The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (17 page)

“Two gentlemen to see you sir,” said Young Master Robert’s secretary. “A Mr Pooley and a Mr Omally.”

Young Master Robert fell back in his highly cushioned chair. “Not those bastards. Don’t let them in here.”

“Morning, Bobby boy,” said John Omally, breezing in.

“Wotcha, mate,” said Jim. “Nice office.”

John Omally gazed about the place. “A regular fine art gallery,” he observed.

“Or a shrine,” said Jim. “It all being dedicated to a single young woman.”

“Get out of my office or I’ll call for security.”

“This one’s signed,” said Jim, pointing to a poster. “To my greatest fan, love Pammy.”

“And look at this bookcase,” said John. “He’s got the complete collection of Bay Watch on video.”

“What are all these boxes of Kleenex for?” Jim asked.

“Get out!”

“Relax.” John made the gesture that means relax. It’s not quite the same as the calming gesture, but there’s not much in it. “Relax and take it easy. We’ve come here to make you rich.”

“I’m already rich.”

“Richer, then.”

“What’s that sticking out from under your desk?” asked Jim. “It looks like a plastic foot.”

John took a peep over. “It’s an inflatable Pammy,” he said.

“Call security!” cried Young Master Robert. “Call that new bloke Joe-Bob, tell him to bring the electric truncheon.”

“Calm down,” said John, and he made the calming gesture this time. “We really have come to make you richer.”

“As if you have.”

“We just want you to sample something.”

“Sample?”

“Jim, the bottle and the glass.”

“Coming right up.” Jim produced a bottle and a glass from his pockets, placed the glass upon the Young Master’s desk, uncorked the bottle and poured.

“Sample,” said John.

“Yes I bet it is. Your wee-wee, probably.”

“It is ale. Just take a taste. Spit it out if you want. Over me if you want.”

“Over you?”

“That’s how confident I am.”

“No, it’s all a trick. Ms Anderson, call security.”

“Ms Anderson?”

“He made me change my name,” said the secretary. “And I have to wear this padded bra.”

“Suits you,” said Jim. “But I don’t know about the wig.”

“Just taste the ale,” said John. “Here, I’ll have a little taste first, to prove it’s not poison.” John took a taste. And then he took another taste and then another taste. “Magic,” said John.

“You’ve drunk it all,” said Young Master Robert.

“Jim, the other bottle.”

Jim took out the other bottle, uncorked it and refilled the glass.

“Trick,” said Young Master Robert. “The second bottle’s poisoned.”

“Oh dear me.” John took up the glass once more.

“No, all right, I believe you.” Young Master Robert took the glass, sniffed at it suspiciously, then took a taste. And then he took another taste, and then another taste.

“Yes?” said John.

“Well, it’s all right. It’s OK, I mean.”

John Omally shook his head. “It’s magic,” he said. “That’s what you mean. It’s the finest ale you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

“It’s fair to middling.”

John Omally shrugged. “Well, Jim,” he said. “I suppose I lose the bet.”

“What bet?” said Young Master Robert.

“Jim bet me that the master brewer in Chiswick was a better judge of beer than you were. Naturally I defended your honour. It looks like it’s cost me a fiver.”

“You took this beer to the rival brewery?”

“Chap called Doveston. He’s won several awards. Certainly knows his beverages.”

“The man’s a buffoon. Fizzy drinks merchant.” Young Master Robert tasted the last of the ale. “It’s pretty good,” he said.

“Pretty good?” John laughed. “Mr Doveston was quite ecstatic in his praise of it. Heaping eulogies upon every savoured gobful. What was that song he sang for us, Jim?”

“Wasn’t it ‘Money Makes the World Go Around’?”

“Yes, that was it.”

“It’s very good,” said Young Master Robert. “Do you have any more?”

“Crates,” said John.

“And you brewed it?”

“A colleague and I.”

“This bloke?”

“Another colleague,” said John.

“Well, I’ll have to get this analysed. Make sure there are no impure chemicals.”

John snatched back the glass and bottle. “Oh no you don’t. The only way you will get it analysed is by pumping it out of your stomach.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing that,” said Ms Anderson. “In an anal-ized fashion.”

“Do you have a sister called Celia?” Jim asked.

“Well, we must be off,” said John. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do business with you.”

“Not so fast,” said Young Master Robert.

“You certainly think fast, John,” said Jim, as they sat once more upon the concrete bench before the library. “A ten-thousand-pound advance. Incredible.”

“Not bad, is it?” John waved the cheque in the air. “I’ll have to open a bank account.”

“And on condition that he restore the Swan to its former glory by the end of the week. Genius.”

“We function best under pressure, Jim. I’ve always found that.”

“Making him cough up the fiver you supposedly lost to me in the bet was rubbing it in a bit.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t complain.”

“So hand it over, then.”

“What?”

“The fiver. I won it fair and square.”

“You never did. We never went to the rival brewer.”

“But he doesn’t know that.”

John handed over the fiver. “Petty,” said he.

Jim pocketed the fiver. “I hope Norman will be happy with the advance. Did you agree the figure with him?”

“Ah,” said John.

“I like not ‘Ah’,” said Jim. “What does ‘Ah’ mean?”

“It means I haven’t actually got round to talking to Norman about this yet.”

“What?”

“There wasn’t time. The idea came to me over breakfast. So I just went for it.”

“Same old story.” Jim shook his head. “Omally rushes in where angels fear to tread.”

“Just leave Norman to me,” said John. “Norman will be fine.”

Norman didn’t look fine. He had a worried expression on his face. As Omally breezed into his shop, he offered him a grunt.

“Thanks,” said Omally. “I’ll smoke it later.”

“Look at my sweeties,” said Norman.

Omally looked. The jars were bright with sweeties. All the Fifties favourites. Humbugs and jujubes. Liquorice pipes and sherbet lemons, Bright Devils and Waverley’s Assorteds. Space Rockets and Google’s Gob Gums.

Omally tapped the nearest jar. “They look a bit, well, guggy,” he said.

“Very guggy.” Norman took up the jar and turned it upside down. A kind of blobby mass oozed towards the lid. “Entropy,” he said.

“What’s this?”

“They don’t last,” said Norman. “It’s been like this for months. But I didn’t like to mention it to you. I thought I could iron out the problem.”

“The sweeties don’t last?”

“A couple of weeks,” said Norman. “Then I have to throw them away, clean out the jars and make another batch.”

“Rotten luck,” said John. “It’s a good job it isn’t like this with the ale.”

Norman glanced up from the sweetie jar. “It’s far worse with the ale,” said he.

“What?” Jim glanced up from his pint of Large. “He said what?”

“Highly volatile,” said John. “Like nitroglycerine, the slightest tap and it explodes.”

“What?” Jim huffed and puffed. “I had a bottle in each of my trouser pockets. I could have blown my…”

“It was a fresh batch; you weren’t in any danger. It has to be two weeks old before it…”

“Nitro-bloody-glycerine!”

“Not so loud.” Omally ssshed him into silence. “We don’t want Neville to hear.”

“No we don’t,” said Jim. “But I can’t believe it. Everything was sorted. And all so quickly too.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. And I’ve come to the conclusion that every time we sort something quickly, it ends up like Norman’s sweeties.”

“It’s probably some cosmic law,” said Jim. “But look on the bright side.”

“What bright side is this?”

“Well, at least you didn’t pop in here and tell Neville you’d sorted everything out before you popped into Norman’s and discovered that you hadn’t.”

A new blonde waitress appeared at the table with a tray. On it were two pints of Large. “Courtesy of the management,” she said.

John Omally looked at Jim.

And Jim looked back at John.

“You stupid twat,” said Jim.

“There has to be a solution.” John drummed his fingers on the pew end. “There just has to be.”

They were several pints in credit now and Neville kept on smiling and giving them the old thumbs-up.

“The solution is as plain as a parson’s nose,” said Jim. “You’ll have to return the cheque, tell Neville the truth and emigrate to Tierra del Fuego.”

“I don’t call that much of a solution.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“Look,” said Omally. “I have a cheque for ten thousand pounds in my pocket. Ten thousand, Jim. We must be able to do something with that.”

“You got it under false pretences. Do you prefer prison to Tierra del Fuego?”

“You would hate Tierra del Fuego, Jim.”

“I’m not coming with you.”

“We’re in this together, we shook hands on it.”

“There has to be a solution,” said Jim, drumming his fingers on the other end of the pew.

“Progress report,” said Fred, drumming his fingers on Clive’s head. “What, if any, progress do you have to report?”

“Happily none, sir.” Clive edged out of drumming range. “We did a pretty thorough job on the media. No one’s taking Brentford’s claims seriously. You’ve effectively stymied the mayor with all the paperwork and the louts are just blundering about.”

“Tell me about the lout who found the scrolls.”

“He spent nearly two months in the Cottage Hospital and while he was there we put an implant into his head. Just to keep track of him. He’s no threat, he wants nothing more to do with the celebrations.”

“And the Irish lout?”

“No threat, sir. He’s a wanker.”

“And what of the Professor?”

“He’s preparing himself for the ceremony. He has gone on a magical retirement. Put himself into solitude. But he’s wasting his time. Unless thousands join in the celebrations, he won’t be able to raise sufficient power to succeed in the ceremony.”

“Looks like they’re all in the shit then, doesn’t it?”

“Seems so, sir.”

Fred leaned back in his chair. His desk had a dust sheet over it. Scaffolding surrounded the desk, men upon that scaffolding worked to restore Fred’s ceiling. These things take a great deal of time.

“Well, just keep me informed,” said Fred. “In case something unexpected occurs.”

“Unexpected?” said Clive. “Whatever could possibly occur that’s unexpected?”

“A gentleman said that I was to give this to you,” said the blonde barmaid, handing Jim an envelope.

“Gentleman?” said Jim.

“Big fat fellow,” said the waitress. “Spoke with a posh voice.”

“Thank you.” Jim took the envelope, opened it and pulled out a small white piece of card.

On it was written, Come at midnight to my office. You may bring your companion. This is very important.

Jim turned the card over. It was a business card. A name and address were printed in elegant script upon it.

The address Jim recognized.

Also the name.

The name was that of Mr Compton-Cummings.

“Well,” said Jim. “What an unexpected occurrence.”

“My surprise exceeds your own,” said John. “When it comes to unexpected occurrences, this one is truly in a class by itself.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Jim asked.

“Yes. Weren’t you?”

Jim nodded, tore up the business card and dropped the pieces into the ashtray. “Compton-Cummings indeed!” he said. “Meet me at midnight indeed!” he continued. “As if there is any way I’m going to fall for that”

“What time is it?” Jim asked.

Omally turned back his shirt cuff and consulted his running gag. “Midnight,” he said.

Jim looked up at the moonlit building. “There’s a light on in his office. What should we do, just knock at the door?”

“That would be the obvious thing, yes. But are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t prefer spinning round in circles, flapping your hands, or simply running away to your cosy bed?”

“Are you implying something, John?”

“Oh no. Absolutely not. But would you just care to tell me exactly what we’re doing here?”

“We’ve come to see Mr Compton-Cummings.”

“But Mr Compton-Cummings is dead, Jim.”

“Yes, I know that. I’m not stupid.”

“You don’t feel then that the fact that he’s dead might make conversation with him a rather onesided affair?”

“I’m going to knock at the door,” said Jim. “And find out just what’s going on.”

Omally shook his head. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “I really don’t.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, went Jim. And it really does go KNOCK at midnight. A light came on in the hall. Bolts were drawn and the door opened a crack. The face of Celia Penn looked out. “I knew you’d come,” she said.

“There you are.” John grinned at Jim. “Logical explanation. She sent the card.”

“I did,” said Celia, ushering them inside and closing the door.

“So what is it?” John asked. “What’s up?”

“Mr Compton-Cummings wants to speak with you.”

“Ah.”

Through the outer office and into the inner. And there he was. Bulging away behind his desk. Mr Compton-Cummings, large as life. Well, larger really. And Professor Slocombe was with him.

“Ah,” said John once more.

“Stone me,” said Jim.

“Gentlemen,” said the larger than life genealogist. “Welcome. Pray sit yourselves down.”

Jim nodded towards the Professor. “Hello,” he said.

“It’s good to see you, Jim. All the broken bones thoroughly mended?”

“Temporarily.”

“Sit down then.”

Pooley and Omally took their seats by the door. Well, somehow you just would, wouldn’t you?

“You’re not dead,” Jim observed. “How do you account for that?”

Mr Compton-Cummings had a bottle of brandy on his desk. He also had five glasses. These he filled. And these he passed around. “A ruse,” said he. “A necessary one.”

“You certainly had me convinced.”

“And others, hopefully.”

John sipped his brandy. “Magic,” he said.

Jim sipped his. “I hope it goes down well with that champagne Neville gave you.”

“You didn’t drink any of yours, Jim.”

“Curiously I didn’t feel I deserved it.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Professor. “Mr Compton-Cummings has much to say to you. Do you feel that you’re up to listening?”

“Absolutely,” said John.

Jim made a sound which might have meant yes.

“Good. Mr Compton-Cummings, if you will.”

“Thank you, Professor.” The fat man put down his glass and interlaced his fingers over his ample belly.

“Mr Pooley,” he said. “As you must now be aware, you play a most important role in matters appertaining to Brentford and indeed the rest of the world.”

“Eh?” said Jim.

“When I traced your lineage and discovered the ‘great wind from the East’ passage, I also discovered what it actually meant: that one of your forefathers had murdered the monk and acquired the Brentford Scrolls.”

“Such is sadly the case,” said Jim.

“And as you also know, Ms Penn here encoded the location of the scrolls into my book. And you were sent the only unpulped copy.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t how I found them.”

“No, the Professor has told me about the time travelling.”

“He’s very good at it,” said John. “Well, going backwards, anyway.”

“Quite so. But whatever the case, it had to be you who found the scrolls. And you did.”

“Why did it have to be me?” Jim asked.

“You are the last of your line.”

“So why does that matter?”

“These things do,” said Mr Compton-Cummings. “Trust me, they just do.”

“I thought something really clever was coming then,” said John.

“I expect it’s being saved for later,” said Jim.

“Do they always do this?” the genealogist asked the Professor.

“They are individuals,” said the ancient.

“Don’t start on that.”

“Sorry, Jim.”

“It was necessary for me to fake my own death.” Mr Compton-Cummings tinkered with a Masonic watch fob which had escaped previous mention. “Certain dark forces, who do not want the millennium celebrated on the correct date, would have snuffed me out.”

“Fred and his crew.”

“Exactly. I had hoped that between you, you would have been able to get things moving along.”

“I fell down a hole,” said Jim.

“And he fell in love,” said John.

“Well, whatever the case, things have not been moving along.”

Jim held out his glass for a top-up. Mr Compton-Cummings topped it up. “I’ve had enough,” said Jim. “I’m sick of getting beaten up and arrested and generally misused. All I want is a normal life. A normal married life.”

John groaned. “We’ve been through that,” he said.

“Yeah, well. You’ve been through it. And I got beaten up again.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Professor Slocombe held up his hands. “This is most important.”

“I was quit when I came in here,” said Jim. “And I’m twice as quit now.”

“One of my favourite movies,” said John.

“Did you know that Ridley Scott used to do Hovis commercials on television?” asked Professor Slocombe.

“Yes,” said John.

“I didn’t,” said Jim. “But I should have.”

“Nevertheless,” said Mr Compton-Cummings, “things must be made to move along. And you are the men who should do the moving.”

“We can’t,” said Jim. “This Fred bloke is in control. And he’s head of the baddies.”

Mr Compton-Cummings leaned back in his chair, but as he filled it so completely anyway the effect was negligible. “We can deal with Fred,” he said.

“Oh yes?”

“Certainly. Fred will not hand over any money willingly. So he must be made to do it against his will.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I propose that you do that.”

“Do the ‘I was quit’ line again, Jim,” said John. “I’ll join you in the last part.”

“No, no, no.” The fat man waggled his fat fingers. “I’m not expecting you to meet this man head on in some kind of confrontation. There is more than one way to skin a joint.”

“Shouldn’t that be cat?” said Jim.

“I think it’s khat,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“I have this.” Mr Compton-Cummings held this up for all to see.

“Isn’t that one of those new miniature LPs?” Jim asked. “The ones you can supposedly spread strawberry jam over and they still play?”

“It’s a computer disc,” said Mr Compton-Cummings. “With a virus on it.”

“Don’t say it,” said John.

“I wasn’t going to,” said Jim. “He means a computer virus, I understand that.”

“Well, it’s not so much a virus.” Mr Compton-Cummings twiddled his porky digits and turned the twinkling thing in the air. “It’s more of a program. When put into the computer system at the Millennium Committee’s offices, it will siphon off huge amounts of money into bank accounts in Brentford and then erase all record of the transactions.”

“I like the sound of that,” said John. “Whose accounts did you have in mind?”

“Mine,” said Professor Slocombe.

“And mine,” said Mr Compton-Cummings.

“Ah,” said John.

“But,” said the genealogist, “this money will be made available to you, to do all the things you were planning to do.”

“Magic,” said John, rubbing his hands together.

“No,” said Jim. “Not magic. There simply isn’t enough time. It’s September now. Whatever building projects could even be started would never be completed by December.”

“Sadly,” said John, “Jim does have a point.”

“I’m sad about it too,” said Jim. “Don’t get me wrong.”

“However,” said Professor Slocombe, “these large amounts of money could be channelled into Brentford. To raise morale, to enthuse, to engender support, to ensure that when New Year’s Eve comes round, everyone in the borough will be celebrating. It is absolutely essential to my ceremony that thousands celebrate. A great rush of positive energy is necessary for it to work.”

“I think we could handle that,” said John.

“The John Omally Millennial Fish and Chip Van fleet,” said Jim.

“The Devo concert,” said John.

“I think I prefer the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of Death, now.”

“Jim,” said John. “We could get the Spice Girls.”

There was a silence. It kind of hung in the air. The way they do.

“Surely the Spice Girls are this year’s Bros,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Trust me,” said John, “there are certain important differences.”

“Well, get the Spice Girls,” said Mr Compton-Cummings. “Get the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies, get the Rolling Stones. The sky’s the limit.”

“Let’s get them all,” said John.

And there was another silence.

This one was broken by Jim Pooley.

“About putting this program into Fred’s computer,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be a somewhat hazardous job? I mean I’m not a coward, or anything. Honestly. But, believe me, there is no way on Earth that I am going to get involved in that.”

“So,” said John. “After I have let off the smoke bomb, you abseil down from the roof, in through the window into the computer room. We’ve synchronized watches and you have forty-five seconds. I back the van with the mattress on the roof up against the building, you come down on the paraglider and we’re away into the night.”

“And no flaw in this plan is immediately apparent to you?”

It was the next day. They were sitting on the concrete bench. The weather was nice, but nippy. The bench was still uncomfortable (although less so for Jim, who had brought a cushion).

“OK, you have fifty seconds,” said John.

“John, if I had an hour, or a day, or a week, I could never, ever, do this. You know how I am with electronic equipment. I would blow the place up. Anyway it’s a duff plan. Why don’t I let off the smoke bomb?”

“Because I thought of it.”

“No.” Jim shook his head. “This is another of your fast solutions, the ones that end up like Norman’s sweeties. All guggy.”

“A minute and a half,” said John. “Two minutes.”

“No, John. I’m not doing it. It’s a ludicrous idea.”

“But it’s worth millions. Millions of pounds for three minutes’ work.”

“John, I don’t know anything about computers. I never have and hopefully I never will. Nobody around here knows anything about computers.”

“Someone must.”

“Who then?”

John scratched at the stubble on his unshaven chin. “Norman might.”

“Yes well, Norman might. Didn’t he build his own once? Out of Meccano?”

“I think it was Lego. But he might. We could ask him.”

“Computers?” said Norman. “A piece of cake, computers. I built one out of Duplo once.”

“So you do know about computers?” John peered at the guggy contents of a sweetie jar. “You would know about this?” He held up the glittering computer disc.

“Certainly. Isn’t that one of those miniature LPs that you can spread strawberry jam on?”

“Who else do we know?” Jim asked.

“Not too many people,” said John from his side of the concrete bench (and seated now upon Jim’s cushion). “None, in fact.”

“Oh well, throw the thing away.”

“Not a bit of it. This is the big one, Jim. And I’m not going to let you back out again.”

“There’s nobody we know, that’s it.”

“Nobody you know about what?”

“Who said that?” asked Jim.

“I did.”

Jim turned round on the bench. Behind him stood a child of perhaps ten years of age. He was a golden child. All golden, golden hair. Golden eyes.

“My name is Cain,” said the golden child.

“Jim,” said Jim. “And this is…”

“John,” said the golden child. “John Omally.”

“How do you know that?” asked John.

“I don’t know. But I do.”

“Do you know about computers?”

“No, stop,” said Jim. “He’s a child.”

“Children are great at this stuff, Jim. Hackers and suchlike.”

“Hackers?”

“You really wouldn’t want to know.”

“I know about computers,” said Cain. “I have read all about them.”

“Would you know what to do with this?” John displayed the little disc.

“Of course.”

“How would you like to earn yourself some extra pocket money?”

“No!” Jim snatched away the disc. “He’s a child, John. Get a grip of yourself.”

“Where’s your brother?” John asked.

“Abel is in the library. He’s reading all about drag.”

“Drag?”

“Cross-dressing. We’re up to the Ds now. We’re reading the entire contents of the library.”

“Don’t you go to school?”

“What is school? We haven’t reached the Ss yet.”

“You must have done D for Dictionary,” said Jim.

“What do you want to do with the computer disc?” asked Cain.

“Put it into someone’s computer,” said John. “And turn it on, that’s all.”

“No,” said Jim. “Not a child.”

“You want to put it into Fred’s computer,” said the child.

“A mind-reader,” said John. “You can read people’s minds.”

“Some, not all. I cannot read the mind of my father.”

“What number am I thinking of?” asked Jim.

“Twenty-three,” said Cain.

“He’s right,” said Jim.

“Incredible,” said John.

“Sixty-nine,” said Cain.

“Pardon me?”