Robert Rankin - The Sprouts of Wrath

But this one differed, containing many subtle nuances designed to provoke thought alone. Adolf Hitler, of evil memory, believed that a crowd was only capable of grasping a single idea at any one time and this had to be drummed into it again and again. Here Membrane and Mucus amalgamated two simple concepts, honour for the borough and prosperity for its denizens, into a winning combination. This simple device afforded the avaricious an opportunity to disguise their deadly sin beneath a display of fealty to their town.

Great emphasis was placed upon the safety aspects of Gravitite and the temporary nature of the stadium. But the final line of Membrane’s speech sold it completely. “Of course,” said he, “every Brentonian will receive a free pass valid for the entire games.”

An ever so tiny silence preceded the tumultuous applause that even the audio-soluble polysilicate floor-tiles were hard pressed to swallow. Choruses of “For Whoever-he-is Is a Jolly Good Fellow” were chorused and hats cast willy-nilly towards the newly painted ceiling. Messrs Membrane and Mucus wrung each other’s hands and flashed expensive smiles. Their minders grinned lop-sidedly and feigned comprehension.

As the crowds conga-lined away to celebrate their good fortune in the nearby taverns and spread the word to those who might have missed it, the great hall returned once more to stillness and silence. The VDUs hummed softly and the giant images upon the wall video continued their endless rote. No-one noticed the elderly gentleman whose slim frail hands rested upon the ivory handle of his black Malacca cane, as he peered down at the model town and its glittering star-shaped companion. His ice-blue eyes glowed with a fierce vitality beneath their snow-lashed lids and his mane of pure white hair flowed over the astrakhan collar of the long black coat he wore, despite the clemency of the season. The tip of his cane traced the outlines of the stadium before tapping out a brisk yet muffled tattoo upon the tiled floor.

Shaking his head in doubt. Professor Slocombe turned upon his heel and strode from the hall.

Pooley and Omally did not attend the brewery trip, nor the wine-tasting at Punter’s. They even missed the mayoral banquet, which was probably a good thing as it turned out to be a somewhat crowded and boisterous affair. It was complicated by the arrival of a charabanc load of pensioners, smelling strongly of brilliantine and mothballs and clad in Sunday suits of a style which was currently enjoying a renaissance in fashionable circles. They sported rainbows of medal ribbons and each clutched an official itinerary.

Old Pete had long harboured an especial hatred for the town council over several prosecutions dealt out to him by the public health inspector. Young Chips was a prolific footpath fouler. Having left Neville that lunchtime, Pete had wasted little time in getting down to the library’s photocopier. Thirty bootlegged itineraries soon found their way into the eager wrinkled hands of his trench-footed cronies at the British Legion. These veterans, known and feared by the local Meals on Wheels as the Passchendaele Piranhas, now arrayed themselves at the mayoral table, tucked their napkins into their celluloid collars and prepared to do battle.

Jennifer Naylor shook her head in noble defeat and smiled bravely towards the Mayor who was frantically leafing through the pages of his appointments diary and wondering where he had gone wrong.

The representatives of Her Majesty’s Government were now somewhat thin on the ground. Despite Jennifer’s attempts to foil their many escape bids, the afternoon had seen them drifting away in ones and twos, mostly in twos. Those that remained had now reached that stage of alcoholic enlightenment so often granted to those in public office. Talk had turned naturally enough to the reinstitution of hanging, the return of the Empire and Hugo Rune’s proposition to feed the world’s starving by eating the unemployed. The fogeys called for fodder and broke wind.

Jennifer Naylor raised her glass towards the Mayor and said, “Cheers.”

“Cheers!” said John Omally, “Cheers and good luck!”

Pooley raised the glass of ten-year-old malt to his nose and sniffed. “How did you come by this?” he asked.

Omally gave his own nose a significant tap. “Services rendered, Jim,” he replied. “And so to business. You got everything?”

“Ah yes.” Pooley had spent the balance of the afternoon in Hounslow High Street, shopping. Omally had issued him a list of requirements and although each seemed innocent and unrelated, their sum was evidently something more. This was confirmed by John’s order that if Jim was taken he must “eat the list”. “It’s all there,” said Pooley, nodding towards several bulging carrier bags. “I shall have red rings around my fingers for a week humping that lot.” Omally ignored this complaint and emptied the bags on to his work bench. He examined the boxes of washing soda, the bags of white sugar, the cans of weedkiller, the drum of red oxide and the range of other sundry items. “This will serve admirably,” he told Jim. “Now I think it would be better if you were not here. Why not go down to headquarters and clear your desk out.”

“You mean remove incriminating evidence?”

“I mean take what personal items you hold dear, for come midnight they will have no tomorrow. Cut along now, Jim, I’ll meet you in the Swan in an hour or so.” He cast an eye towards the rapidly retreating form of Jim Pooley. “And open up the fish pens, salmon deserve a better fate than this.” The door slammed shut upon Pooley and Omally drummed his fingers upon the work bench.

The words of an old rebel song sprung unexpectedly to his lips.

Five minutes later a furtive Pooley crept through the long grass towards the rusting hulk of the not-so-abandoned barge. There was a chill in the air which caused the lad to turn up his jacket collar as he trod the path of his own knowing. High above, a bloated moon swam upstream through ribbons of scudding cloud. Herons rustled mysteriously in their skyline roosts and a distant owl made personal enquiries. Suddenly a salmon went plop and Pooley’s heart momentarily lost count.

Jim’s wide eyes glowed whitely in the moonlight. The abandoned boatyard had a certain charm in the daytime, but at night it lost all appeal and Pooley’s over-fertile imagination was already getting the better of him. All those whispered tales of the headless bargee and the smiling smuggler came flooding back. In his immediate condition Jim neglected to remember that it was he and John who had started them off in the first place. And there was always the Brentford Griffin. Jim shivered. It could be out there somewhere even now, licking its beak at the prospect of Pooley in a basket. “No,” Jim shook his head firmly. It was only a story, only a hoax invented by those nancy boys at the Arts Centre for a bit of prime-time publicity. Nevertheless, you couldn’t be sure. The salmon went plop again and Jim scuttled on towards the ancient barge.

Once inside, with the door closed and the lights on, things didn’t seem quite so bad, even though they indeed were. Jim perused the familiar trappings, the furniture, the fripperies, the odds and sods. All were now alien, all now had big neon lights flashing the words, “Damning Evidence” again and again.

Pooley sat down on the Le Corbusier. Where to start? What to take? What mattered? He sighed and scratched his head and his eyes strayed towards the cocktail cabinet.

Jim perked up. He sauntered over to the bottle of Dom Perignon 1807 which stood perpetually on ice in the electric ice bucket, awaiting its Moment. Jim spent little time in arriving at the conclusion that its Moment had now arrived. The bottle was cold and bulky, it would be far easier to carry the contents if they were in fact inside him. To leave it was to waste it and Jim abhorred waste. He would toast the end of an era in vintage shampoo whilst gathering up his goods and chattels. Out with the old and in with the new. Pleased as ever with the power of his reasoning, Jim applied pressure with his thumb and popped the cork.