Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

“You’re not dead,” Jim observed. “How do you account for that?”

Mr Compton-Cummings had a bottle of brandy on his desk. He also had five glasses. These he filled. And these he passed around. “A ruse,” said he. “A necessary one.”

“You certainly had me convinced.”

“And others, hopefully.”

John sipped his brandy. “Magic,” he said.

Jim sipped his. “I hope it goes down well with that champagne Neville gave you.”

“You didn’t drink any of yours, Jim.”

“Curiously I didn’t feel I deserved it.”

“Gentlemen,” said the Professor. “Mr Compton-Cummings has much to say to you. Do you feel that you’re up to listening?”

“Absolutely,” said John.

Jim made a sound which might have meant yes.

“Good. Mr Compton-Cummings, if you will.”

“Thank you, Professor.” The fat man put down his glass and interlaced his fingers over his ample belly.

“Mr Pooley,” he said. “As you must now be aware, you play a most important role in matters appertaining to Brentford and indeed the rest of the world.”

“Eh?” said Jim.

“When I traced your lineage and discovered the ‘great wind from the East’ passage, I also discovered what it actually meant: that one of your forefathers had murdered the monk and acquired the Brentford Scrolls.”

“Such is sadly the case,” said Jim.

“And as you also know, Ms Penn here encoded the location of the scrolls into my book. And you were sent the only unpulped copy.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t how I found them.”

“No, the Professor has told me about the time travelling.”

“He’s very good at it,” said John. “Well, going backwards, anyway.”

“Quite so. But whatever the case, it had to be you who found the scrolls. And you did.”

“Why did it have to be me?” Jim asked.

“You are the last of your line.”

“So why does that matter?”

“These things do,” said Mr Compton-Cummings. “Trust me, they just do.”

“I thought something really clever was coming then,” said John.

“I expect it’s being saved for later,” said Jim.

“Do they always do this?” the genealogist asked the Professor.

“They are individuals,” said the ancient.

“Don’t start on that.”

“Sorry, Jim.”

“It was necessary for me to fake my own death.” Mr Compton-Cummings tinkered with a Masonic watch fob which had escaped previous mention. “Certain dark forces, who do not want the millennium celebrated on the correct date, would have snuffed me out.”

“Fred and his crew.”

“Exactly. I had hoped that between you, you would have been able to get things moving along.”

“I fell down a hole,” said Jim.

“And he fell in love,” said John.

“Well, whatever the case, things have not been moving along.”

Jim held out his glass for a top-up. Mr Compton-Cummings topped it up. “I’ve had enough,” said Jim. “I’m sick of getting beaten up and arrested and generally misused. All I want is a normal life. A normal married life.”

John groaned. “We’ve been through that,” he said.

“Yeah, well. You’ve been through it. And I got beaten up again.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Professor Slocombe held up his hands. “This is most important.”

“I was quit when I came in here,” said Jim. “And I’m twice as quit now.”

“One of my favourite movies,” said John.

“Did you know that Ridley Scott used to do Hovis commercials on television?” asked Professor Slocombe.

“Yes,” said John.

“I didn’t,” said Jim. “But I should have.”

“Nevertheless,” said Mr Compton-Cummings, “things must be made to move along. And you are the men who should do the moving.”

“We can’t,” said Jim. “This Fred bloke is in control. And he’s head of the baddies.”

Mr Compton-Cummings leaned back in his chair, but as he filled it so completely anyway the effect was negligible. “We can deal with Fred,” he said.

“Oh yes?”

“Certainly. Fred will not hand over any money willingly. So he must be made to do it against his will.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I propose that you do that.”

“Do the ‘I was quit’ line again, Jim,” said John. “I’ll join you in the last part.”

“No, no, no.” The fat man waggled his fat fingers. “I’m not expecting you to meet this man head on in some kind of confrontation. There is more than one way to skin a joint.”

“Shouldn’t that be cat?” said Jim.

“I think it’s khat,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“I have this.” Mr Compton-Cummings held this up for all to see.

“Isn’t that one of those new miniature LPs?” Jim asked. “The ones you can supposedly spread strawberry jam over and they still play?”

“It’s a computer disc,” said Mr Compton-Cummings. “With a virus on it.”

“Don’t say it,” said John.

“I wasn’t going to,” said Jim. “He means a computer virus, I understand that.”

“Well, it’s not so much a virus.” Mr Compton-Cummings twiddled his porky digits and turned the twinkling thing in the air. “It’s more of a program. When put into the computer system at the Millennium Committee’s offices, it will siphon off huge amounts of money into bank accounts in Brentford and then erase all record of the transactions.”

“I like the sound of that,” said John. “Whose accounts did you have in mind?”

“Mine,” said Professor Slocombe.

“And mine,” said Mr Compton-Cummings.

“Ah,” said John.

“But,” said the genealogist, “this money will be made available to you, to do all the things you were planning to do.”

“Magic,” said John, rubbing his hands together.

“No,” said Jim. “Not magic. There simply isn’t enough time. It’s September now. Whatever building projects could even be started would never be completed by December.”

“Sadly,” said John, “Jim does have a point.”

“I’m sad about it too,” said Jim. “Don’t get me wrong.”

“However,” said Professor Slocombe, “these large amounts of money could be channelled into Brentford. To raise morale, to enthuse, to engender support, to ensure that when New Year’s Eve comes round, everyone in the borough will be celebrating. It is absolutely essential to my ceremony that thousands celebrate. A great rush of positive energy is necessary for it to work.”

“I think we could handle that,” said John.

“The John Omally Millennial Fish and Chip Van fleet,” said Jim.

“The Devo concert,” said John.

“I think I prefer the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of Death, now.”

“Jim,” said John. “We could get the Spice Girls.”

There was a silence. It kind of hung in the air. The way they do.

“Surely the Spice Girls are this year’s Bros,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Trust me,” said John, “there are certain important differences.”

“Well, get the Spice Girls,” said Mr Compton-Cummings. “Get the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies, get the Rolling Stones. The sky’s the limit.”

“Let’s get them all,” said John.

And there was another silence.

This one was broken by Jim Pooley.

“About putting this program into Fred’s computer,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be a somewhat hazardous job? I mean I’m not a coward, or anything. Honestly. But, believe me, there is no way on Earth that I am going to get involved in that.”

“So,” said John. “After I have let off the smoke bomb, you abseil down from the roof, in through the window into the computer room. We’ve synchronized watches and you have forty-five seconds. I back the van with the mattress on the roof up against the building, you come down on the paraglider and we’re away into the night.”