Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

Reaching for his cane, Hovis flipped open the silver top and withdrew a pinch of ground black Moroccan snuff. He offered this to an eager nostril and drew deeply upon it. But there was little time for self-congratulation. He was here upon a mission, one upon which the fate of his entire career could be said to rest. Like Dick Whittington and the Count of St Germaine, Inspectre Hovis had come to Brentford with only one thought in his mind. The search for gold.

From its eyrie atop the tower, the Memorial Library clock proclaimed the hour of six. Soft breaths of late spring honeysuckle shared the air with other smells of early evening. Smells which mingled to become that special suburban smell which is the sum of its parts. Smells of frying fish, of Scotch whisky, of cheap cigar smoke, of exclusive perfume and of other smells, strange and haunting and unfathomable.

Of frying fish. Old Pete turned the large salmon steak (an unexpected gift from Neville) in his cankerous frying pan and whistled “When the Boat Comes In”. Young Chips barked an off-key counterpoint. It hadn’t been a bad old day all in all and there was still the evening to come.

Of Scotch whisky. In the allotment shed John Omally poured two large glasses of ten-year-old malt and handed one to Scoop Molloy.

“Cheers,” said the star reporter, passing John a brown envelope containing several bank-notes of high denomination. “And thanks for the tip-off.”

“My pleasure,” said himself. “I suggest that we drink to further scoops of an exclusive nature.”

“Your health.”

“And yours.”

Of cheap cigar smoke. The editor of the Brentford Mercury paced the floor of the print room, enveloped in a thick blue haze. Through this, Williams, the languid typesetter, peered up at intervals from the vast cryptic crossword he was composing to catch the latest philippic directed towards a certain newly arrived police inspectre.

Beneath the editor’s pacing feet and torn asunder lay the trampled remnants which were some of the greatest headlines never to see the light of day: BRAVES PASTE POOF IN BRIBERY SCANDAL SENSATION. This and no less than twenty-seven permutations of equal literary worth had been done to death that very afternoon when Hovis had unexpectedly arrived at the office, slapped a D-notice on the whole thing, declared it sub judice and paraphrased the famous Fleet Street axiom with the words, “Publish and be nicked.”

The editor puffed and paced, effed and blinded and did such other things as ruing the day and damning the eye of. Williams squinted through the blue fug towards his wristlet watch. He’d soon be on double time. He would wait until that time before he suggested that they could always use BRENTFORD TO HOST NEXT OLYMPICS! which was probably the greatest headline the Mercury was ever likely to get — without fear of prosecution. In the meantime, he was having a problem finding a word to fit forty-seven across. He had something “A”, something something “A”, something “D”.

“Bastard!” shouted the now invisible editor.

“Ideal,” said Williams. “BA-STAR-D, astronomical graduate likes a cuppa, or something like that.”

Of exclusive perfume. Jennifer Naylor arrayed herself upon a chromium bar-stool before the faux-marble counter of Punter’s Wine Bar, sipping a cocktail and considering the doings of her day. A wry smile played about her delicate lips and her equally delicate fingers played about a ludicrous miniature sunshade which shish-kebabbed a Morello cherry and a slice of canned pineapple.

To the sounds of a drum-roll and stupendous applause (heard only to himself), the establishment’s proprietor, one Robert Tucker, known and hated locally as Bob the Bookie, swaggered through the reproduction art deco doorway.

Tonight he was a vision in white. A Japanese silk jacket hung upon his shoulders at “Full Zorro”. Sleeves dangling like those of a double amputee. The inevitable Raybans were strung about his neck and the two-inch Cuban heels raised everything except his credibility. This was amply catered for by the Rolls-Royce key-ring which swung from a belt loop above his padded crotch, and a wallet containing a secret contrivance, designed for him by Norman, which could project his American Express Gold Card into the lap of a likely-looking female at the touch of a secret button.

Feigning nonchalance at the singular lack of “punters” this Happy Hour, he flexed his shoulders, stooped to retrieve his jacket and sauntered over to his single patroness.

“Hi, Jen baby,” he crooned, clambering on to the next bar stool. “What’s happening?”

“Simply enjoying the tranquillity of your wine bar,” Jennifer explained. “All the others get so crowded around this time.”

Bob leant forward to bring Jennifer within the killing range of his aftershave. “Punter’s is … er … somewhat exclusive. Say, is that your new Porsche outside?”

Jennifer nodded. “Like it?”

“Not half. Got one on order myself. The new reg. of course. Electric blue, drinks tray on the back, holophonic sound system, the lot.”

“Electric blue?” Jennifer sighed wearily, took up the minuscule umbrella and bit purposefully through the shining cherry. Bob crossed his legs and winced painfully. “I like my cars as I like my men,” said Jennifer Naylor, “big and black.” Bob sank from his stool and made his way behind the counter. Here, as if by magic, he became some four inches taller. “Mind you don’t fall,” said Jennifer, who had seen the platform installed.

“Where’s Eric?”

“Picking his nose over the quiche the last time I saw him.”

“Eric!”

“Watchawant?” The voice drifted from the kitchen where the cocktail barman stood combing his dandruff into a bowl of green salad.

“There’s customers out here want serving.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.” Eric slouched into view adjusting his bow-tie and stroking stray flecks from his waistcoat shoulders. “Same again, dear?” he asked Jennifer.

“Same again for the lady,” said Bob, settling himself in behind the bar, “And I’ll have a Raging Stonker.” He winked lewdly towards Jennifer. He’d come up with all the suggestive names for the cocktails himself, after a holiday in Benidorm. It seemed to go down a bundle over there and Bob was at a loss to understand why the Brentford glitterati had not taken to it.

“How would you like your Raging Stonker?” Eric asked. “Shaken or stirred?”

Bob stared some daggers at the barman and smiled one of those you-can’t-get-the-staff-nowadays kinds of smiles towards Jennifer.

“Stirred,” he said from between gritted teeth. Eric went off about his business worrying at his scalp with a cocktail stirrer.

“What do you think of this?” Bob bared his left wrist towards Jennifer, exposing something that resembled a broad gold band and swiftly changing the subject.

“A bracelet, how sweet.”

“Not a bracelet,” said Bob. “It’s the very latest innovation in wrist-watches from Piaget. The dial encircles the wrist, see, and this little light inside travels round once every twenty-four hours, telling you the time. Clever, eh? Press this button-” Bob did so, “and all the digits shift, so you can tell the time anywhere in the world. Waterproof and shockproof and very exclusive.”

“Paid for by the punters, no doubt.”

“You’re not kidding.” Bob leant forward smirking. “If you knew just how eager some of them are to give their money away.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ll never guess what one of them came in to place a bet on today.”

“Won’t I?”

Bob shook his head and guffawed. “Jim Pooley only came into my shop and bet ten pounds that the next Olympic games would be held in Brentford.” Bob collapsed in paroxysms of laughter, tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks, streaking his sun tan. “Can you imagine?” he croaked between spasms. “Can you imagine?”