Robert Rankin - The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

“And that Zulu who went up in a puff of smoke.”

“That was spontaneous human combustion. That could have happened anywhere.”

“This is my stop,” said Omally.

“It’s very nice,” said the lady in the straw hat. “How much did you have to pay for it?”

“Give my regards to Tony and Michael,” called Jack as Omally slipped off without paying.

The 65 bus swung over the Great West Road and headed south towards Brentford. In its path there might well have been a giant spider of outlandish proportions, its mutated mind set upon world domination. But upon this day, as upon others past, there wasn’t.

But this was to be the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life, although he still didn’t know it as yet.

The Tension Almost Reaches Breaking Point

“Good morning, Jack,” said Jack’s boss, Leslie. “And how is your lovely wife?”

Jack looked at his watch. “She’ll be making the postman’s breakfast about now,” he said. “And how is your handsome husband?”

“Still delivering the Queen’s mail.”

A thought entered Jack’s head, but finding itself all alone in there it left by the emergency exit.

“Now, Jack,” said Leslie, boss of Jack. “We have a very important despatch to make today and it must be handled with great care. We wouldn’t want there to be any more unfortunate mistakes, now would we?”

“No we wouldn’t,” said Jack. “No-skiddly-oh-po-po.”

Leslie, Jack’s boss, smiled upon her subordinate. She was a tall woman, slim, sleek, svelte. Brown-eyed and black-haired and carrying about with her that aura of a woman who knows exactly where she’s going.

“I’m going to the toilet now,” said Leslie, boss of Jack. “And when I get back I want to see you with your shoulder to the wheel and your nose to the grindstone. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well,” said Jack.

Nail-Biting Stuff

The company Jack worked for was called SURFIN’ UFO. As far as Jack had been able to ascertain during his ten years of service, it had something to do with despatching fragile and precious cargoes from one place to another. The UFO part meant United Freight Operations, but the significance of the SURFIN’ bit was lost on Jack.

For company, he also worked on the night shift at the windscreen wiper works.

Jack was the manager of the actual despatching department. He was, in fact, the only employee in this department. There had been some cutbacks. Once there had been lads with hair and tattoos, cavorting about on fork-lift trucks. Lads who read the Sun and smelled of cigarettes and the morning after. But now there was only Jack. And Jack didn’t smoke or read the Sun. His office was a little glass partitioned-off corner of a vast warehouse. A vast and empty warehouse.

Jack hung up his hat and coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. And then he sat down at his desk. It was an all-but-empty desk. Empty but for a telephone, a single package and a single piece of paper.

Jack perused this.

DESPATCH NOTE – DATE: 23.5.97

SURFIN’ UFO 1462 UNIT 4+2

OLD DOCK BUSINESS PARK

HORSEFERRY LANE,

BRENTFORD

VAT REG: 435 9424

TO:

NAME: DR STEVEN MALONE

ADDRESS: KETHER HOUSE

BUTTS ESTATE

BRENTFORD

FROM:

NAME: PROF. GUSTAV BOINEY

ADDRESS: INC TECH

LOS ALAMOS

NEVADA, USA

CONTENTS: ISOTOPES. HERMETICALLY SEALED.

DO NOT OPEN

FRAGILE FRAGILE FRAGILE

Jack picked up the package and rattled it against his ear. Dr Steven Malone was SURFIN’ UFO’s only client nowadays. Stuff came to him from all over the world. From Turin, from Vienna, from Los Alamos and Latvia. Always by the most unlikely route and always under the tightest security.

Jack’s job today would be to call up the local road haulage firm, impress upon them the highly important nature of the package and the need for its speedy and secure delivery, and then await the arrival of the van, sign numerous documents, hand over the package and return to his desk.

Jack picked up the telephone and tapped out numbers. Somewhere not too far away a phone began to ring.

And then a voice said, “Yo, Leo Felix, who’s dis?”

“Hello-skiddly-bo,” said Jack.

“Yo, Jack, my man. How’s it ’anging?”

“The bus was late today,” said Jack.

“What? De ol’ 8.15? That is truly dredd.” A Rastafarian chuckle gurgled in Jack’s ear.

A Veritable Cliff-hanger

“Can you pick up a package for immediate delivery to Dr Steven Malone?” asked Jack.

“Not ’ceptin’ yo’ pay yo’ damn bill, Babylon.”

“Oh,” said Jack, replacing the receiver.

Action All the Way

“Mr Felix says he won’t pick up the package unless his bill is paid,” said Jack to his boss Leslie, who had just returned from the toilet.

“Leo Felix is a thieving nigger,” said Leslie.

“Surely that is a racist remark,” said Jack.

“Not when it’s said by a black woman. Which I am, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I thought you said you were Jewish.”

“I did.”

And Now Things Really Start to Happen

“You will just have to deliver the package yourself,” said the boss of Jack. “Do you think you can manage that?”

“On foot?” asked Jack. “And without an armed guard?”

“It’s only two streets away.”

“But Mr Felix led me to believe it was in another Brentford, somewhere in Ethiopia.”

Leslie arched her eyebrows and bridged her nose.

“The thieving nigger,” said Jack.

“Enough of your racist jive, white boy.”

A Roller-coaster Ride to Hell

Jack trudged along Horseferry Lane, past the Shrunken Head and up to the High Street. He looked both ways before crossing and reached the other side in safety. There he sat down upon the bench outside Budgens and studied his A-Z. A lady in a straw hat sat down beside him. “Are you lost?” she asked Jack.

Jack clutched his package to his chest. “Certainly not,” he told her.

“Only I get lost sometimes. I have who’ja vu.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the opposite of déja vu. I can be in the middle of the supermarket and suddenly I get this feeling, I’ve never been here before.”

“I have to go,” said Jack. “I have a very important package to deliver.”

“The doctor’s put me on a course of placebos,” said the lady in the straw hat. “But I don’t take them. I’m saving them all up for a mock suicide attempt.”

“Goodbye,” said Jack.

“Goodbye,” said the lady in the straw hat.

How Much More Can We Take?

Jack tugged upon a brass bell pull. Somewhere within a brass bell rang and presently the front door opened.

Jack found himself gazing up at a gaunt black and white figure who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Sidney Paget drawings of Sherlock Holmes.

“Dr Steven Malone?” asked Jack.

“No,” said the figure, “he lives next door.”

Jack went next door and tugged upon another bell pull. A gentleman of identical appearance to the first opened the door.

“Dr Steven…”

“Malone,” said Dr Steven Malone. “And you would be?”

“Jack,” said Jack. “From SURFIN’ UFO.”

“Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

Dr Steven Malone led Jack along a sparsely furnished hall and into a room of ample proportions. Here, upon boards of golden oak, spread faded kilims and upon these ponderous furniture of the Victorian persuasion. A gloomy room it was.

“You have my package. Do you want me to sign something?”

“I do, indeedy-do.” Jack pulled papers from his pocket. Dr Steven unscrewed the top of his fountain pen.

“Just there,” said Jack and Dr Steven signed.