The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (19 page)

“And I’m telling you,” said Neville, “if it wasn’t for this,” he held up a bottle of Hartnell’s Millennial Ale: the beer that tastes the way beer used to taste, “you would be roasting in that grate instead of my yule log.”

Omally gave a sickly grin. “I will get it sorted, I promise. You are serving the ale strictly in rotation, as I told you?”

“Yes, yes, yes. Numbered crates, red bottle top last week, amber bottle top this week, green bottle top next week. I know all that. The beer has to be served fresh, it doesn’t keep. You’ve told me again and again, and so has Norman. I’m a professional, you know.”

“I know, I know. It’s just very very important that you use each batch within a week. It will go off otherwise.”

Jim, who had been drinking at the bar, coughed into his ale, sending much of it up his nose. “Go off. Oh my God.”

John steered him away to a side table.

“Do try to control yourself, Jim,” he said.

“Control myself? John, what if he overlooks a crate, or something? The whole pub will go up. People will die, John. Supplying him with that beer is such a bad bad idea.”

“I only supply him with just enough. It’s the most popular beer in the borough – there’s never any left over the following week. And it’s the only reason we’re allowed to drink here.”

“It’s no fun to drink here any more, with it done up like this.” Jim cast an eye over the religious trappings. They were getting pretty knackered from all the constant moving in and out and in again, but actually they didn’t look all that bad, what with the Christmas decorations and everything.

“I’ll get it sorted.”

“Of course you won’t. You won’t get it sorted, the same way Norman will never get the beer sorted.”

“And is the free rock concert in the football ground sorted, Jim?”

“Well.” Jim made the now legendary so-so gesture. The one that means, “No, actually.”

“No,” said John, “I thought not.”

“I’ve had a definite yes from the Chocolate Bunnies, and Sonic Energy Authority are coming, and the Lost T-Shirts of Atlantis.”

“I don’t wish to be sceptical, and these are very fine bands. But it’s not exactly your all-star Wembley line-up, is it?”

“We would have had the Spice Girls.”

“Ah,” said John.

“Yes, ‘Ah’. If you hadn’t had the Spice Girls, we would have had the Spice Girls.”

“I didn’t have all of them, Jim. I only had one.”

“And which one was that?”

“The vacant-looking one.”

“That’s not a particularly specific answer, is it?”

“Look, never mind about that. They split up because of artistic differences.”

“You’re only making it worse for yourself. And how is Omally’s by the way? I’ve been expecting my invite to the grand opening.”

Omally made the so-so gesture.

Jim shook his head. “Guggy,” he said.

“But look on the bright side. The entire borough will be celebrating, just as the Professor wanted.”

“The few remaining who aren’t already in the Caribbean.”

“We only lost a couple of hundred, don’t exaggerate. And if you’d spent a little less time at your girlfriend’s experimenting with the contents of her fridge…”

“Stop that!”

“All right. But if you had spent more time concentrating on the job, a lot more would have been done.”

“Shall we consult our list, just to clarify exactly what has been done?”

Omally took a very small piece of paper from his pocket. “There’s the concert in the football ground,” said he.

“Which I have been organizing.”

“There’s the beer festival.”

“Oh yes. One of yours. The one that will probably end in a nuclear holocaust.”

“The beauty pageant. Ah, no, not the beauty pageant.”

“Not the beauty pageant?”

“I don’t wish to talk about it. There was some unpleasantness regarding my interview techniques… husbands, boyfriends… let’s not discuss the beauty pageant.”

Jim gave his head another shake.

“The street party,” said John.

“Oh yes, the street party named desire. Or should that be the street party named it’s-too-bloody-cold-at-this-time-of-year-for-a-street-party?”

“The beer festival.”

“We’ve done that.”

“The synchronized paragliding.”

“Oh yes, the synchronized paragliding. Half a dozen grannies plummeting to their deaths from the top of the gasometer. That should draw a big crowd.”

“There’s the fireworks.”

“Fireworks?”

“Ha, you didn’t know about the fireworks, did you?”

“No, I confess that I did not. And who is putting on the display?”

“Mmmmph,” mumbled Omally.

“Sorry? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Norman.”

“Norman. Oh, perfect. Fireworks the way fireworks used to be, I suppose.”

“Something along those lines.”

“So we can expect to see the word GUGGY lighting up the sky.”

“Norman will be fine. He’s constructed a mobile de-entropizer that will reconstitute the fireworks again and again. Until the car battery runs down, anyway. It will be a spectacular event. Trust me on this.”

“Well, with that and the paragliding grannies, I think we have the situation firmly under control. What a night to remember, eh? I only hope I can contain myself and not simply die from an overload of sheer enjoyment.”

“You’ll be giving your girlfriend’s kitchen a miss, then?”

“I’m warning you, John.”

“It’s fun though, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. But listen, John, in all truth, we’ve really fouled this up. All the money that we’ve given away, we’ve not got much to show for it, have we?”

“I’ve personally got nothing to show for it. The Professor’s been really stingy regarding my expenses.”

“And making us do our community service, that was rubbing it in a bit.”

“He said it was good for our souls.”

Jim stared into his empty glass. “What do you think will really happen when he performs his ceremony on New Year’s Eve?”

“Search me. But he seems convinced that it will be something wonderful. Dawn of a new age, step closer back to THE BIG IDEA.”

“THE BIG IDEA.” Jim pushed his empty glass aside. “I think I’ll go round to see Suzy,” he said.

“Well, steer clear of the live yoghurt. It gives you thrush.”

“John!”

“Well, it does.”

“I’ll steer clear of it then. What are you going to do?”

“Relax.” John drained the last life from his pint. “Have a few more beers here and relax. Nothing’s going to happen tonight, is it? I mean, what could possibly happen tonight?”

Jim looked at John.

And John looked back at Jim.

“Why is it,” Jim asked, “that I really wish you hadn’t said that?”

As Jim left the Flying Swan he passed between two men who were entering it. They were tall men and well proportioned. They looked to be in their early thirties and were dressed identically in grey tweed suits. One had long golden hair and a golden beard, the other’s hair was dark and so too were his whiskers. As Jim passed between them he experienced a most alarming sensation. It was as if one side of him had turned as cold as ice and the other fiery hot.

Jim gathered his senses together with some difficulty and put what spring he could into his step.

Suzy’s flat was in Horseferry Lane, a little up from the Shrunken Head. It was one of those smart newish three-storey affairs, peopled by good-looking arty types with whom Jim had absolutely nothing in common. He spent a great deal of time agonizing over exactly what Suzy saw in him. He was a layabout, there was no getting away from it. A dreamer and a romantic maybe, but a layabout. An individual, she kept on telling him, in a world where few exist. And the two of them did have something. Something wonderful. Something that made differences in their lifestyles totally irrelevant. And when two people know that they’re meant for each other, nothing will stand in their way.

Jim had been given a key of his own. Well, it hadn’t been a proper key, not in Jim’s opinion anyway. It had been a plastic card thing that you pushed into this little black box by the front door. Jim had almost got to grips with it on several occasions. The engineer who had come to fix the little black box said he was totally mystified by the way it kept breaking down. Jim didn’t have the plastic card thing any more, Jim had to ring the bell.

Jim rang the bell.

But there wasn’t any answer.

Jim inspected the bell push. It was possible, just possible, that the bell push was broken. Stone at the window? No, that wasn’t such a good idea, not after what happened last time. Jim shrugged. She was probably out somewhere. Should he hang around, or just go home? Jim leaned back against the front door. The front door swung open and Jim fell backwards into the hall.

“Ouch,” said Jim, struggling to his feet.

The door swung shut, but it didn’t lock. The keep was hanging off the wall.

“Well, that wasn’t my fault,” said Jim. “I didn’t do that.”

Jim now did those dusting downs that people do after they’ve fallen over. They do them no matter where they fall, even if there isn’t any dust. It’s probably some racial memory thing, or a primordial urge, or a basic instinct or a tradition or an old charter, or something.

Jim straightened his shoulders and marched upstairs. Suzy’s flat was number three on the second floor. Lovers of illuminati conspiracy theory could get a 23 out of that.

Jim didn’t bother with the bell push. He knocked on the door. And as his knuckle struck the black lacquered panel the door swung open to reveal

A scene of devastation.

Jim stepped inside, in haste and fear. The flat had been ransacked. And viciously so. Curtains torn down, cushions ripped to ribbons, vases broken, books shredded, pictures smashed from their frames.

“Suzy.” Jim plunged amongst the wreckage, righting the sofa, flinging aside the fallen drapes. Into the kitchen, the bathroom.

The bedroom.

The bed was made. The duvet spread. The pale silk curtains hung, untorn. An eye of calm in the centre of the evil hurricane.

Jim felt sick inside. As he stood and stared into that bedroom, the reek came to his nostrils. Jim flung himself across the room, dragged aside the duvet and the bed cover. To expose a human turd lying in the middle of the bed.

“My dear God, no.” Jim turned away.

The bedside phone began to ring. He snatched it up.

“I’ll bet you’re really pissed off, aren’t you?” said the voice of Derek.

“Who is this?”

“You remember me, or at least my nine-gauge auto-loader.”

Jim’s heart sank. His knees buckled. “Suzy,” he whispered, “You have Suzy, don’t you?”

Jim heard the noise of struggling. And then a slap. And then the awful sound of Suzy weeping.

“I’ll kill you.” Jim shook uncontrollably. “If you harm her I’ll kill you.”

“I’m sure you’ll try. But it won’t be necessary. You can have her back. Possibly even in one piece, if you do what you’re told.”

“And what is that?”

Derek spoke and Jim listened. And Jim’s face, pale and ghostly as it was, grew even paler and ghostlier still.

And the band played “Believe It If You Like”.

A big brass band it was, of big beer-bellied men. They had such smart uniforms, scarlet with golden sashes, the borough’s emblem of the Griffin Rampant resplendent upon them. And big black shiny boots and trumpets and cornets and big bass bassoons.

And they marched through the Butts Estate and they played “Believe It If You Like”.

And children cheered and waved their Union Jacks.

And old biddies cheered and fluttered their lace handkerchiefs.

And old men nodded their heads to the beat.

And a lady in a straw hat said, “They’re playing in the key of C.”

And a medical student named Paul said, “Oh no they’re not.”

And the weather forecast said “no rain”. And the winter sun shone brightly and today was a special day indeed.

Today was New Year’s Eve.

John Omally glanced at his gold Piaget wristwatch. (Well, he had been able to wangle one or two expenses.) “Nearly four,” said he. “Where is Jim?”

Norman Hartnell hurried up.

“Any word of him?” John asked.

“No,” said Norman. “It’s the same all over. You were the last person to see him, John. The night before last.”

“What about his girlfriend? He said he was going there.”

“She’s not home. I’ve rung loads of times, but I don’t get any answer. And I don’t have the time to keep doing this for you. Do you think the two of them have…”

“What?” Omally stiffened. “Run off together? Eloped or something?”

“It’s more than possible. He’s well smitten, that Jim.”

“No.” Omally made fierce head-shakings. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without telling me.”

“Perhaps he was afraid you might talk him out of it.”

“Oh no.” Omally glanced once more at his wrist-watch. If he himself had been able to hive off enough expenses to purchase this, Jim might well have been salting away sufficient cash to do a runner. His need was the greater of the two.

John suddenly felt quite empty inside. Somehow the thought that he and Jim would not remain best friends for ever had never really entered his mind.

They were a team. They were the lads.

They were individuals.

“I have to get back to the brewery,” said Norman. “I’ve got crates of ale coming out of the old de-entropizer and I have to get them over to the Swan. I’ll see you later at the fireworks, eh?”

But John did not reply.

In that house in Moby Dick Terrace, where the old folk died from most unnatural causes, Dr Steven Malone paced up and down. In the sparsely furnished sitting room, with its curtains drawn and a single low-watt ceiling bulb creating gloom, the floorboards creaked beneath his feet and the two tall men sat in armchairs regarding him in silence.

“Tonight,” said Dr Steven, “we return to Kether House. I have made all the preparations. Tonight you will learn my purpose and I will learn all…”

Cain opened his mouth to speak.

“No, Cain, only listen. I brought you into being just for this. Do you know who you really are?”

“I am Cain,” said Cain. “And you are my father.”

“And you, Abel? What of you?”

“I am part of Cain,” said Abel. “He is part of me. The two of us are one.”

“This is so. And tonight you shall be joined. The two made truly one and at the moment of this joining…”

“We shall die,” said Cain.

“For we belong dead,” Abel said. “Is that not so, father?”

But Dr Steven did not reply.

Professor Slocombe’s study had been cleared of every antique book, every glass-cased creature, every precious artefact, each table, chair and couch. The sconces from the walls had gone, the curtain rails. The carpets, rugs and dhurries. And the walls and the ceiling and the floor and all the woodwork and the very panes of glass in the French windows had been painted black. And on the blackened floor, wrought in white, the sacred circles had been drawn enclosing the hexagram, that six-pointed Star of Solomon, the great seal of the mysteries. And the names of power had been inscribed between the outer circle and the inner. ADONAI and MALKUTH and AUM and TETRAGRAMMATON.

And at the very centre of the hexagram, wrought in red, the sacred symbol Om.

There were no candles in this room, no lamps of any kind, but an astral light illuminated all.

Gammon knelt in silent prayer as Professor Slocombe, in the seamless floor-length robe of white, the robe of the Ipsissimus, intoned the words to cleanse the temple, and begin the operation.

The Lesser Ritual of the Pentagram

And touched his forehead, saying Ateh (Unto Thee) And touched his breast while saying Malkuth (The Kingdom) And touched his right shoulder, saying ve-Gaburah (And the Power) And touched the left, saying ve-Gedulah (And the Glory) And clasping hands upon the breast, he said le-Olahm, Amen. (To the Ages, Amen).

Gammon rose and, bowing to the East, the South, the West and then the North, he said, “I will leave you now, sir. Blessed be.”

Professor Slocombe did not reply.

Fred sat in his office with his feet up on the desk. The dust sheets had gone and the scaffolding was down. The paintings were up again and so were Fred’s spirits.

Derek and Clive stood to either side of Fred. Derek had a nice new gun. A small but useful-looking weapon. An Uzi nine-millimetre. Clive held a little black bag. Something wriggled uncomfortably within it.

Before Fred’s desk stood Jim Pooley.

And Jim didn’t look very well.

“You’ve got a bloody nose again, Jim,” said Fred.

Derek giggled. “He got a bit boisterous. I had to give him a little slap.”

Jim trembled and knotted his fists. “Where is she?” he spat through gritted teeth. “What have you done with her?”

“She’s safe enough for now,” said Fred. “Although I know that Derek is just dying to get to know her a little better.”

“I’ve filled up my fridge,” said Derek. “I’ve got some real prize-winning fruit and veg.”

Jim turned on Derek. Derek just held up his gun.

“You’ll do exactly what we want you to do, won’t you, Jim?” Fred smiled a smile of such pure wickedness that even Dr Steven Malone would have been hard pressed to match it.

“What do you want me to do?”

“A small act of sabotage, nothing more.”

“Where is Suzy?”

“Nearby. Safe for now.”

“I want to see her.”

“Well, you can’t. Now what was I saying? Ah yes, a small act of sabotage. Clive here has a little bag. Did you notice Clive’s little bag?”

Jim said nothing.

“You wouldn’t want to look inside. There’s something deeply unpleasant in there. Something unworldly.”

“Go on, show him,” said Derek. “It frightens the shit out of me.”

“Derek did a shit in the Suzy woman’s bed,” said Clive. “And he didn’t wipe his bum afterwards.”

Pooley’s knuckles clicked.

“What you are going to do, Jim, is to take Clive’s little bag to the house of Professor Slocombe and at the stroke of midnight, as he is bringing his ritual to its climax, you are to open the little bag and release what is inside.”

“Never,” said Jim.

“Jim, you will do this, or the next time you see Suzy there will only be certain pieces you recognize. Now, in case you are thinking of pulling any strokes on us, let me introduce you to this.” Fred opened a drawer and took out a small black electronic item. He extended its aerial and pressed a tiny red button.

Pain exploded in Jim’s head. He sank to his knees and screamed.

Fred touched the button again. Pooley looked up, fear and hatred in his eyes.

“Have a little feel of your right temple, Jim.”

Pooley felt with a shaking hand.

“Feel that little lump?”

Pooley nodded.

“An implant, a tracking transmitter. We put it in you during your stay at the Cottage Hospital. We know exactly where you are at any time. And if you’re not where you’re supposed to be at midnight, we will be terribly upset. Derek and Clive will be waiting outside in the car with your girlfriend. Be a good boy and you can have her back unharmed. Play me false and I’ll know.” Fred touched the button and Jim collapsed once more.

Fred touched the button again and Pooley looked up.

“You are going to be a good boy, aren’t you, Jim?”

But Pooley did not reply.

Old Pete sat at the bar counter of the Road to Calvary, a most miserable look upon his face.

“What troubles you, Old Pete?” asked Neville the part-time barman. “This is a day for celebration, half-priced beer until midnight.”

Old Pete sniffed. “Take a look at this,” he said, and reaching down he brought up a carrier bag and placed it on the counter.

“What’s in there?” asked Neville.

Old Pete rooted in, lifted out what looked to be a toy piano and a toy piano stool. Rooting again he lifted out what appeared to be a tiny man in a dress suit.

Old Pete placed the tiny man upon the bar top. The tiny man bowed, clicked his fingers, sat down upon the stool and rattled out “Believe It If You Like” on the piano.

Neville stared, his good eye wide.

When the tiny man had finished, Old Pete snatched him up and thrust him, the piano and the stool back into the carrier bag.

“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” said Neville.

“Huh!” said Old Pete, in a depressed tone.

“What do you mean, ‘Huh’?”

“Well, let me tell you what happened. I was walking down by the canal earlier and I saw this woman drowning. I pulled her out and she said to me, ‘Thank you, sir, for saving my life.’ I said, ‘No problem,’ and then she said, ‘I am a witch and to thank you properly I will grant you a single wish.’…”

“She never did?” said Neville.

“She did,” said Old Pete. “But she was either a bit deaf or had water in her ears, because I now possess this ten-inch pianist.”

“I’ve heard it before,” said Neville.

“Everyone’s heard it before,” said Old Pete. “But it’s a blinder of a joke, isn’t it?”

“A classic. Same again?”

“Cheers,” said Old Pete.

“But surely…” said Norman. “I mean, you have… I mean…”

“What?”

Norman Hartnell shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll figure that out, given time.”

“Amber bottle tops,” said Neville.

“Sorry?” said Norman.

“Amber bottle tops this week, red last week, green the week before.”

“Oh yes,” said Norman. “Amber this week. Don’t serve anything else, will you?”

“I am a professional,” said Neville. “Do I have to keep on telling you? And what would happen if I did make a mistake? It would hardly be the end of the world, would it?”

Norman did not reply.

The big brass band played the theme tune from Blue Peter. The world-famous Brentford Girls’ School Drum Majorettes high-stepped and baton-twirled; carnival floats manned and womanned by Brentfordians who had actually spent their Millennium grant money on what they said they would followed behind.

These fine-looking floats were constructed to display tableaux from Brentford’s glorious past.

Here was a great and garish Julius Caesar, fashioned from papier mache, dipping his toe in the Thames, prior to crossing it down by Horseferry Lane. Here were the king’s men, ready to hammer the parliamentarians at the historic Battle of Brentford. Here too the Bards of Brentford, the poets and playwrights, the literary greats, born to the borough and now beloved the world over.

And there was, well, there was – er…

Moving right along, here come the all-ladies over-eighties synchronized paragliding team.

And the band played “Believe It If You Like”.