The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (22 page)

“I’m sorry I missed all that,” said Neville, flipping the top from a bottle of Hartnell’s Millennial Ale. “It must have been a sight worth seeing.”

“Oh, it was.” Omally raised the bottle in salute.

It was early in the morning now, and but for a few stalwarts the crowds had all gone home to bed, well satisfied with the Brentford millennial celebrations.

In the Road to Calvary stood Professor Slocombe and Mr Compton-Cummings and Celia Penn and Old Pete and Small Dave and the lady in the straw hat and Paul and Suzy and Jim. Minor members of the cast stood about in the background going “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb” whilst trying to remain on camera.

“Jim did it,” said John. “He saved the Professor’s ceremony, and rescued Suzy. Jim is the hero.”

“You’re the hero, John,” said Jim. “Shooting that rocket up the monster’s arse saved my life.”

“I think we have someone else to thank,” said Professor Slocombe, turning his eyes skyward.

“Oh yes,” said Jim. “Oh yes indeed.”

“Now surely,” said John, “that was what they call a Deus ex Machina ending?”

“How could you have had anything else?”

“Quite so, Professor. And all went well with your ceremony?”

“Oh yes. All went perfectly.”

“I can’t actually feel anything,” said Jim. “Well, I feel something, happy, content, something.”

“I don’t think that’s the Professor’s magic,” said John.

Jim put his arm about Suzy. “No,” he said. “I don’t think it is.”

“Well, cheers, everybody,” said John, raising his bottle once more.

Jim took Suzy aside. “I never did get that regular job and get myself all sorted out,” he said. “But I want to ask you that question anyway.”

“Go on then,” said Suzy. “Ask it.”

“Will you marry me, Suzy?”

Suzy stared into Jim’s eyes. Those beautiful eyes of hers, those wonderful, marvellous, amber eyes made Jim go all weak at the knees.

“No,” said Suzy. “I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

Suzy shook her head. “Marriage is all the things John told you it was, washing the car, mowing the lawn, having dinner parties with terribly nice respectable people. That stuff isn’t for me, Jim, and it isn’t for you.”

“Oh,” said Jim. “So what then?”

“Would you like to come and live at my flat?”

Jim chewed upon his lip. “Well,” said he.

Suzy shook her head once more. “No, you wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t want to live at your house either. But what we have is so special, so absolutely special, that one day, one day when everything is right, when everything is resolved, we will be together, won’t we?”

“Yes.” Jim smiled. “I know we will.”

“Good. Then you can kiss me if you want.” Jim took the beautiful woman in his arms and kissed her.

“All is perfect,” he said. “All will be perfect. After all this, all we’ve been through, how could it ever end up anything but perfect?”

“Neville?” John Omally stared at the part-time barman. “Neville, what colour was the cap you just flipped from my bottle?”

Neville picked the cap up from the counter. “Green,” he said.

“Green?”

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d run out. Luckily I found two bottles left in my fridge. You’ve got one and Jim there’s got the other. It doesn’t matter really that they’re a couple of weeks out of date, does it?”

Omally held his bottle in a quivering hand. “Nobody move,” he said.

But it really would be mean to leave it there like that, wouldn’t it? And so, of course, the beer did not explode. The sun rose over Brentford and a new dawn began. Though subtle at first, the spirit moved across the face of the Earth, across its people, touching them as gently, gently, the wheel began to turn, the holy mandala, returning mankind to THE BIG IDEA.

And Jim and Suzy stood upon the canal bridge watching the new sun rise above the windscreen wiper works and Jim took Suzy once more in his arms.

“I love you, Suzy,” said Jim.

“I love you too, Jim,” she replied.

Robert Fleming Rankin (born July 27, 1949) is a prolific British humorous novelist. Born in Parsons Green, London, he started writing in the late 1970s, and first entered the bestsellers lists with Snuff Fiction in 1999. His books are a unique mix of science fiction, fantasy, the occult, urban legends, running gags, metafiction, steampunk and outrageous characters. According to the (largely fictional) biography printed in some Corgi editions of his books, Rankin refers to his style as 'Far Fetched Fiction' in the hope that bookshops will let him have a section to himself. Many of Rankin's books are bestsellers.

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