Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

“I can’t go on, John. I’m not up to it.”

“Get a grip, man.”

“Get a grip? Look at the state of me.”

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came that knocking again.

“Run, John. Leave me here.”

“We go together. You won’t need to run.”

“I won’t?”

Omally pushed Jim out through the kitchen door and into the tiny ill-tended yard at the back. The moonlight offered it no favours. Against the kitchen wall, shrouded beneath a tarpaulin Omally had borrowed from Old Pete, stood something.

“Behold the engine of our deliverance,” stage-whispered John, flinging the tarpaulin aside to reveal

“Not Marchantl” groaned Jim.

But Marchant it was.

And Marchant was a bike.

Those who have read the now legendary Flann O’Brien will know all about bicycles. Flann’s theory was that in Ireland, during the days in which he wrote, most men owned a bicycle. And the constant jiggling and joggling on bumpy roads over an extended period of years made certain atoms of bicycle and certain atoms of man intermix, so that the man eventually became part bike and the bike part man. He cited an extreme case of a policeman who was so much bike that he had to lean against something when he stopped walking, to avoid toppling over.

In Omally’s case this did not apply, but a rapport existed between himself and his bicycle which had about it an almost spiritual quality.

Almost.

“Onto the handlebars, Jim,” said John. “We take flight.”

“It never flies now, does it?”

“A figure of speech.”

John helped Jim onto the handlebars, seated himself upon the sprung saddle, placed one foot on a pedal and they all fell sideways.

“Oh no you don’t.” John put his foot down to halt the descent. “Now come on, Marchant, this is an emergency. My good friend Jim is injured and so will I be if you don’t assist us.”

“If the police don’t kill me, this bike of yours will,” moaned Jim.

“If you behave yourself you can spend tomorrow afternoon in the bike shed behind the girl’s secondary school.”

“How dare you!”

“I was talking to my bike.”

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came sounds of further knocking, followed by a most distinctive CRASH.

“Hi-o, Marchant!”

Out of the backyard and along the narrow alley they flew, Omally forcing down on the pedals and Jim clinging to the handlebars. It was a white-knuckle, grazed-knuckle ride. Happily it wasn’t dustbin day.

Omally swung a hard right at the top. The only way to go was down the short cobbled path and back into Mafeking Avenue.

“Hold on tight,” said John as they shot over the pavement and into the road.

“There, sarge,” came a shout. “On a bike, and that Pooley bloke’s with him.”

“We’re doomed!” cried Jim.

“Oh no we’re not.”

There came sounds of running police feet, car doors opening and slamming shut and an engine beginning to rev. But they were not heard by John and Jim, for they were well away down Moby Dick Terrace and heading for the Memorial Park. As they swept past, the ever-alert Omally made a mental note to add the John Omally Millennial Bowling Green to his list.

“Have we lost them, John?” cried Jim.

John skidded to a halt, which is not altogether a good thing to do when you have someone riding on the handlebars.

“Oooooooooh!” went Jim as he sailed forward through the air. “Aaaagh!” he continued, as he struck the road.

“Sorry,” said John, wheeling alongside the tragic figure. “But I think we’ve lost them, yes.”

SCREECH, came the sound of screeching tyres.

“Or perhaps not. Quick, Jim, up and away.”

“I’m dying,” Jim complained.

“Come on, hurry.”

“Oh, my giddy aunt.” Jim dragged himself to his feet and perched once more on the handlebars. Omally put his best foot forward and away they went again.

Inside the police car, three policemen laughed with glee. They do that sometimes. Usually when they’re about to perform something really sadistic on a suspect in an interrogation. And while they’re doing it. And afterwards, if it comes to that. In the pub. Of course, American policemen do it better. Especially those in the southern states, good ol’ boys with names like Joe-Bob. Really manic laughers, those lads.

“Stop that manic laughing, Constable Joe-Bob,” said the face. “And run those two bastards off the road.”

“I certainly will, sarge,” and Constable Joe-Bob put his foot down.

“Faster,” cried Pooley. “They’re gaining.”

“Of course they’re gaining, they’re in a car.”

“Then get off the road.”

“Be quiet, Jim. I’m trying to think.”

“At a time like this?”

“I’m trying to think of an escape route, you buffoon.”

“Sorry.”

John took a sudden left that nearly dislodged Pooley and headed down towards the canal. To the sounds of further tyre-screeching, the police car did likewise.

“This is a dead end,” wailed Jim. “We’re doomed.”

“Hold on tight, Jim.” Omally tugged on the brakes and Marchant slewed to a standstill.

“What now, John?”

“Put your hands up, Jim.”

“What?”

The headlights hit them and the police car swept forward.

“Put your hands up, Jim.”

“Are you turning me in?”

“Just do it.”

Onward came the police car, gaining speed.

Jim stuck up his hands. “They’re not going to stop.”

“I hope not.”

“What?”

Roar of engine, onward-rushing car.

Cut to Pooley’s frightened battered face. Cut to manic policeman behind wheel. Cut to long shot of car rushing forward. Cut to John’s face, Jim’s face, policemen’s faces. Bonnet of car, spinning wheels – then “Jump!” Omally pushed Jim to one side and flung himself to the other.

Slow-motion shots now, the two men rolling to either side, the car bumper smashing into Marchant. Then a shot from below of the car passing slowly overhead, pushing the bike before it. And going down and down and down

Into the canal.

Great plumes of spray, and spouts and splashes. Then fade to black.

“Sandra’s crotch,” said Jim.

“You’re not wrong there,” said John.

Omally climbed slowly to his feet, then helped Jim to his. Pooley’s knees offered little support and the lad sank down onto his bum. “What do we do now, John?”

“Make our getaway, that’s what.”

“But they’ll drown. They might be rogue policemen but we can’t let them drown.”

“What do you take me for, Jim? The water’s only two feet deep.”

“But they might be seriously injured.”

“Then we’ll phone for an ambulance.”

Sounds of coughing and spluttering and cursing now issued from the darkness below.

“Let’s go,” said Jim.

John gazed into the black. “Poor Marchant,” he said.

From the canal bridge to the Butts Estate is a pleasant five-minute stroll. But it’s a long twenty minutes when you’re limping. Omally helped his chum along the broad oak-bordered drive towards the Professor’s house. From tree to tree the two men lurched, keeping to the shadows. They passed the door of Dr Steven Malone, but as yet they did not know it.

Ahead, lit by the golden haze of gaslight – for so remain the street lamps of the Butts – there rose the house of the Professor. A glorious mellow Georgian job, the Slocombe clan had owned it since it was built. High casement windows, chequered brick, a tribute to the mason’s craft.

They halted at the garden gate, and waited a moment. Neither man knew why, but it was something they always did before they went inside. Then, taking up a breath apiece, they entered.