Robert Rankin: The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

The fifth book in the Brentford series, 1997

“What a wonderful lurcher you have there, Mrs Bryant, I haven’t seen as fine a one since long before the war. Can you make it roll about, play dead, or beg a biscuit? Nod its head or shake your hand by sticking out its paw?”

“Actually,” said the lovely Mrs Bryant, whose dresses tended to terminate a mere six inches below her waist, “it’s a Dane, not a lurcher.”

“Come off it,” I said. “That’s a lurcher. My dad used to keep them back in the nineteen fifties.”

“It’s a Dane,” said Mrs Bryant. “A Dane, that’s what it is.”

I shook my head and hailed a passer-by. “Is this dog a lurcher or a Dane?” I asked him.

The passer-by stroked his bearded chin. “Looks more like an Irish wolfhound to me,” he said. “This woman is wearing a very short dress,” he continued.

I dismissed the hirsute passer-by and addressed the dog directly. “Are you Dane or lurcher?” I asked it.

“Dane,” said one of the dog’s heads.

“Lurcher,” said the other.

Ghost Story

The gambler was old and frail. The shoulders of his tired tuxedo hung like wounded wings, the cuffs were frayed and lacked their gilded buttons. Once he had worn a silk cravat, secured by a diamond pin, but now about his neck hung an old school tie.

With a trembling hand he laid his final chip upon the gaming board. “Twelve black,” he said. “It’s all or nothing.”

The croupier called out something which sounded like “Noo-rem-va-ma-ploo,” and spun the roulette wheel. The silver ball danced round and round and finally came to rest.

“Thirteen red,” said the croupier.

“Ruination,” said the gambler.

With dragging feet he left the casino, stepped onto the terrace, drew his ancient service revolver from his pocket, put it to his temple and took “the gentleman’s way out”.

The casino too now lies in ruins. Fifty years have passed. But they do say that should you dare to visit here upon this very night, upon the anniversary of the tragedy, you can watch the whole sad scene re-enacted by its ghostly players.

The three ghost-hunters watched the needles on their sensitive equipment dip and flutter. Professor Rawl made torch-lit notes on his clipboard, then studied the faces of his two companions, lit eerily by the moonlight. “Did anybody see anything?” he asked.

Indigo Tombs shook his head. “Not a thing,” he whispered. “But I thought I heard”

“What did you hear?”

“A whirling sound.”

“A roulette wheel,” said Dr Norman. “I heard it too.”

“And then?”

“A gunshot,” said Professor Rawl. “We all heard that, I’m sure. We did,” the two agreed.

Professor Rawl tucked his pen into his pocket. “The readings are inconclusive. We may have heard something, or nothing. It can’t be proved either way.”

The three ghost-hunters dismantled their equipment and carried it back to the Land Rover. Professor Rawl keyed the ignition and they drove away into the night.

A tramp called Tony watched the tail-lights dim into the darkness. “There you go, Tom,” he said to his chum. “I told you it was true, and now you’ve seen them for yourself. Three scientists they were, or so the old story goes, died of fright or something, they did, many years ago.”

His chum Tom coughed and spat into the night. “You’re drunk,” said he. “I never saw a thing. Now come inside, it’s turning cold.”

Once upon a time there were two men. An Irishman called John Omally, who was young and tall and dark and handsome, and an elder called Old Pete, who was none of these things.

And it being lunchtime, these two stood at the bar counter of an alehouse discussing the ways of the world. The ways of the world have long been a subject for discussion. Ever since there have been any ways of the world, in fact. And an alehouse has always been a good place to discuss them.

“The ways of the world leave me oft-times perplexed,” said Old Pete, sipping rum.

John Omally nodded. “Which ones in particular?” he asked.

“Well, you know that Mrs Bryant, who lives next door to me?”

“The one with the two-headed dog?”

“That’s her.”

“And the very short dresses?”

“That’s her as well.”

“I know of her,” said Omally.

“Well, last night her husband came home early from his shift at the windscreen wiper works to find an alien in bed with her.”

“An illegal alien?”

“No, a space alien, although I suppose they must be illegal also.”

“Sounds a bit of a tall one,” said Omally.

“Yes, he described him as tall, and young and dark and handsome.”

“Ahem,” said Omally. “Doesn’t sound that much like a space alien to me.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Old Pete. “Sounded more like an incubus in my opinion.”

“A what?”

“An incubus. It’s a sort of demon that takes on human form, creeps into the bedrooms of sleeping women and does the old business.”

“The old business?”

“The old jigger-jig. My wife, God rest her soul, suffered from them something terrible while I was away at the war. They used to appear in the shape of American servicemen back in those days.”

“Really?” said Omally. “So you think Mrs Bryant was had by one of those?”

“I think it’s more likely than a space alien. Don’t you?”

Omally nodded. He could think of an even more likely explanation, one he could personally vouch for. “So she told her husband that this bedroom intruder was a space alien, did she?”

“As soon as he regained consciousness. The bedroom intruder, as you put it, walloped him with a bedpan, and then took flight.”

“In a spaceship?”

“According to Mrs Bryant, yes.”

“Makes you think,” said John Omally.

“Makes you think what?”

“No, just makes you think. It’s a figure of speech.”

“Well, I think there should be a law against it,” said Old Pete. “If a woman can’t lie safely in her bed without some incubus claiming to be a space alien taking advantage of her. Where’s it all going to end?”

“Search me,” said Omally.

“Why?” asked Old Pete.

“No, it’s another figure of speech.”

“But you do think there should be a law against it?”

“Absolutely,” said John Omally. “There should be an Act of Parliament.”

“Then you actually believe all that old rubbish, do you, Omally?”

“Pardon me?”

“About space aliens and incubi. You actually believe all that’s true and there should be an Act of Parliament?”

“I do, as it happens, yes.”

“I see.” Old Pete finished his rum and placed the empty glass upon the bar counter. “Then what if I were to tell you that I personally witnessed the ‘incubus’ making his getaway down the drainpipe? In fact I even recognized him.”

Omally’s self-composure was a marvel to behold. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said he.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Not at all, and if you were to tell me that this shape-shifting incubus had taken on the appearance of, well…” Omally glanced about the alehouse, as if in search of a suitable candidate. “Well, let’s say myself, for example. It wouldn’t surprise me one little bit.”

Old Pete ground his dentures. This was not the way he had planned things at all. The wind-up, followed by the sting, was the way he’d planned things. Good for at least a bottle of rum.