Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

“There is always some cynical bugger,” said Old Pete, “prepared to spoil a good tale well told.”

Omally led Jim up to the bar.

“Good evening, Neville,” he said. “Two pints of Large, please, and an unshared jam sandwich for Jim, who has missed his tea.”

Jim made a scowling face as Neville went about his business.

“So,” said the part-time barman, presenting his patrons with pints. “Allow me to hazard a guess. My first thought was Caught in a cattle stampede, but this I feel is unlikely. So I am going to plump for Taking a course of training with the SAS.”

“Whatever are you on about?” Jim asked.

“You two,” said Neville, “standing here utterly dishevelled, hair all over the place, cuts and bruises, bits of bramble hanging off your suits and a black eye apiece.”

“I’d rather we didn’t discuss it,” said Jim.

“Quite so. Then tell me, John, have you come up with any sensational disclosures in Jim’s book yet?”

Omally opened his mouth to speak.

Jim said, “No he hasn’t.”

“Shame,” said Neville. “I had hoped that it might bring a few pennies more across the bar. The goddess knows, times are as ever against the poor publican.”

“The sufferings of the poor publican are well known,” said John. “You are an example to us all, Neville.”

“Hm,” said Neville and went on his way to polish glasses.

“Let’s go and sit over there,” said John, indicating a discreet corner. Jim followed him across, placed his ale and jammy sandwich on the table and sat down.

“I’m drinking this and eating this and then I’m going home to bed,” said Jim. “This is one day I do not wish to prolong any further.”

“Come on, Jim. You can’t quit the game when there’s so much to play for.”

“There are no cards on the table to play with, John. The scrolls have probably gone to dust a hundred years ago. The whole idea is absurd. Why don’t you just admit it?”

“Stuff and nonsense. Look upon this as a holy quest. Like Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“Although it has been remarked that I do bear a striking resemblance to Harrison Ford, I have no wish to waste my time on any such foolish venture. Now allow me to eat and drink and go my way.”

“You have a wicked sense of humour, Mr Pooley. So how do you feel we should best go about this? Hire a couple of metal detectors, bring in a dowser…”

“No.” Jim shook his head, wiped breadcrumbs from his chin, finished his ale and rose to his feet. “I am not interested, John. I want nothing to do with it. I am going home. Goodnight.” And he turned away and left the Flying Swan.

“Then I woke up,” Old Pete was heard to say, “and my big toe was missing. There was just this little note stuck into the stump which said, ‘Gone to market’.”

John Omally had another pint, then he too left the Flying Swan. Whatever was the matter with that Jim Pooley? he wondered as he wandered aimlessly down the Brentford streets. Had he lost all his spirit? Or was he simply getting on in years?

Omally came to a sudden halt. Why had that thought entered his head? Getting on in years? He and Jim were the same age. And they were only Omally stroked his chin. It was hardly only any more, was it? It was, well, as much as.

Omally paused and, finding himself beside Pooley’s favourite library bench, sat down upon it. He and Jim had certainly enjoyed an adventure or two in the past. They’d got drawn into some really terrible stuff, but they’d always come out of it with their heads held high, even if their pockets remained empty. This Brentford Scrolls business was right up their street. An adventure if ever there was one. Tracking down the valuable artefacts, no doubt pursued by some evil maniac bent upon snatching them for himself. Life and death struggles, thrills, risks…

Omally gave his chin another scratch. Perhaps Jim was right. Perhaps the whole thing was stupid. The scrolls were probably lost for ever anyway. And even if they were to be found, would the Millennium Committee really hand over the dosh to a pair of Brentford louts who had come across a bit of old parchment?

“I am not a lout,” said Omally, startling a solitary cyclist.

“And I am not a transvestite,” the other called back. “So I like to cross-dress once in a while, but who doesn’t, eh?”

Omally let that pass. And then he looked down at his wrist to the place where, had he worn a watch, he would have worn it. “Half past eight,” said John Omally. “So, what shall I do? Knock up old Jim and try to change his mind? Take a walk over to Professor Slocombe and ask him what he knows about the Brentford Scrolls? Go back to the Swan for another pint? Go home to bed?”

A wry smile appeared upon the face of John Omally. He might perhaps go to someone else’s home and go to bed. And half past eight just happened to be the time when Jack Bryant began his night shift. And Old Pete, that observer of the incubus, was ensconced in the Swan.

Omally rose from the bench, stretched, tucked in his shirt, ran his fingers through his curly hair and set off to the bus stop with a whistle.

Jim Pooley’s kettle didn’t whistle. It was an electric one and those lads never whistle, they just sort of switch themselves off. Well, most of them do. Jim’s didn’t, because it was Jim’s and it was electric and Jim and electric appliances didn’t get on. And even if Jim’s kettle had been meant to whistle, it wouldn’t have been able to now, because it was full of baked beans. Jim lifted the lid and peered in at the bubbling brew. “Nearly done,” said he. The slice of bread that was destined to become toast rested perilously upon the protective grill of the two-bar electric fire. Both bars were on, because the switch that isolated one of them just happened to be broken. Jim turned the bread over, scorching his fingers as he did so. “Ouch,” said Jim, the way you do.

But Jim had a whistle left in him. All right it had been a pretty bum day, but there was always tomorrow. It was beans on toast for now and then an early night. Perhaps he might even be able to break the dreaded cycle of up-and-out-the-bookies-then-the-pub-the-pub-then-the-bench-the-bench-then-home-for-tea.

Well, he might.

“I shall start anew tomorrow,” said Jim. “I might even go down to the Job Centre and see what’s doing.” He froze and glanced around. And then he shook his head. “No one heard me say that, did they? No,” he concluded. “Now, let’s get stuck into these beans.”

Knock, knock, knock, came a knocking at Pooley’s front door.

Knock, knock, knock, went John Omally at Mrs Bryant’s kitchen door. The light flicked on and through the frosted glass John could see the lady of the house approaching. That silhouette, back-lit by the reproduction coach lamps on the kitchen wall, never failed to stir something in John Omally.

“Who is it?” called Mrs Bryant.

“The man of your dreams,” whispered John.

“Jim, I told you only to come on Thursday nights.”

Jim? Omally’s jaw dropped open. Thursdays? Didn’t Pooley always leave the Swan early on a Thursday night with talk about some gardening programme he had to watch on TV? But, Pooley? Surely not.

“It’s John” called John.

“Oh, John. Oh, ha, ha, ha.” (the sound of hollow laughter). “Just my little joke. Come in.”

Mrs Bryant opened the door and Omally grinned in at her.

“Your husband’s not about, is he?”

“No, he hasn’t come home this evening. I’m getting rather worried.”

“Should I go away and come back another night?”

“Are you kidding?” Mrs Bryant took John by the jacket lapels and hauled him into the kitchen.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, went the knocking again at Pooley’s front door. Jim dithered about, trying to hook his toast off the bar fire and pull the plug from the kettle at the same time. “Hold on,” he called. “I’m coming.”