Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

Professor Slocombe made a mystic pass and vanished in a puff of smoke.

“I think he’ll be just fine,” said Jim.

They arrived at the Flying Swan just in time to see Old Pete being stretchered into a waiting ambulance.

John hurried over to the fogey. “What happened to you?” he asked.

Pete looked up with a dazed expression on his face. “What would you reckon the chances were of there being a one-legged lesbian shot-putter in the pub when I happen to be telling a joke?” he asked.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Jim, rooting in his pockets for the last of his small change. “And would you mind sticking this casket in your priest hole?”

“Not at all,” said Neville. “That would be the now legendary Brentford Scrolls we’ve been hearing so much about, I suppose.”

“It certainly would,” said Jim.

“Get out of my pub,” said Neville. “You’re barred.”

“What?”

“See who that is over there?” Neville pointed.

“A one-legged lesbian shot-putter?”

“No, next to her.”

“Oh my God.” Jim fell back in alarm. “It’s Young Master Robert.”

“Correct, damnable issue of the Master Brewer’s loins. Blight of my life. Bane of my existence. Would-be despoiler of my…”

“So what’s he doing here?”

“What does he always do here?”

“He tries to renovate the pub,” said Jim in a doomed tone. “Turn it into a theme bar or something equally hideous.”

“Exactly, and thanks to you he’s back on the case.”

“So what is it this time? No, let me guess, the Millennial Eatery, snacks in a space-age styrofoam bucket.”

“Nothing so tasteful. Here, peruse this before you take your leave.” Neville pushed a scribbled plan across the bar counter.

“Afternoon, Neville,” said Omally, breezing up. “Jim getting them in, is he?”

“Jim is just leaving,” said Neville. “And you with him.”

“What?”

“Peruse.” Neville pointed to the plan and John perused.

“By all the holy saints,” said John. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” and Neville pointed once again. “Next to the one-legged…”

“We can’t have this.” Omally plucked up the plan and stalked across the bar. “Good afternoon, my friend,” he said, extending a hand for a shaking.

Young Master Robert looked up from his light and lime. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “I remember you.”

“And I you.” Omally thrust his unshaken hand into his trouser pocket. With the other he waved the scribbled plan about. “I see you’ve been busy again. Brilliant stuff. I take my hat off to you.”

“You don’t wear a hat and even if you did I wouldn’t want you to take it off.”

“Is this bloke bothering you, Bobby?” asked the Young Master’s burly monopedal companion.

“No, Sandra. The gentleman is just leaving.”

“Sandra?” said Omally. “Sandra, it’s you.”

“Omally, it’s you!” Sandra hopped to her foot and gave Omally a bone-crunching hug. “After all these years and you haven’t changed a bit. Apart from looking so much older.”

“Nor you,” said John, “apart from…”

“The leg?” grinned Sandra. “I got fed up with it. So I had it amputated. Did it myself with a chainsaw.”

“It suits you,” said John.

“Thanks. It’s a great bird-puller. You should have one of yours done.”

“I’ll give that some thought.”

Young Master Robert made agitated finger flutterings. “I hate to break up this happy reunion, but will you please bugger off, Omally.”

“But I want to talk to you about your plan for the Swan’s renovation. The Road to Calvary, England’s first religious theme pub. Well, I say first, but there’s the one along the road of course, and two in Ealing, and…”

“Forget it,” said Young Master Robert. “The Road to Calvary it will be.”

“We’ll speak more on this. Farewell, Sandra, splendid to see you again.”

“And you, John, and if you ever fancy having any body parts removed, you know where to come.”

“I certainly do.” And John Omally returned to the bar.

“Well?” said Neville.

“Sorted,” said John.

“What?”

“Well, almost sorted. Give me time. You can’t just rush at these things.”

“That little bastard can. You will have to do something, John. I hold you and Jim directly responsible for this.”

“Trust me,” said John. And Neville served the drinks.

“That woman with Young Master Robert looks strangely familiar,” said Jim.

“It’s Sandra.”

“Sandra? No. But surely she used to have…”

“She cut one off. It’s a fashion statement or something. Big birdpuller, she says.”

“Bird-puller? Dear oh dear.” Jim shook his head. “That’s put your rhyming slang all to pot.”

“Yours remains unaffected, however. Cheers.” John raised his glass.

“To the future,” said Jim.

“Have you really got the Brentford Scrolls in here?” Neville asked.

“True as true,” said John. “Want to take a look?”

“Yes please.”

John turned the casket towards Neville and lifted the lid. The part-time barman took a peep inside.

“Oooooooh!” he went.

“Pretty impressive, eh?”

“Staggering,” said Neville. “Truly staggering.”

“Jim found them,” said John. “I told you he did.”

“And there was I not believing you.”

“You are forgiven.”

“And which emperor did you say they belonged to?”

“Not an emperor, a monk.”

“No, I’m sure it was an emperor.”

“Monk,” said John.

“Emperor,” said Neville.

“Monk.”

“Emperor.” Neville reached across the bar and snatched John’s glass from his hand. “The one with the new clothes. Get out of my pub, you’re barred for life.”

“What?” John swung the casket round and looked inside. “Aaaaagh!” he went.

“What’s happening, John?” Jim Pooley took a look. “Aaaaagh!” he agreed.

“Out,” cried Neville. “The both of you, out.”

“No, Neville, no.” Jim’s hands began to flap.

Omally’s did likewise.

“They’re gone,” cried Jim. “My God, they’re gone.”

“And for best actor nomination in Farewell my Scrolls, we have James Pooley and Jonathan Omally. Get out!” shouted Neville. “Never darken my drip trays again.”

“No, Neville, this is serious. Deadly serious.”

Neville reached for the knobkerrie he kept beneath the bar. “Out, Jim,” he shouted. “Or know the wrath of my displeasure.”

Jim snatched up the casket. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“We go back,” said Omally. “To the Professor’s. Unless you think they might just have fallen out while you were carrying them here.”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“Nor me. Come on, let’s go.”

They went at the trot.

“Oh dear,” wailed Jim, while trotting. “Oh doom and gloom.”

“Be silent, man. There must be some simple explanation.”

“They were nicked. While we were all at the town hall.”

“Too simple,” said Omally. “Though all too possible.”

“But no one can sneak into the Professor’s. There’s magic all over the place.”

“Perhaps these lads have magic too.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Come on, let’s run faster.”

By the time they reached the Professor’s, Jim was half doubled up with a stitch. “Leave me here to die,” he croaked.

“Let’s go in.” John pushed upon the garden gate.

The garden gate refused to budge.

“But it’s always open. Come on, I’ll give you a leg up over the wall.”

“No way.” Jim shook his head fiercely. “Remember that time we saw a tom cat trying to climb over the wall and he sort of…”