Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

“But it wasn’t me. Omally did it, not me, sir.”

But John did not own up.

And Pooley got the cane.

Jim stirred in his altered state. “Move forward, you sod,” he told his brain. “We keep going back to school, and I’m fed up with getting the cane again and again and again.”

There was a bit of a mental lap dissolve and what’s this?

Fast music. Pete Townshend windmills. Marshall speakers. Mod dancing. Blue Triangle Club. Scooters. Parkas. Here’s Jim here. Nice whistle. Burton’s special. Fifteen pounds ten shillings over ten weeks. Slim Jim tie. Nice touch that. He’s waiting for someone. Foolish haircut, Jim. Great loafers though. Ivy Shop, Richmond? Cost a packet, those, lads. Who are you waiting for, Jim, all alone outside with the music coming through the bog window and the bouncer on the door smoking a reefer?

“Sandra,” whispered Jim in his cosmic sleep. “Oh, Sandra.”

Stand and wait and shuffle and look at your watch. Nice watch. Where d’you get that? Bought it off a bloke in a pub. You don’t go into pubs, do you, not at your age? Bloke outside a pub. Outside a club. Just now! The bouncer sold it to me. Where is Sandra? Where is Sandra?

But Sandra is not coming. Sandra has gone off with John Omally, on the back of his Vespa.

Jim mumbled and grumbled. “Bloody John. Forward, brain, forward. Into the future.”

Whir and click and fast forward.

And freeze frame.

And play.

What year is this? Get up, have breakfast. The bookies, then the pub. The pub and then the bench, then home for tea and then the pub again. Then ouch, get up and groan have breakfast, then the bookies, then the pub, the bench, then tea and then the pub. What’s this? The years becoming years, yet all the same? A small job here, a little fiddle there, a laugh, a sadness and another beer. Then sleep it off, then up, then breakfast, then the bookies and the pub, then…

“Forward,” moaned Pooley. “Fast forward, please.”

Fast forward. Freeze frame. And play.

… the bench, then home for tea, then to the pub, then…

“Forward! Forward!”

Bubbling, turning, little spheres of red and white.

“Stop here and play!”

Bouncing, tumbling over, little numbers too.

“This is it,” sighed Jim, “this is it. What week? What week?”

“It’s the National Lottery draw for tonight, the mmmph mmmph mmmph 1997.”

“I didn’t catch that date,” said Pooley.

“And the machine chosen for tonight…” The presenter’s that bloke who used to be on Blue Peter, isn’t it? “Chosen by our beautiful guest star, is… Leviathan.”

“Oooooooooh!” went the crowd. As if it really mattered at all.

“Oooooooooh!” went Jim. Because here he is, sitting in a front-row seat, a lottery ticket in his hand. But he looks a bit odd. Somewhat battered. His left foot is all bandaged up. Has he been in a fight, or a war, or what?

“And to press the magic button,” says the Blue Peter bloke, or is he off that children’s art programme where they do things with rubber bands and cling film and tubes of adhesive, or was that a video with German subtitles? “To press the magic button we have that American actress with the improbable breasts, who was in that film with Sylvester Stallone. You can’t put a name to her face but you’d recognize her if she got her kit off.”

Jim made odd sounds under his breath. “Just get on with it,” he muttered.

“Press that button, bimbo,” cried the Blue Peter bloke, or is he the fellow who does the chocolate bar commercial, where all that creamy stuff spurts everywhere? Or was that on the video with the German subtitles?

“That was on the video,” mumbled Jim. “Roll them old balls.”

The American actress with the Woolworths frontage pushed the button. Down and plunge and round and round went the balls.

Jim studied the ticket in his lap. “Come on,” he whispered.

And then the balls slide one after another into the tube, the tension mounting all the while. The Blue Peter bloke, who does mostly voice-overs nowadays, but is trying to rebuild his career with the help of Max Clifford, points to the first ball and shouts, “Seventeen.”

“Oooooooooooooh!” go the crowd. Do any of them actually have seventeen marked on their cards?

“I do,” whispers Jim.

“Twenty-five.”

Another “Oooooooh”. Not quite so loud this time and lacking several Os.

Jim gives his card the old thumbs up.

Then “Forty-two” and “Nineteen” and “Number five”. And fewer “Ooooohs” every time, except for Jim.

“Then thirty-one,” says Jim, all smiles.

“And thirty-one.”

“Oh yes! And then the bonus ball, which is…”

“One hundred and eighty.”

“What?”

“One hundred and eighty.”

“That’s not right. The balls only go up to forty-nine. Hang about, you’re not the Blue Peter bloke, you’re…”

“One hundred and eighty and the Flying Swan scoops the darts tournament for the nineteenth year running.” And John Omally went “Prrrrrrrt!” into Pooley’s earhole.

Jim leapt from his studio seat to find himself leaping from the bench before the Memorial Library. Omally’s grinning face filled all the world.

“Counting sheep?” grinned John. “Hey…”

Jim caught him with an uppercut that swung the Irishman over the bench and into the bushes behind.

Omally rose in a flustering of foliage, clutching at his jaw. “Mother Mary’s handbag, Jim. You hit me.”

“And there’s more to come, you robber of my millions.”

Jim took another mighty swing, but this time John ducked nimbly aside. Carried by the force of his own momentum, Jim too plunged over the bench. Omally helped him to his feet. “Calm yourself, Jim, be at peace there.”

“Be at peace? I was there, right there, I had the numbers, I… God, the numbers, what were the numbers?”

“One hundred and eighty was one of them.”

“You bloody fool, Omally.” Jim took yet another swing but this too missed its mark and Pooley went sprawling.

“Stop this nonsense, Jim. I’ve come to make you rich.”

“I was rich. I was. I had it. Help me up for God’s sake, I’m stuck in brambles here.”

Omally helped him up once more and dusted him down. “You didn’t have it, Jim,” he said softly. “And I heard the numbers you were mumbling. That was last week’s lottery draw.”

“It was? But I was there and I was all bandaged up and…”

“Leave it, Jim. I’ve come to make you rich. I really have.”

Jim shook his head, dragged himself back over the bench and sat down hard upon it. Omally joined him.

“Go on, then,” said Jim. “Let’s hear it.”

John yanked Jim’s book from his jacket pocket. It had about it now a somewhat dog-eared appearance.

“You’ve creased it all up,” said Jim sulkily.

“Never mind about that.” Omally leafed through the pages, then thrust the open book beneath Jim’s nose. “Cast your Sandra’s over this,” he said.

“My Sandra’s?”

“Sandra’s thighs, eyes. I’m working on a new generation of rhyming slang, based upon the most memorable features of ladies I’ve known in the past.”

A young man on a Vespa rode by and Jim made a low groaning sound deep in his throat.

“Go on,” said Omally. “Take a look.”

Jim took a look, although not with a great deal of interest. His eyes however had not travelled far down the page before an amazed expression appeared on his face and the words “Sandra’s crotch” came out of his mouth.

“Sandra’s what?”

“Sandra’s crotch. It’s all too much!”

“Well, that isn’t quite how it works, but it has a certain brutish charm.”