster crashed about them.

“Give me that gun, you bloody fool.” Fred snatched the auto-loader from Derek and let off several rounds of his own. Down came much more ceiling and a chandelier.

“Aaaaagh!” went Derek, as the chandelier came down on him.

“Aaaaagh!” went Fred as Clive came down on him.

Lath and plaster, dust and mayhem.

Lots of very bad language.

Fred struggled up, hurling Clive aside and fanning dust and rubble about him. The scrolls now took to zig-zagging backwards and forwards across the ceiling and Fred took to running beneath them, firing and firing again.

Clouds of dust and gunsmoke choked the air, obscuring vision. Flashes of gunfire tore like lightning, thunder followed with smashings and crashings as sections of ceiling hurtled down, flattening furniture, shattering showcases, pulverizing porcelain. With the screams and cries and coughings and croakings and very, very bad language, it all contrived to create a fair facsimile of that evil abode where Fred’s employer dwelt.

And then, with a final effing and blasting, Fred ran out of shells.

And there followed a very tense silence indeed.

White with dust and terror to an equal degree, Clive and Derek held their breath as the air slowly cleared to reveal the extent of the devastation. Somehow the Chamber of Power didn’t look quite so powerful any more. Rather woebegone, in fact. A battle zone, an indoor wasteland.

Fred stood upon what once had been his desk, bloody about the cap regions and very wild of eye. Most of the windows had been shot out and in the distance could be heard that distinctive on-cue sound of approaching police car sirens.

Fred turned his damaged head from one side to the other.

The Brentford Scrolls were gone.

And so, too, John and Jim.

Having endured several hours of mind-numbing horror at the house of Dr Steven Malone, Professor Slocombe now leaned back in his chair and allowed himself the luxury of considerable mirth.

Before him, on his desk, lay the Brentford Scrolls, pristine and undamaged. Framed in the French windows stood two individuals who looked anything but.

“Would you mind ringing your little brass bell?” Jim asked.

Professor Slocombe rang his little brass bell. “Come on in,” he said, stifling another chuckle. “Sit yourselves down and relax.”

The two men slumped into fireside chairs. And then they gazed into the fire, shook their heads and reseated themselves elsewhere. They did not, however, relax.

“And where exactly have you been?” asked the Professor.

“Penge,” said Jim.

“Penge?” Professor Slocombe tugged upon an earlobe. “I understand that it’s a very nice place, although I’ve never been there myself.”

“Delightful,” said Jim. “Especially the offices of the Millennium Committee.”

“Ah.” Professor Slocombe nodded. “Of course. It all falls rather neatly into place.”

“The ceiling didn’t,” said Jim, rubbing at a dent in his forehead.

“Then I assume you met Fred.”

“We did.” Omally picked dust from eyebrows. “And Fred is not a very nice man at all.”

“Fred is your worst nightmare.”

“He’s rapidly rising up the chart, yes.”

Gammon entered without knocking.

“Thanks for that,” said Jim.

On Gammon’s tray stood three pints of Large. Gammon offered them around.

“Just the job, Gammon,” said Jim, accepting his eagerly.

“Cheers,” said John, raising his glass.

Gammon placed the last pint before the Professor and stood quietly by.

Jim took a large swallow and said, “My oh my.”

“Oh my,” said John, peering into his glass. “This is splendid stuff.”

Professor Slocombe took a sip or two. “I am no connoisseur of ale,” he said, “but I believe this to be of superior quality.”

“And then some.” Jim did further swallowings. “I’m sure this is how beer is supposed to taste, not that the ale in the Swan is much less than perfect.”

“Where did you get this?” John asked. “Did you brew it yourself?”

“On the contrary. It was a gift from Normal Hartnell. He had a bit of a breakthrough this afternoon with his latest experiments and dropped a barrel round to get my opinion.”

“All hail to the scientific shopkeeper.” Jim raised his now empty glass in salute. “A whole barrel, did you say?”

Professor Slocombe smiled. “Gammon,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Best roll in the barrel.”

“So go on.” John Omally topped up his glass from the barrel that now stood upon the Professor’s desk. “Tell us what you know about this Fred. The last we saw of him, he and his cohorts were being dragged in handcuffs into a police car. Fred looked far from jovial.”

“Well, I doubt whether he will remain in custody for very long. Fred has many friends in high places. And also in low places.”

“Now that would be what is known as a sinister emphasis,” said John.

“About as sinister as it is possible to get. Fred is indeed your worst nightmare. Fred is in league with the Devil.”

Pooley groaned.

“Well, what else would you have expected?”

“Not a lot, I suppose. So what do you propose to do about him?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“Don’t look at us.”

“No, no.” Professor Slocombe sipped further ale and nodded approvingly at his glass. “I have not been idle since last I saw you. I have made several calls to certain prominent persons of impeccable character, authorities in their particular fields. A meeting will convene here tomorrow at ten, for the authentication of the scrolls. Carefully chosen representatives of the media have also been invited. Once the scrolls are confirmed as authentic, the world’s press will be informed. Fred may squirm and plot as much as he likes after that, but he will not be able to stop the celebrations and ceremonies taking place on the final day of this year. Now it is absolutely necessary that no word of this meeting leak out. This is all strictly Above Top Secret.”

“You can trust us,” said Jim, raising two fingers, boy scout fashion.

“Of that I have no doubt at all. But I hope you will pardon me if I ask you not to leave this house tonight. Please stay here, wine and dine, finish the barrel of Large, taste brandy, smoke cigars. But do not take one footstep out of the door until everything is tied up tomorrow at ten. How does all that sound to you?”

“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Jim. “Much obliged.”

“Yes, thank you very much.” John raised his glass. “But then look at it this way, Professor. After all we’ve been through today, what else could possibly happen?”

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock, knock, knocking at the Professor’s door.

Well, no, actually it didn’t.

I mean, don’t you just hate all that “What else could possibly happen?” stuff. It’s like those dreadful TV sitcoms, where the lead character says, “No way! There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do that!” and the scene fades out and then fades in again to reveal that he is doing just that. And then the canned laughter machine goes into overdrive. Oh, ha ha ha, very funny indeed!

So there wasn’t any KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKing and nothing horrendous whatsoever befell Jim and John for the balance of the night.

All right, so it could be argued that it would have been a lot more fun if something had. But these chaps are only human, you know. And they’d had a very rough day. How much more could they take?

At a little after ten of the morning clock, nearly fifty people stood, sat or generally lounged about in Professor Slocombe’s study. Gammon moved amongst them, dispensing drinks and those Ferrero Rocher wrapped-up chocolate things that are dead posh.

There were Professors a-plenty here. Professors of linguistics, Professors of theology, Professors of history, Professors of this thing, that thing and the other. Learned men were these, who held seats. Seats of this thing, that thing and the other. Media men were much in evidence, Scoop Molloy holding court amongst them. And the Mayor of Brentford had been invited too. He was accompanied by several members of his gang, dubious Latino types with names such as Emilio and Pedro, who favoured sleeveless denim jackets, brightly coloured headbands and impressive tattooing.

And most of the town council were there, and Celia Penn was there, and a lady in a straw hat who had been passing by was there. She was there with her friend called Doris, who had also been passing by. They were chatting with a couple of cabinet ministers, one of whom used to play the blues with John Coltrane. And of course Pooley and Omally were there, and so too was Norman Hartnell.

Fred was not there and neither were Derek and Clive.

Professor Slocombe called the meeting to order, made a brief speech regarding the history of the scrolls and the Days of God, and then invited each Professor in turn to view the documents and make their informed pronouncements regarding authenticity.

One after another these scholarly fellows leaned low over the Brentford Scrolls, cocked their heads from one side to the other, smacked their lips and tickled their noses. Then they withdrew into a little cabal in the corner, whispered amongst themselves, turned as one and gave Professor Slocombe the old thumbs-up.

“Gammon, the champagne,” said the Professor.

By two of the afternoon ticker, the champagne bottles were shells of glass and all the dead posh chocolates eaten, farewells had been belched out, hands had been shaken. Professor Slocombe sat down at his desk. John and Jim stood with their hands in their pockets and quite foolish looks on their faces.

“You did it, Professor,” said Jim. “You did it.”

“You did it, Jim,” the ancient replied.

“Well, we all did it,” said John. “But it’s done. We’ve cracked it. Brentford will host the millennial celebrations two years ahead of the rest of the world. And it’s official.”

“Yes.” Professor Slocombe rolled up the scrolls. “These will now go, under heavy security, to the Bank of England. And I will prepare myself to perform the ceremonies. We shall triumph, gentlemen. We shall triumph.”

“We certainly shall.” John took out his little notebook. “Now where exactly should we start, I wonder?”

“With the Jim Pooley,” said Jim. “Definitely the Jim Pooley.”

Omally nodded thoughtfully. “Or possibly the John Omally Millennial Massage Parlour.”

“Are we knocking down the flatblocks for Pooley Plaza straight away, do you think?”

“We’ll have to give that a lot of thought. I’m not quite certain where the best place to build Omally’s will be.”

“Omally’s?” Jim asked. “I don’t think you mentioned Omally’s.”

“It’s a casino. Very exclusive.”

“I bet it’s not as exclusive as my one’s going to be.”

“How much do you want to bet?”

“Gentlemen?” Professor Slocombe raised a pale thin hand. “Gentlemen, what exactly do you think you’re talking about?”

“How best to spend all the millions from the Millennium Fund,” said John. “Great care must be taken to do the job properly. You can rely on us.”

“I’m sure that I can. But hate as I do to rain on your parade, what makes you think that the Millennium Fund will contribute one single penny to your schemes?”

“Well, they’ll have to now, won’t they? What with the scrolls and everything.”

“You really think so, do you?”

“Yes I do,” said John.

“And so you’ll be asking Fred personally, will you?”

“Won’t Fred have to cough up?” Jim’s face took on a look of alarm. “Won’t he be made to?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so for one moment. He will not draw attention to himself by actively refusing outright. On the contrary, when interviewed by the media, I expect he will be all smiles and generosity. But, but, when it comes to actually handing over any money, he will prevaricate, tie you up in paperwork more tightly than a Blue Peter presenter in a cling film codpiece.”

“You mean…” John’s jaw dropped.

“Not a penny,” said the Professor. “Not a bean, not a farthing, not an old bent nickel. Zero, zilch. I’m sorry.”

“But…” John’s jaw hovered in the dropped position.

A small sigh escaped from the lips of Jim Pooley. Though small, it was so plaintive, and evocative of such heart-rending pathos, that had there been a King Edward potato present this sigh would have brought a tear to its eye.

“Don’t do that,” said John. “You’ve made all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.”

“But, John, but, oh oh oh.”

“Look at him,” John told the Professor. “You’ve made him cry now.”

“I’m not crying. I’m just, oh oh oh.”

“Jim,” said the Professor. “You mustn’t be downhearted. What you have done by finding the scrolls is something so wonderful that mere money could never reward you. You will go down in the annals of history as the man who changed the world.”

“Will I get a pension?” Jim asked.

“Probably not. But certainly a round of applause. Would you care for one now?”

“Not really.”

“Well, that’s that then. So it only remains for me to thank you on behalf of the people of the world. Wish you well in whatever field of endeavour you choose next for yourself. And bid you a fond farewell. I’d offer you a late lunch, but I have much to do and you must be pretty stuffed with all those chocolates you’ve eaten.”

“Not particularly,” said Jim in a grumpy tone.

“Well, eat all the other ones I saw you sticking in your pockets.”

“So is that it?” John shrugged hopelessly.

“That’s it. I must prepare myself for the ceremonies. I have a great deal to do over the coming months.”

“So we’ll say goodbye, shall we?”

“Yes. Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye then, Professor.”

“And goodbye to you, Jim, and thank you very much indeed.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, Jim. Just one thing before you go.”

“What is that?” asked the sorrowful one.

“Only this.” Professor Slocombe rose from his desk and strode over to Pooley. He stared him deeply in the eyes and nodded thoughtfully. “One clouted ear, a pair of black eyes, a bloodied nose, a grazed chin and a dented forehead.”

“And a few cracked ribs,” said Jim. “Not that I’m one to complain.”

“Well, you deserve better than that.”

“On this we’re both agreed.”

“Kindly close your eyes.”

Jim closed his eyes.

Professor Slocombe whispered certain words and passed his hands over Jim’s face. “You can open them now,” he said.

Jim opened his eyes. Professor Slocombe held up a small hand mirror. Jim gazed into it.

“I’m cured,” whispered Jim. “All my bumps and bruises gone.”

“The very least I could do. Farewell to you now, Jim, and may God go with you.”

“Give us another chocolate,” said John.

Jim rooted in his pockets. “Here you go,” he said. “And that’s the last one.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It’s the last one you’re getting.”

“Oh, I see.”

As the library bench was now in Old Pete’s back garden, John and Jim sat on the rim of the hole, their feet dangling down.

“I don’t even have a bench to sit on any more,” sighed Jim.

“The scrolls are yours,” said John. “By the Finders Keepers law, or whatever. You could sell them. They must be worth a few bob.”

“I don’t think the Professor would be very happy about that.”

“It’s outrageous.” John made fists and shook them in the air. “After all we’ve been through, we come out of it with absolutely nothing.”

“So no change there, then.”

“We’re not beaten yet.”

“I think I am.”

“Oh no you’re not.”

“Oh yes I am.”

“You’re not,” said John. “And neither am I. There must be some way for us to get our hands on all that money. If it wasn’t for Fred…”

“We could kill Fred,” said Jim.

“Kill Fred?” Omally shook his head.

“Well, it’s not as if we wouldn’t be doing the world a favour. He is in league with the Devil, after all.”

“So we should kill him?”

Jim shook his head, then lowered it dismally. “No, of course not. But if he wasn’t in charge of all the Millennium money, maybe then we could get a share of it.”

“There’s wisdom in your words, Jim Pooley. Perhaps there might be some way to oust Fred and get someone favourable to our cause into his position. Me, for instance.”

“Or perhaps we should just forget the whole damn thing. Put it down to experience, go off about our business.”

“And what business would that be?”

Jim made grumbling sounds. “I shall continue with my time travelling. I’ll get forward eventually. And when I do…”

Omally now sighed, something he rarely did. “There’s a fortune to be made in this millennial celebrating and we are the ones who should be making it.”

“No.” Jim shook his head once more. “I’ve had enough, John. We nearly got killed yesterday. And we nearly got killed the day before. And we nearly got killed the day before that. Today no one has tried to kill us. Tomorrow, I hope, will be even better. I’m quitting, John. I’ve had it. Honestly.”

“Come on, man.”

“No, John, I quit. No more mad schemes. No more risks to life and limb and sanity. I’m going home to bed. I may well remain there for a number of days. If not for ever.”

“Jim, this is a temporary setback, nothing more.”

“I’m sorry, John.” Jim climbed wearily to his feet. “Enough is enough. Goodbye.”

“No, Jim. You can’t go like this, you can’t.”

“Look, John, if I call it quits now, at least I can survive this day unscathed. I mean, what else could possibly happen?”

And so saying, Jim turned dismally away, slipped upon the loose soil and fell heavily into the hole.