The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (3 page)

“She said that?” Omally spluttered into his pint of Large. “You’re jesting.”

“I am not.” Jim crossed his heart once more, careful to use the hand that was not holding the drink. “Of course, she then went on to explain that she meant the job of blowing into the spout of the tea dispenser to clear a blockage. I’d had enough by then, so I made my excuses and left.”

“And quite right too,” agreed Omally. “That’s not the way we do business in Brentford. A woman like that is quite out of place.”

Jim Pooley raised an eyebrow to this remark, coming as it did from John Omally, whose reputation as a womanizer was legend hereabouts. But he knew what his best friend meant. There was something very special about the little town of Brentford, something that singled it out from the surrounding territories, that could not be quantified and catalogued and tamed by definition. It was subtle and elusive; it was precious. It was magic. And the folk who lived there felt it and were glad.

Jim sighed and drained his glass and placed it on the counter.

The two stood in the saloon bar of the Flying Swan, that Victorian jewel in the battered crown of Brentford pubbery. Raking shores of sunlight venturing through the etched glass windows sparkled in the ashtrays and the optics, on the polished mahogany counter top and from the burnished brass. There was magic here all right.

“One of similar, Neville, please,” said Jim as he pushed his glass across the bar.

“And one for me,” said John.

Neville the part-time barman pulled the pints and smiled upon his patrons. “You know, Jim,” said he, when the pints were drawn and paid for, “that book you have there might prove to be worth a few bob.”

“This book?” asked Jim, turning the item which lay before him on the counter. “How so?”

Neville took up Mr Compton-Cummings’s posthumous publication and idly turned the pages. “Well, I was talking just yesterday with that chap Gary. You know the fellow, tall, good-looking, posh suit, always carries the…” Neville paused and made a face.

“Mobile phone,” said Omally, crossing himself.

“The very same, and those abominations remain as ever barred from this establishment. Well, Gary works for Transglobe, the outfit responsible for the publication of this book. It came up in conversation.”

“Oh, did it?” said Jim. “Just came up in conversation. You weren’t perhaps hoping to get a free copy?”

Neville made the innocent face of the guilty man. “As I was saying, it came up in conversation and Gary told me that it was scheduled for publication this very week, this very day in fact. But at the eleventh hour all copies were withdrawn and pulped.”

“Blow me!” said Jim.

“Language,” said Omally.

“All pulped,” said Neville. “Even the original manuscript had to be destroyed.”

“But why?”

“Gary wasn’t altogether sure. But he was mightily peeved. The book was destined for the world market. It was expected to sell millions.”

Jim glowered into his ale. “So much for the ‘elite minority’.”

“Gary was cursing because he hadn’t actually got round to reading a copy himself. But he said the talk was that the book contained certain ‘sensational disclosures’ and that the order to pulp it had come down ‘from above’.”

Jim’s eyes rolled towards the Swan’s nicotined ceiling and stared unfocused, as if viewing through it the infinity that lay beyond. “From God?” he whispered.

“From the board of directors,” said Neville.

Omally plucked the book from the part-time barman’s fingers. “You pair of buffoons,” said he. “That Gary was winding you up, Neville. It would all be a publicity stunt.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. And to prove I’m right I will take this lad home with me now and read it from cover to cover. If there’s anything in it worth talking about, I’ll let you know.”

“I think not.” Pooley availed himself of his book. It was a struggle, but he managed it in the end. “It was I who suffered at the fingertips of the martial genealogist, and if this book contains anything of a sensational nature, which might be turned to a financial profit, then I should be the one to benefit.”

“The thought of turning a financial profit never entered my head,” said Omally, in a tone which might well have convinced those who didn’t know him. “But as it seems to have entered yours, then please do so with my blessing.”

“Thank you, John. I shall.”

Omally raised his glass in toast. “There, Neville,” he said, “you see a man of steely nerve and fearless disposition. An example to us all. Let us salute Jim Pooley, ‘he who dares’.” Omally swallowed ale.

“He who what?” Jim asked.

“Dares,” said John. “As in takes risks. Big risks.”

“What big risks?”

“The modesty of the man,” said John. “As if he doesn’t know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Only this. Supposing that the book really does contain ‘sensational disclosures’. They must be pretty damn sensational if they’ve caused a publishing house the size of Transglobe to call in and pulp millions of copies rather than risk the consequences of publication.”

“Hm,” said Jim. “Perhaps.”

“And call me a conspiracy theorist, but isn’t there something highly suspicious in the fact that on the very day the book was due to be published, its author drops down dead from a so-called heart attack?”

“Coincidence,” said Jim.

“Oh, right,” said John. “So if I find you lying dead in your kitchen, with your trousers round your ankles and the teapot stuck in your gob, I’ll put that down to coincidence too.”

“I… er…”

“Stop it, John,” said Neville. “You’re frightening him.”

“I’m not scared,” said Pooley.

“I would be,” said Neville.

“Me too,” said Old Pete, shuffling up to the bar. “What are we talking about?”

“Jim’s book,” said John.

“Jim’s written a book?”

“No, he’s been given one.”

“Well, let me have a look at it when he’s finished colouring it in.”

“Most amusing,” said Jim. “You are as ever the wit.”

“Large dark rum please, Neville,” said Old Pete. “And give Jim whatever he wants.”

“He wants a bodyguard,” said Omally, “or possibly a change of identity.”

“Stop it, John.” Pooley held out the book. “Go on, you take it then. I’ve quite lost interest in the thing.”

“Not me,” said Omally.

“You, Neville?” Jim asked.

“No thank you.” Neville shook his head.

“Cor blimey,” said Old Pete, “reminds me of that joke about the ten commandments.”

“What joke’s that?” Jim asked.

“Well, you see, this is back in biblical times, right, and God goes to the Arabs and he says, ‘Would you like a commandment?’ and the head Arab says, ‘What is it?’ and God says, ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery,’ and the head Arab says, ‘No thanks, we do that all the time, we enjoy it.’

“So God goes to the Egyptians and he says to the Pharaoh, ‘Would you like a commandment?’ and the Pharaoh says, ‘What is it?’ and God says, ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, or his ass or whatever,’ and the Pharaoh says, ‘No thanks, coveting’s what we do best, we thrive on it.’

“So finally God goes to the Jews and he says to Moses, ‘Would you like a commandment?’ and Moses says, ‘How much do they cost?’ and God says, ‘They’re free.’ So Moses says… ‘I’ll take ten.’” Old Pete collapsed in laughter.

“Surely that is anti-Semitic,” said Jim.

“Not when it’s told by a Jew. Especially one who’s just bought you a drink. But I’ll take that free book if it’s still going.”

“That’s all right,” said Omally. “I’ll take it.”

When Neville called time for the lunchtime session, Pooley and Omally parted company. John returned to his rooms in Mafeking Avenue and Jim took himself to his favourite bench before the Memorial Library. It was here, on this almost sacred spot, that, Jim did most of his really heavyweight thinking. Here where he dreamed his dreams and made his plans. Here too where he sat and smoked and soaked up sunshine.

Jim placed his bum upon the bench and stretched his legs before him. He’d been shafted again. Omally would root out whatever sensational disclosures the book held and profit therefrom and Jim would wind up empty-handed. But surely John wouldn’t grab the lot? He was Jim’s best friend, after all. There’d be something in it for Jim. But probably not a very substantial something.

Jim sighed and stretched and wriggled himself into comfort. Stuff the silly book. What did he care about that? He was destined for far higher things, financially speaking.

Jim rooted about in his jacket pockets and pulled out a crumpled pamphlet. This was his passport to fortune. He uncrumpled the pamphlet and smoothed out its edges.

Time Travel for Fun and Profit by Hugo Rune

This was the kiddie. Jim had come across it quite by chance – if there really was such a thing as chance, which Mr Rune seemed to doubt. Jim had purchased a large cod and chips and Archie Karachi of the Star of Bombay Curry Garden (and Tasty-chip Patio) had wrapped them up in this very pamphlet.

Jim had studied the pamphlet with interest. It wasn’t one of those build-your-own-time-machine science fiction jobbies, more one of your esoteric-new-age-power-of-the-mind sort of bodies. Astral bodies, probably.

Mr Rune explained, in words which the layman could understand, that time really didn’t exist at all. His premise was that the universe had always been here. It had never begun and would never end. So there was an infinite amount of “time” in the past and an equally infinite amount of “time” to come in the future. He drew the famous analogy of the infinitely long piece of string. If you had a piece of string that stretched endlessly from infinity to infinity, then any point you chose on that string must be its middle. You couldn’t have more infinity on one side of it than on the other. And so it was with time. Wherever you were in it, you were right at its centre. No more time behind you than in front. It made perfect sense. Time, said Mr Rune, was a purely human concept. There was no past and no future, just an infinite number of presents.

So how could a human being travel into either the past or the future? The answer was, of course, that he couldn’t. Not physically, anyway. For physical travel he’d have to travel faster than light and nothing can travel faster than light. Well, nothing except THOUGHT. It got capital letters in the pamphlet, which meant that it was important.

You can think about the sun instantly, but its light takes eight minutes to reach you. So, mentally, you can outrun light.

Rune argued (convincingly) that many people had already mastered the technique of mental time travel. These folk were, of course, the prophets. Those lucky few blessed with the powers of precognition. The Nostradamus types who could see into the future. And there had been loads of them.

Mother Shipton, Edgar Cayce. Rune offered a list. These folk had travelled into the future by the power of their minds. But the trouble was that the future, which consisted of an infinite number of presents yet to come, was simply too big for the average prophet to get his head round. There was too much of it. So he got overloaded and confused and made a lot of inaccurate predictions. Rune claimed to have formulated a set of mental exercises which concentrated the mind on one tiny little bit of the future – maybe the bit that was only half an hour away.

And this was the bit that had Jim hooked. Just half an hour away. What, if you knew it half an hour before it happened, would benefit you very much indeed?

It hadn’t taken Jim half an hour to figure it out.

The result of the National Lottery.

And so Jim sat in the sun, his eyes closed and his face contorted by the anguish of his concentration.

It was a pity that the last page of the pamphlet, the page with the actual instructions for the mental exercises, had been torn off. Somebody else had got that round their cod and chips, but Jim had been unable to find out who. Still, he gritted his teeth none the less and thought forward.

Had Jim been able to foresee the eventual outcome of these mental exercises, he would have abandoned them there and then. In fact, he would probably have abandoned gambling there and then, along with drinking and all other things that he held dear, and retired at once to a monastery.

Because Jim’s time travelling, added to John’s imminent discovery of a certain sensational disclosure and multiplied by the abominable doings of Dr Steven Malone, would equal an apocalyptic total.

And it would all begin with A Most Exciting Tale.

Prelude to the Most Eventful Day

Jack was scraping at his face with a razor, which, like his wit, had lost its edge a good many years before.

“It was a close shave getting out of that little scrape,” said Jack, as he all but finished the messy chore. “As smooth as a baby’s bum-tiddly-um-bum-bum,” he continued, as he applied shreds of Kleenex to the profusion of nicks and cuts that now speckled the shaven area beneath his nose. “Pretty sharp,” he went on, as he examined his sagging features in the bathroom mirror. “And You’ll knock ’em dead,” he concluded, straightening his tie.

Jack’s wife, a beauty in her late forties, sliced bread in the kitchenette and worried quietly to herself. Worrying was good for her; it kept her mind off her problems.

Jack came down the stairs two at a time. “Good morning, wife,” he said, limping painfully into the breakfast area.

“Good morning, Jack,” said Jack’s wife. “And how would you like your eggs this morning?”

“I would like them many, speckled and various,” said Jack. “Ranging – free ranging, in fact – from those of the mythical Roc to those of the pygmy heron of Upper Sumatra.”

“They are on your plate,” said Jack’s wife. “Make of them what you will.”

It was going to be the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life, but he did not as yet know this.

The Excitement Hots Up

“How would you like your tea, dear?” asked Jack’s wife.

Jack worried a lot about her. Almost as much, in his own special way, as she did about him. Why does she say these things? he worried. Does she do it simply to annoy me? Or does she, perchance, believe that I am a different person every morning? Or possibly she is being unfaithful. Jack worried a lot about this.

“Sugar, dear?” asked Jack’s wife.

“Twelve lumps please,” said Jack.

Jack’s wife popped the usual two into his cup and stirred them with the usual spoon. And then she returned to her slicing and worrying.

Jack buttered up a slice of toast. “You’re a lovely bit of toast,” he told it. “Would you like to come to the pictures on Friday night?”

In Jack’s front garden a postman clung to the roof of Jack’s porch. “Treed by a bleeding lurcher,” he complained. “Or was it a Dane?”

And Grows Hotter Still

“I must be off to work now,” said Jack.

“Don’t forget your sandwiches, dear.”

Jack thrust the brown paper packet into his briefcase. “The price of butter is scandalous,” he told his wife. “But not to worry, eh?” And he kissed her lightly on the cheek, hoisted his trilby hat onto his head, shrugged on his camelhair coat, tucked his case beneath his arm, picked up his umbrella and departed.

“Morning, postie,” said Jack to the figure cowering on the roof of his porch. “I didn’t know it was raining.”

“Raining?”

“Well, as they say, any porch in a storm.”

“Most amusing,” said the postman, who considered it anything but. “I thought you told me your dog didn’t bite.”

“It doesn’t,” said Jack.

“But it nearly had my leg off.”

“This isn’t my dog,” said Jack. “It belongs to the wife.”

Tension Mounts on the Bus

The 8.15 bus was crowded with 8.15 passengers.

“Morning, conductor,” said Jack.

“Morning, Jack,” said the conductor. “Your mate Bill’s up the front.”

Jack craned his neck and bulldozered his eye-brows. “Morning, my mate Bill,” he cried.

“Morning, Jack,” Bill shouted back. “And how are you today?”

“Fair to middling,” called Jack. “Fair to middle-diddle-diddling.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it.” Bill returned to his study of the Daily Sketch. GIANT SPIDER CARRIES OFF WIDOW, ran the banner headline. She was probably asking for it anyway, thought Bill as his gaze left the tabloid and moved slowly up the legs of a particularly well-designed teenage schoolgirl. Shouldn’t be allowed, his thought continued.

And meanwhile at Jack’s house the postman was giving it to Jack’s wife doggy style upon the kitchen floor. This lino needs a dose of Flash, worried the wife of Jack.

Two stops on Jack got a seat. “We’re running thirty-five seconds late this morning,” he informed a fellow traveller.

“Thirty-five seconds late for what?” asked the traveller, whose name was John Omally.

“For work.”

“But I’m not going to work.”

“Where then?”

“I’m going home.”

“But this is the 8.15 bus.”

“It was the 7.30 bus when I got onto it.”

“Ah, I see.” The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a thirteen-year-old fist striking Bill in the face.

“I never touched her,” cried Bill as the bus conductor fought his way through the standing passengers to grasp him by the collar. “A man is innocent until proved guilty,” he complained as the conductor flung him off at the next set of traffic lights.

“It’s the same thing every day,” said Jack to his fellow traveller.

“Not for me it isn’t,” said John. “For I live the kind of life that most men only dream about. A riotous succession of society get-togethers, country weekends, operatic first nights and charity functions.”

“Get away,” said Jack.

“True as true,” said Omally. “Then there’s the skateboarding, the sky diving and the riding of the big surf. Not to mention the North Sea oil drilling.”

“North Sea oil drilling?”

“I told you not to mention that.”

“Sorry.” Jack scratched at his hat. “Do you do any crop spraying at all?”

“Heaps, and Formula One motor racing too.” Omally pulled off his cycle clips and adjusted his socks. “And I’m judging the Miss World competition this afternoon.”

“That must be interesting.”

“Extremely,” said Omally. “As long as you don’t have to sit next to Tony Blackburn or Michael Aspel.”

The bus shuddered to a halt, regrouping its standing cargo at the front end in an untidy scrum. As the struggling passengers regained their feet and began to dust themselves down, the driver put his foot down and they all bundled towards the rear.

A lady in a straw hat fell upon Omally.

“Is this a regular occurrence?” he asked.

“Sometimes we lose one or two at the roundabout,” said Jack. “Although I don’t recall there ever being any fatalities.”

“What about that dwarf the fat butcher fell on last month?” said the lady in the straw hat.

“Oh yes, there was him.”

“And that Zulu who went up in a puff of smoke.”

“That was spontaneous human combustion. That could have happened anywhere.”

“This is my stop,” said Omally.

“It’s very nice,” said the lady in the straw hat. “How much did you have to pay for it?”

“Give my regards to Tony and Michael,” called Jack as Omally slipped off without paying.

The 65 bus swung over the Great West Road and headed south towards Brentford. In its path there might well have been a giant spider of outlandish proportions, its mutated mind set upon world domination. But upon this day, as upon others past, there wasn’t.

But this was to be the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life, although he still didn’t know it as yet.

The Tension Almost Reaches Breaking Point

“Good morning, Jack,” said Jack’s boss, Leslie. “And how is your lovely wife?”

Jack looked at his watch. “She’ll be making the postman’s breakfast about now,” he said. “And how is your handsome husband?”

“Still delivering the Queen’s mail.”

A thought entered Jack’s head, but finding itself all alone in there it left by the emergency exit.

“Now, Jack,” said Leslie, boss of Jack. “We have a very important despatch to make today and it must be handled with great care. We wouldn’t want there to be any more unfortunate mistakes, now would we?”

“No we wouldn’t,” said Jack. “No-skiddly-oh-po-po.”

Leslie, Jack’s boss, smiled upon her subordinate. She was a tall woman, slim, sleek, svelte. Brown-eyed and black-haired and carrying about with her that aura of a woman who knows exactly where she’s going.

“I’m going to the toilet now,” said Leslie, boss of Jack. “And when I get back I want to see you with your shoulder to the wheel and your nose to the grindstone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well,” said Jack.

Nail-Biting Stuff

The company Jack worked for was called SURFIN’ UFO. As far as Jack had been able to ascertain during his ten years of service, it had something to do with despatching fragile and precious cargoes from one place to another. The UFO part meant United Freight Operations, but the significance of the SURFIN’ bit was lost on Jack.

For company, he also worked on the night shift at the windscreen wiper works.

Jack was the manager of the actual despatching department. He was, in fact, the only employee in this department. There had been some cutbacks. Once there had been lads with hair and tattoos, cavorting about on fork-lift trucks. Lads who read the Sun and smelled of cigarettes and the morning after. But now there was only Jack. And Jack didn’t smoke or read the Sun. His office was a little glass partitioned-off corner of a vast warehouse. A vast and empty warehouse.

Jack hung up his hat and coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. And then he sat down at his desk. It was an all-but-empty desk. Empty but for a telephone, a single package and a single piece of paper.

Jack perused this.

DESPATCH NOTE – DATE: 23.5.97

SURFIN’ UFO 1462 UNIT 4+2

OLD DOCK BUSINESS PARK

HORSEFERRY LANE,

BRENTFORD

VAT REG: 435 9424

TO:

NAME: DR STEVEN MALONE

ADDRESS: KETHER HOUSE

BUTTS ESTATE

BRENTFORD

FROM:

NAME: PROF. GUSTAV BOINEY

ADDRESS: INC TECH

LOS ALAMOS

NEVADA, USA

CONTENTS: ISOTOPES. HERMETICALLY SEALED.

DO NOT OPEN

FRAGILE FRAGILE FRAGILE

Jack picked up the package and rattled it against his ear. Dr Steven Malone was SURFIN’ UFO’s only client nowadays. Stuff came to him from all over the world. From Turin, from Vienna, from Los Alamos and Latvia. Always by the most unlikely route and always under the tightest security.

Jack’s job today would be to call up the local road haulage firm, impress upon them the highly important nature of the package and the need for its speedy and secure delivery, and then await the arrival of the van, sign numerous documents, hand over the package and return to his desk.

Jack picked up the telephone and tapped out numbers. Somewhere not too far away a phone began to ring.

And then a voice said, “Yo, Leo Felix, who’s dis?”

“Hello-skiddly-bo,” said Jack.

“Yo, Jack, my man. How’s it ’anging?”

“The bus was late today,” said Jack.

“What? De ol’ 8.15? That is truly dredd.” A Rastafarian chuckle gurgled in Jack’s ear.

A Veritable Cliff-hanger

“Can you pick up a package for immediate delivery to Dr Steven Malone?” asked Jack.

“Not ’ceptin’ yo’ pay yo’ damn bill, Babylon.”

“Oh,” said Jack, replacing the receiver.

Action All the Way

“Mr Felix says he won’t pick up the package unless his bill is paid,” said Jack to his boss Leslie, who had just returned from the toilet.

“Leo Felix is a thieving nigger,” said Leslie.

“Surely that is a racist remark,” said Jack.

“Not when it’s said by a black woman. Which I am, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I thought you said you were Jewish.”

“I did.”

And Now Things Really Start to Happen

“You will just have to deliver the package yourself,” said the boss of Jack. “Do you think you can manage that?”

“On foot?” asked Jack. “And without an armed guard?”

“It’s only two streets away.”

“But Mr Felix led me to believe it was in another Brentford, somewhere in Ethiopia.”

Leslie arched her eyebrows and bridged her nose.

“The thieving nigger,” said Jack.

“Enough of your racist jive, white boy.”

A Roller-coaster Ride to Hell

Jack trudged along Horseferry Lane, past the Shrunken Head and up to the High Street. He looked both ways before crossing and reached the other side in safety. There he sat down upon the bench outside Budgens and studied his A-Z. A lady in a straw hat sat down beside him. “Are you lost?” she asked Jack.

Jack clutched his package to his chest. “Certainly not,” he told her.

“Only I get lost sometimes. I have who’ja vu.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the opposite of déja vu. I can be in the middle of the supermarket and suddenly I get this feeling, I’ve never been here before.”

“I have to go,” said Jack. “I have a very important package to deliver.”

“The doctor’s put me on a course of placebos,” said the lady in the straw hat. “But I don’t take them. I’m saving them all up for a mock suicide attempt.”

“Goodbye,” said Jack.

“Goodbye,” said the lady in the straw hat.

How Much More Can We Take?

Jack tugged upon a brass bell pull. Somewhere within a brass bell rang and presently the front door opened.

Jack found himself gazing up at a gaunt black and white figure who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Sidney Paget drawings of Sherlock Holmes.

“Dr Steven Malone?” asked Jack.

“No,” said the figure, “he lives next door.”

Jack went next door and tugged upon another bell pull. A gentleman of identical appearance to the first opened the door.

“Dr Steven…”

“Malone,” said Dr Steven Malone. “And you would be?”

“Jack,” said Jack. “From SURFIN’ UFO.”

“Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

Dr Steven Malone led Jack along a sparsely furnished hall and into a room of ample proportions. Here, upon boards of golden oak, spread faded kilims and upon these ponderous furniture of the Victorian persuasion. A gloomy room it was.

“You have my package. Do you want me to sign something?”

“I do, indeedy-do.” Jack pulled papers from his pocket. Dr Steven unscrewed the top of his fountain pen.

“Just there,” said Jack and Dr Steven signed.

“And there.”

“Here?”

“Just there. And there if you don’t mind.”