Robert Rankin: The Sprouts of Wrath

“Loud and clear, sir, loud and clear.” Sergeant Gotting’s head bobbed up and down between his blue serge shoulders. He was only the second man in Brentford to encounter the great detective, but he was the second to really truly hate his guts.

At shortly after nine-thirty: Jennifer Naylor steered her Porsche into the council car park. Binding, the scrofulous attendant, lurched from his sentry box and put up his hand. “Pass?” he demanded.

Jennifer generally let him do this several times before winding down the window to enquire what exactly he wanted. Today, however, she was in a hurry. Regarding him as she might a dollop of poodle-doo on her Gucci instep, she indicated the pass, affixed as ever to her windscreen.

Binding leant forward, his ghastly hands deep at some nefarious activity within his trouser pockets. He examined the pass and what he could of Jennifer’s cleavage by turn. At length, evidently satisfied that each was in order, he mumbled, “I’ll guide you in,” and turned to view the all but empty car park with a thoughtful gaze. “There’s one over there in the corner by the bottle bank.” But his words were lost amidst a squeal of expensive rubber as Jennifer spun the Porsche into the nearest parking space. That of Major McFadeyen.

“You can’t park there!” wailed Binding, withdrawing his terrible hands from their place of business and waving them in the air. “That’s the Major’s bay! It’s more than my job’s …” A loud blast from the Porsche’s horn drowned out the deadly phrase.

“Thank you,” said Jennifer Naylor, “this will do nicely.”

At shortly after ten o’clock: Jim Pooley left Bob the Bookie’s at the trot, the millionaire’s guffaws ringing in his ears. He had got far greater odds than Omally had predicted. In his eagerness to acquire ten pounds from Pooley all at once, Bob had informed him that upon this special occasion the sky was the limit. Jim felt it best to keep this information from John, as the Irishman would only become over-excited if he knew the true extent of the projected winnings. “Also,” thought Jim, “as I have taken the greater financial risk then so should I reap the greater reward.” Pleased with the persuasiveness of this argument he jingled the last of his small change, winked at the sky and sauntered into Norman’s cornershop in the hope of five Woodbine on tick. “You never know your luck,” thought Jim Pooley. “You never know.”

At shortly after ten-thirty there was a council meeting.

“Lunacy! Madness!” Major McFadeyen struck the council table with two tightly knotted fists. A surprising tangle of veins arrayed themselves upon his neck, lending it the appearance of one of those nasty anatomical models surgeons like to frighten patients with. Something resembling a blue slug pulsed away upon the major’s left temple.

“Madness!” Momentarily exhausted by the ferocity of his out-cries, he slumped back into his chair. “And I’ll tell you this …” He rose again, supporting himself upon his palms. “It’s … it’s …” A button flew from the top of his waistcoat, tinkled to the table and rolled in a curious geomantic circle before rattling to a standstill. “It’s … lunacy! ” He sat down, puffing and blowing.

Councillor Ffog examined his fingernails and made little embarrassed tutting noises with his mouth.

Philip Cameron chewed his lower lip and rattled coins in his trouser pocket. Sensing his anxiety, Mavis Peake slipped a calming hand on to his thigh and smiled encouragingly.

For their part the brothers Geronimo stared into the middle distance, arms folded, knees together, minds upon the Little Big Horn. Ms Naylor regarded the Major with a mild expression.

“Lunacy, I say.” McFadeyen, now a shade of purple that interior decorators describe as crimson magenta, arose for another blast.

Ms Naylor smiled the sweetest of smiles towards the fuming fogey. “And might I enquire as to why?”

“Well … well …” The Major reclenched his fists. “Dammit, woman!”

“Yes?” Ms Naylor leant forward as if attentive to the Major’s every word. As she did so, her breasts, constrained within her silken blouse, gently caressed the table top. The calculated eroticism of the act was not lost upon Philip Cameron, who found his loins responding appropriately. The fingernails of Mavis Peake dug in deeply.

“I’m speechless.” Major McFadeyen sank away into his seat, fanning himself with last week’s minutes.

“It is all perfectly straightforward.” Ms Naylor rose upon the four-inch heels she had considered suitable for the occasion, and tossed her auburn hair back in delicious waves across her perfect shoulders. “As you are all no doubt aware, the disastrous fire at Birmingham this week has, on the face of it, ruled out Great Britain’s chances of hosting the Olympic games.” Heads nodded, Ms Naylor continued. “It is my proposal that Brentford rise to the call of its country and host the games. This is the motion that I am forwarding.” She stared deeply into Philip Cameron’s eyes. “Will someone second me?”

Wilting visibly beneath the emerald stare, Councillor Cameron bobbed his head up and down after the fashion of a nodding dog in a Cortina rear window. Mavis Peake gave his left testicle a terrifying tweak which doubled him up in a paroxysm of pain. As his forehead struck the council table with a sickening thump the brothers Geronimo considered his scalp, their hands straying towards the Bowie knives in their trouser pockets.

“Why, thank you, Philip,” said Jennifer Naylor.

The Major, now Ribena-hued and apoplectic, gathered what wits remained to him and prepared to come up fighting. He hadn’t blasted buffalo in the Ngora Gora basin, topped tigers in Tibet and walloped the Watusi in God knows where, to be put down by a damned woman. “Where?” he spluttered. “Where?”

“Right here,” Ms Naylor indicated the immediate vicinity.

Councillor Ffog put up his hand. “If you will pardon me for asking, who would be expected to foot the bill for this … uh … venture?”

“I have all the figures to hand. What particular costs were you interested in?”

Councillor Ffog wiggled his fingers foolishly. “I mean the expense, how much would it cost?”

Ms Naylor snapped open her Filofax. “To build an Olympic stadium, complete with all facilities, Olympic village, public access roads, etc., etc., etc.”

“Yes?” said Councillor Ffog.

“Around one hundred million pounds.”

Now, there are silences, and there are silences. Some are such that a pin hitting the old fitted Axminster is capable of breaking them. This one, however, was of such a nature that within it the distinctive futt futt of brain cells dying within Major McFadeyen’s head were clearly discernible.

“We have fifty-one pounds, thirty-four pence in the kitty,” said Mavis Peake, a woman to whom silences were simply moments that people used to draw breath between statements. “If you can come up with ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight pounds sixty-six pence we shall be home and dry. Here,” she continued, with what she considered to be crushing irony, “I’ll throw in my box of matches to light the Olympic flame.”

Councillor Ffog chuckled horribly. Major McFadeyen munched upon a phenobarbitone. The brothers Geronimo made grave faces and nodded towards one another.

Paul said, “One hundred million heap big wampam, squaw gott’m screw loose in wigwam attic.”

Barry nodded. “Me agree, noble brother, squaw been bunging too much loco weed down cakehole.”

Ms Naylor drew back her shoulders and smoothed down her blouse. “I am well aware that Brentford Borough Council cannot be expected to raise such a sum. The money must come from a private backer.”