Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

“I do.” Omally fumbled at his trouser pocket. “Oh, no. I don’t.”

“He’s lost it.” Jim threw up his hands. “Ouch.”

“No, I haven’t lost it. I…” John’s thoughts returned to an hour before. To a terrible hour before. To the kitchen of Mrs Bryant. In all the horror and madness, he had left the book upon the reproduction olde worlde table. “Oh dear, oh dear,” said John Omally.

The newly widowed Mrs Bryant was not at her reproduction olde worlde table, but huddled on a chair at the Brentford Cottage Hospital. Outside the mortuary.

Within this cold and dismal room the duty physician was filling in Jack Bryant’s death certificate.

“The subject died through lack of blood caused by excessive straining on the toilet, leading to acute rectal prolapse and arterial rupture.”

At the bottom of the death certificate the duty physician signed his name: Dr Steven Malone.

And having signed, he turned and pointed in profile to a wrinkled naked thing which lay upon the mortuary block just off the page. “Bung that in a drawer,” he told a nurse.

A golden dawn came unto Brentford. The flowers in the Professor’s magical garden hid their faces as the borough’s denizens began to stir.

Omally hadn’t slept at all. While Pooley mumbled and snored in one of the Professor’s guest bedrooms, John paced the floor of another. Until the book was recovered from Mrs Bryant’s and handed over to the police, he and Jim could not return to their homes, nor set out upon their quest. But what of Jack Bryant? What had happened to him? Omally shuddered at the recollection of that hideously shrivelled body. It had looked as if all the blood had been drained from it. And what could do that to a man? A vampire? In Brentford? That was nonsense, surely. But was it? And what if it came back to feast upon Mrs Bryant?

And then there was Marchant. Poor, poor Marchant. The trusty iron steed that had served John for more years than he cared to remember. Marchant would have to be recovered from the canal and lovingly restored. And that would take money and John didn’t have any money, unless he could find those Brentford Scrolls.

Omally’s thoughts went round in a circle like an unholy mandala. Or perhaps more like some hideous black vortex that just kept sucking more dark thoughts into it. The death of Compton-Cummings now seemed more than suspect. Folk were dropping like flies hereabouts.

By the coming of the golden dawn John had resolved on a course of action. He would go as soon as possible to Mrs Bryant’s, offer what comfort he could and recover Jim’s book, which he would then deliver to Professor Slocombe. When matters were straightened with the police, he would sneak along to the canal and rescue Marchant.

And then with Jim’s help, or without it, he would seek the Brentford Scrolls.

Which should take him up to lunchtime and a pint or two of Large in the Flying Swan.

Omally left a note for the Professor, thanking him for sanctuary and promising to return by breakfast with the book, and set off across Brentford to catch a 65.

There were no police cars outside Mrs Bryant’s. But why should there have been? The chances were that the lady wouldn’t even be there. She would be staying with a relative for the night, or might possibly be under sedation in a hospital bed.

John went round to the back and knocked gently at the kitchen door. No answer. Should he force the lock? Omally, not by nature one to dither, dithered.

Come back later, was that the best? No, he was here now, do it.

John turned the handle and gave the door a shove.

It opened before him.

Magic.

John slipped inside, closed the door behind him and strode over to the reproduction olde worlde table. Jim’s book was not on it.

“Damn!” said John.

“Eeeeek!” screamed Mrs Bryant, who’d been coming down the hall.

“Oh, sorry.” John put out his hands to catch her as she swooned away. He helped her to a kitchen chair and poured a glass of water.

“I thought you were a burglar, John.”

“I’m so sorry. I wanted to see if I could do anything to help. Sip this.”

“Thank you. I’m all right. It was a terrible shock, though.”

“It was certainly that.”

“But one must look on the bright side.”

“Yes, I’m sure one must.”

“It was the way he would have wanted to go.”

“It was?”

“To die like the King.”

“The who?”

“Not The Who, the King.”

“I’m sorry,” said John. “You’ve lost me here.”

“The King,” said Mrs Bryant. “Elvis. Jack died like Elvis.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose he did. What did he die of, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“A massive haemorrhage. He was straining too hard and something burst.”

A small but clear alarm bell rang in John Omally’s head. The image of the defunct Jack Bryant would probably never leave him. Every detail was indelibly etched. But if Jack Bryant had died while taking a dump, then he, John Omally, was a clog-dancing Dutchman. For one thing, although Jack may have been seated on the toilet, the lid was down. And for another, unlike Mr Compton-Cummings, Jack Bryant had died with his trousers up.

“How very strange,” said John.

Mrs Bryant sniffed and sipped her water. “According to the duty physician it’s quite common, just not the kind of thing people like to talk about. They always say ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’.”

“Yes, I suppose they would. Now is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, thank you. My brother’s coming down from Orton Goldhay. He’ll sort out the funeral arrangements. I may move back up there.”

“I’ll miss you,” said John.

“And I shall worry about you. Get yourself a good woman, John. Sort your life out.”

“I’ll try.” John Omally kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Oh, just one thing,” he said. “Can I have that history book back? I left it here on the table.”

“History book?” Mrs Bryant stiffened. “It’s hardly a history book, is it? What is sacofricosis anyway?”

“You really wouldn’t want to know.”

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“So, can I have it back?”

“Well, you could,” said Mrs Bryant, “but I’m afraid I don’t have it any more.”

“What?”

“I must have left it in the waiting room at the Cottage Hospital.”

When John left Mrs Bryant’s he caught the 8.15 bus. Bill got thrown off again for fondling a schoolgirl and a lady in a straw hat told John all about her husband, who had once sprayed deodorant on his beard and gone to a fancy dress party as an armpit.

Omally got off at the Cottage Hospital. More bad thoughts were now being sucked into the black vortex in his head.

A very pretty nurse stood at the reception desk.

“Good morning, ms,” said John. “I wonder if you might help me?”

“Are you ill?”

“No. My name is,” John paused, “John Bryant.”

“Oh yes? How’s Fergie doing?”

“Sorry, I don’t quite understand.”

“Sorry, it just slipped out.” The nurse gave a Sid James chuckle.

John made a mental note to return at a later date and ask her out. “My brother was brought here last night,” he said. “Jack Bryant. He died.”

“Oh yes, Mr Bryant. Tragic way to go.”

“But just like the King.”

“I thought the king said ‘bugger Bognor’ and died in his bed.”

“I wonder if I might have a word with the doctor who was on duty at the time.”

“I’m afraid not,” said the nurse. “He’s not here at the moment, and I can’t give out any information at all.”

“I see. It was Dr Pooley, wasn’t it?”