Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

“Well, that wasn’t my fault,” said Jim. “I didn’t do that.”

Jim now did those dusting downs that people do after they’ve fallen over. They do them no matter where they fall, even if there isn’t any dust. It’s probably some racial memory thing, or a primordial urge, or a basic instinct or a tradition or an old charter, or something.

Jim straightened his shoulders and marched upstairs. Suzy’s flat was number three on the second floor. Lovers of illuminati conspiracy theory could get a 23 out of that.

Jim didn’t bother with the bell push. He knocked on the door. And as his knuckle struck the black lacquered panel the door swung open to reveal

A scene of devastation.

Jim stepped inside, in haste and fear. The flat had been ransacked. And viciously so. Curtains torn down, cushions ripped to ribbons, vases broken, books shredded, pictures smashed from their frames.

“Suzy.” Jim plunged amongst the wreckage, righting the sofa, flinging aside the fallen drapes. Into the kitchen, the bathroom.

The bedroom.

The bed was made. The duvet spread. The pale silk curtains hung, untorn. An eye of calm in the centre of the evil hurricane.

Jim felt sick inside. As he stood and stared into that bedroom, the reek came to his nostrils. Jim flung himself across the room, dragged aside the duvet and the bed cover. To expose a human turd lying in the middle of the bed.

“My dear God, no.” Jim turned away.

The bedside phone began to ring. He snatched it up.

“I’ll bet you’re really pissed off, aren’t you?” said the voice of Derek.

“Who is this?”

“You remember me, or at least my nine-gauge auto-loader.”

Jim’s heart sank. His knees buckled. “Suzy,” he whispered, “You have Suzy, don’t you?”

Jim heard the noise of struggling. And then a slap. And then the awful sound of Suzy weeping.

“I’ll kill you.” Jim shook uncontrollably. “If you harm her I’ll kill you.”

“I’m sure you’ll try. But it won’t be necessary. You can have her back. Possibly even in one piece, if you do what you’re told.”

“And what is that?”

Derek spoke and Jim listened. And Jim’s face, pale and ghostly as it was, grew even paler and ghostlier still.

And the band played “Believe It If You Like”.

A big brass band it was, of big beer-bellied men. They had such smart uniforms, scarlet with golden sashes, the borough’s emblem of the Griffin Rampant resplendent upon them. And big black shiny boots and trumpets and cornets and big bass bassoons.

And they marched through the Butts Estate and they played “Believe It If You Like”.

And children cheered and waved their Union Jacks.

And old biddies cheered and fluttered their lace handkerchiefs.

And old men nodded their heads to the beat.

And a lady in a straw hat said, “They’re playing in the key of C.”

And a medical student named Paul said, “Oh no they’re not.”

And the weather forecast said “no rain”. And the winter sun shone brightly and today was a special day indeed.

Today was New Year’s Eve.

John Omally glanced at his gold Piaget wristwatch. (Well, he had been able to wangle one or two expenses.) “Nearly four,” said he. “Where is Jim?”

Norman Hartnell hurried up.

“Any word of him?” John asked.

“No,” said Norman. “It’s the same all over. You were the last person to see him, John. The night before last.”

“What about his girlfriend? He said he was going there.”

“She’s not home. I’ve rung loads of times, but I don’t get any answer. And I don’t have the time to keep doing this for you. Do you think the two of them have…”

“What?” Omally stiffened. “Run off together? Eloped or something?”

“It’s more than possible. He’s well smitten, that Jim.”

“No.” Omally made fierce head-shakings. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without telling me.”

“Perhaps he was afraid you might talk him out of it.”

“Oh no.” Omally glanced once more at his wrist-watch. If he himself had been able to hive off enough expenses to purchase this, Jim might well have been salting away sufficient cash to do a runner. His need was the greater of the two.

John suddenly felt quite empty inside. Somehow the thought that he and Jim would not remain best friends for ever had never really entered his mind.

They were a team. They were the lads.

They were individuals.

“I have to get back to the brewery,” said Norman. “I’ve got crates of ale coming out of the old de-entropizer and I have to get them over to the Swan. I’ll see you later at the fireworks, eh?”

But John did not reply.

In that house in Moby Dick Terrace, where the old folk died from most unnatural causes, Dr Steven Malone paced up and down. In the sparsely furnished sitting room, with its curtains drawn and a single low-watt ceiling bulb creating gloom, the floorboards creaked beneath his feet and the two tall men sat in armchairs regarding him in silence.

“Tonight,” said Dr Steven, “we return to Kether House. I have made all the preparations. Tonight you will learn my purpose and I will learn all…”

Cain opened his mouth to speak.

“No, Cain, only listen. I brought you into being just for this. Do you know who you really are?”

“I am Cain,” said Cain. “And you are my father.”

“And you, Abel? What of you?”

“I am part of Cain,” said Abel. “He is part of me. The two of us are one.”

“This is so. And tonight you shall be joined. The two made truly one and at the moment of this joining…”

“We shall die,” said Cain.

“For we belong dead,” Abel said. “Is that not so, father?”

But Dr Steven did not reply.

Professor Slocombe’s study had been cleared of every antique book, every glass-cased creature, every precious artefact, each table, chair and couch. The sconces from the walls had gone, the curtain rails. The carpets, rugs and dhurries. And the walls and the ceiling and the floor and all the woodwork and the very panes of glass in the French windows had been painted black. And on the blackened floor, wrought in white, the sacred circles had been drawn enclosing the hexagram, that six-pointed Star of Solomon, the great seal of the mysteries. And the names of power had been inscribed between the outer circle and the inner. ADONAI and MALKUTH and AUM and TETRAGRAMMATON.

And at the very centre of the hexagram, wrought in red, the sacred symbol Om.

There were no candles in this room, no lamps of any kind, but an astral light illuminated all.

Gammon knelt in silent prayer as Professor Slocombe, in the seamless floor-length robe of white, the robe of the Ipsissimus, intoned the words to cleanse the temple, and begin the operation.

The Lesser Ritual of the Pentagram

And touched his forehead, saying Ateh (Unto Thee) And touched his breast while saying Malkuth (The Kingdom) And touched his right shoulder, saying ve-Gaburah (And the Power) And touched the left, saying ve-Gedulah (And the Glory) And clasping hands upon the breast, he said le-Olahm, Amen. (To the Ages, Amen).

Gammon rose and, bowing to the East, the South, the West and then the North, he said, “I will leave you now, sir. Blessed be.”

Professor Slocombe did not reply.

Fred sat in his office with his feet up on the desk. The dust sheets had gone and the scaffolding was down. The paintings were up again and so were Fred’s spirits.

Derek and Clive stood to either side of Fred. Derek had a nice new gun. A small but useful-looking weapon. An Uzi nine-millimetre. Clive held a little black bag. Something wriggled uncomfortably within it.

Before Fred’s desk stood Jim Pooley.