Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

So that explains that, really. In case you were wondering.

They were not making particularly good progress up Moby Dick Terrace. Dustin Hoffman may have done all that stuff in Marathon Man, but this is John and Jim here. The limo soon caught up and cruised in pace with the pavement runners. Derek stuck his head out of the shattered window. And he stuck his gun out also.

“Do you want to stop?” he called to Jim. “Or should I just shoot your face off?”

Jim clutched the scrolls to his bosom. “All right. All right,” he gasped. “I give up, don’t shoot.”

“You too, asshole.”

“Me too,” said John.

“OK, now get into the car.”

Derek moved across the back seat as John and Jim climbed in beside him. “Close the door,” said Derek. John closed the door.

Clive struck a match on the dead chauffeur’s head and lit up a Zigger cigar. “Where to?” he asked.

“Round to Fred’s,” said Derek. “And burn a bit of rubber on the way.”

From a bedroom window in Moby Dick Terrace, Dr Steven Malone watched as the black limousine roared off in a cloud of smoking rubber. “And bloody good riddance to them,” he said.

He had left very little to chance. He had known of the secret tunnel when he bought Kether House and he had later bought this one, where the tunnel emerged in the back garden shed. The occupants of this house, an old couple with no living heirs, hadn’t wanted to sell. Their death certificates said natural causes. Dr Steven had signed them himself.

The mad and monochrome medic turned away from the window and smiled at the two little babies on the bed.

“All right, my boys?” he said.

“All right, dada,” said the golden one.

The dark one only growled.

“All right, boys,” said Fred. “Wheel ’em in.”

Derek and Clive pushed John and Jim from the Corridor of Power into the Chamber of the same persuasion.

“Superb,” said Fred, eyeing up the arrivals. “And do I spy the Brentford Scrolls?”

“You certainly do,” said Derek.

“And do I spy a nine-gauge auto-loader?”

“You certainly do, sir, yes.”

“And you walked through this building, carrying that?”

“Er,” said Derek.

“Twat,” said Fred. “But very well done all the same.”

“I picked up this machete on the way,” said Clive, brandishing same. “Do you want Derek to chop their frigging heads off now?”

“Ooh, yes please,” said Derek.

“All in good time. What exactly is that prat doing?”

“He’s flapping his hands and spinning round in small circles, sir.”

“Well, make him stop.”

Derek clouted Pooley in the ear.

Jim ceased his foolish gyrations, and collapsed in a heap on the floor. John clenched his fists, but there was nothing he could do.

Fred’s feet were up on the fender. “Drag him over here. And pick up those scrolls. Valuable items, they are. We wouldn’t want any harm to come to them, would we?”

“Wouldn’t we, sir?”

“Of course we would. I was being ironic.”

Derek picked up the scrolls and handed them to Fred.

“Right,” said Fred. “So, here we are then. The Brentford Scrolls.” He held them up and gave them a good looking over. “Pretty fancy, aren’t they? Good quality parchment. I suppose I should savour this moment, but I don’t think I’ll bother. I’ll just toss them on the fire.”

“No.” John took a step forward. Derek barred his way.

“What are you no-ing about?” Fred asked.

“Don’t burn them. You can’t.”

“That’s a rather foolish remark to make, isn’t it?”

“All right. So you can. But why do you want to burn them? And who are you anyway?”

“He’s your worst nightmare,” said Clive.

“I don’t think so,” said John. “After what I’ve seen during the last few days he doesn’t even come close.”

“But he is,” Clive insisted. “He’s a jumped-up little nobody who’s clawed his way to the top of the tree and…”

“Clive,” said Fred.

“Fred?” said Clive.

“Shut up.”

“If you’re going to burn the scrolls and kill us both,” said John, “you could at least have the decency to tell us why.”

“I could,” said Fred, “but I won’t. I know there is a long and acknowledged literary and cinematic tradition for the villain to make the great explanatory speech to the heroes before he tops them. And then at the last minute, when all seems lost for the heroes, the clever unexpected twist comes and…”

“If you burn the scrolls and kill us,” said John, “you’ll never learn about The Great Secret.”

Fred shook his head. “Nice try,” he said. “But it’s all such a cliché, isn’t it?”

“Look out behind you!” shouted Jim.

Nobody moved. Nobody even batted an eyelid (whatever that means).

“Sorry,” said Jim. “Just thought I’d give it a try.”

“All right,” said Fred. “So, Brentford Scrolls into the fire and two heads onto the floor. And here we jolly well go.”

Fred took the scrolls in both hands and moved to toss them onto the roaring fire. John turned his face away. Jim closed his eyes.

“Eh?” said Fred. “What’s all this?”

John turned back his face and Jim reopened his eyes.

Fred was struggling with the scrolls. If you’ve ever seen the act mime artists do with a balloon, where it’s in the air and they pretend it’s immovable and struggle to shift it, that was pretty much what Fred was doing now.

As Clive had both hands free he took to clapping. “Very good,” he cried. “Very good indeed.”

Fred fought to force the scrolls into the fire. But they wouldn’t be shifted. He let them go, but instead of falling to the floor they simply hovered there in mid-air (well, not exactly mid-air – they were certainly nearer to the floor than the ceiling – but hover they did, none the less).

Fred made a most unpleasant growling sound deep down in his throat and grabbed the scrolls once more. But they wouldn’t be shifted, not a smidgen, not a titchy bit, not a lone iota. “Brilliant,” said Clive, going clap-clap-clap. “Very impressive.”

“Stop that bloody clapping, you pranny, give us a hand with these.”

“Oh,” said Clive. “Oh, all right then.”

And Clive took to struggling and forcing and straining and then things got tricky for Clive. The scrolls took a sudden lurch upwards, dragging Clive from his feet.

“What’s happening, John?” whispered Jim.

“The Professor,” whispered John. “Remember he said some words over the scrolls before we left Malone’s. It would be that spell of return he told us about.”

“Get me down,” wailed Clive, from somewhere near the high ceiling.

“Shoot the bloody things out of the sky!” shouted Fred.

“But I might hit Clive, sir.”

“As if I give a shit!”

“Righty-ho, sir.” Derek angled up his gun and let off several rounds in a manner which could only be described as indiscriminate.

And down came lots of nicely stuccoed ceiling. Very noisily and heavily.

John and Jim leapt aside as lath and plaster crashed about them.

“Give me that gun, you bloody fool.” Fred snatched the auto-loader from Derek and let off several rounds of his own. Down came much more ceiling and a chandelier.

“Aaaaagh!” went Derek, as the chandelier came down on him.

“Aaaaagh!” went Fred as Clive came down on him.

Lath and plaster, dust and mayhem.

Lots of very bad language.

Fred struggled up, hurling Clive aside and fanning dust and rubble about him. The scrolls now took to zig-zagging backwards and forwards across the ceiling and Fred took to running beneath them, firing and firing again.