The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

16

“People of Brentford,” came the voice through the electric loudhailer. It was a military voice. Educated. Authoritative. “People of Brentford, return to your homes, go about your businesses.”

“Boo!” went the people of Brentford. “Boo and hiss!”

“These barricades and crossing points have been erected for your own welfare, to protect you from an influx of undesirables.”

Beyond the barricades, undesirables in the shape of news crews buffed up their lenses and went “one two” into their microphones.

In Professor Slocombe’s study the ancient scholar bolted his French windows. “They will certainly come for the scrolls,” he said. “You must take them to a place of safety.”

“He means you, John,” said Jim.

“I mean both of you,” said Professor Slocombe.

Jim’s hands began to tremble as they always did prior to a flap.

“Easy, Jim,” said John. “Where shall we take them, Professor?”

“To Buckingham Palace, perhaps. Or Ten Downing Street.”

“There’s a priest hole at the Flying Swan,” said Jim. “We could take them there.”

“Perhaps the British Museum,” said Professor Slocombe, “or the Bank of England.”

“I rather like the sound of the priest hole,” said John.

“Or perhaps they should be taken directly to Rome and delivered to my friend the Pope.”

“The priest hole has it then,” said Jim.

“My good friends,” said the Professor, “without the scrolls we have nothing. They must be authenticated by a panel of experts. And a panel that has not been compromised. I must confess that sending you both on a pilgrimage to Rome does have a certain charm. The possibilities for picaresque adventures are endless. But I doubt whether either one of you even possesses a passport.”

“I had one once,” said Jim. “But I lost it on my travels.”

“You’ve never been on any travels.” John Omally laughed. “You get airsick travelling on the top deck of a bus.”

“I never do.”

“You do. And you get a nosebleed.”

“It’s the altitude. And I have travelled. I’ve been to Margate.”

“Gentlemen, please. Take the scrolls to a place of your own choosing. I hate to say protect them with your lives…”

“Then don’t,” said Jim.

“But we will,” said John. “But what of you, Professor, and Ms Penn? They will come here looking for the scrolls, and will not treat you kindly.”

“I am well aware of that. I will make my own arrangements and contact you at the earliest opportunity.”

“Hold on,” said Jim.

“What is it, Jim?”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, came a knocking at Professor Slocombe’s front door.

“It’s that,” said Jim. “I’m beginning to develop a sixth sense when it comes to that.”

“Out of the kitchen door then and away.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” asked John.

Professor Slocombe made a mystic pass and vanished in a puff of smoke.

“I think he’ll be just fine,” said Jim.

They arrived at the Flying Swan just in time to see Old Pete being stretchered into a waiting ambulance.

John hurried over to the fogey. “What happened to you?” he asked.

Pete looked up with a dazed expression on his face. “What would you reckon the chances were of there being a one-legged lesbian shot-putter in the pub when I happen to be telling a joke?” he asked.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Jim, rooting in his pockets for the last of his small change. “And would you mind sticking this casket in your priest hole?”

“Not at all,” said Neville. “That would be the now legendary Brentford Scrolls we’ve been hearing so much about, I suppose.”

“It certainly would,” said Jim.

“Get out of my pub,” said Neville. “You’re barred.”

“What?”

“See who that is over there?” Neville pointed.

“A one-legged lesbian shot-putter?”

“No, next to her.”

“Oh my God.” Jim fell back in alarm. “It’s Young Master Robert.”

“Correct, damnable issue of the Master Brewer’s loins. Blight of my life. Bane of my existence. Would-be despoiler of my…”

“So what’s he doing here?”

“What does he always do here?”

“He tries to renovate the pub,” said Jim in a doomed tone. “Turn it into a theme bar or something equally hideous.”

“Exactly, and thanks to you he’s back on the case.”

“So what is it this time? No, let me guess, the Millennial Eatery, snacks in a space-age styrofoam bucket.”

“Nothing so tasteful. Here, peruse this before you take your leave.” Neville pushed a scribbled plan across the bar counter.

“Afternoon, Neville,” said Omally, breezing up. “Jim getting them in, is he?”

“Jim is just leaving,” said Neville. “And you with him.”

“What?”

“Peruse.” Neville pointed to the plan and John perused.

“By all the holy saints,” said John. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” and Neville pointed once again. “Next to the one-legged…”

“We can’t have this.” Omally plucked up the plan and stalked across the bar. “Good afternoon, my friend,” he said, extending a hand for a shaking.

Young Master Robert looked up from his light and lime. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “I remember you.”

“And I you.” Omally thrust his unshaken hand into his trouser pocket. With the other he waved the scribbled plan about. “I see you’ve been busy again. Brilliant stuff. I take my hat off to you.”

“You don’t wear a hat and even if you did I wouldn’t want you to take it off.”

“Is this bloke bothering you, Bobby?” asked the Young Master’s burly monopedal companion.

“No, Sandra. The gentleman is just leaving.”

“Sandra?” said Omally. “Sandra, it’s you.”

“Omally, it’s you!” Sandra hopped to her foot and gave Omally a bone-crunching hug. “After all these years and you haven’t changed a bit. Apart from looking so much older.”

“Nor you,” said John, “apart from…”

“The leg?” grinned Sandra. “I got fed up with it. So I had it amputated. Did it myself with a chainsaw.”

“It suits you,” said John.

“Thanks. It’s a great bird-puller. You should have one of yours done.”

“I’ll give that some thought.”

Young Master Robert made agitated finger flutterings. “I hate to break up this happy reunion, but will you please bugger off, Omally.”

“But I want to talk to you about your plan for the Swan’s renovation. The Road to Calvary, England’s first religious theme pub. Well, I say first, but there’s the one along the road of course, and two in Ealing, and…”

“Forget it,” said Young Master Robert. “The Road to Calvary it will be.”

“We’ll speak more on this. Farewell, Sandra, splendid to see you again.”

“And you, John, and if you ever fancy having any body parts removed, you know where to come.”

“I certainly do.” And John Omally returned to the bar.

“Well?” said Neville.

“Sorted,” said John.

“What?”

“Well, almost sorted. Give me time. You can’t just rush at these things.”

“That little bastard can. You will have to do something, John. I hold you and Jim directly responsible for this.”

“Trust me,” said John. And Neville served the drinks.

“That woman with Young Master Robert looks strangely familiar,” said Jim.

“It’s Sandra.”

“Sandra? No. But surely she used to have…”

“She cut one off. It’s a fashion statement or something. Big birdpuller, she says.”

“Bird-puller? Dear oh dear.” Jim shook his head. “That’s put your rhyming slang all to pot.”

“Yours remains unaffected, however. Cheers.” John raised his glass.

“To the future,” said Jim.

“Have you really got the Brentford Scrolls in here?” Neville asked.

“True as true,” said John. “Want to take a look?”

“Yes please.”

John turned the casket towards Neville and lifted the lid. The part-time barman took a peep inside.

“Oooooooh!” he went.

“Pretty impressive, eh?”

“Staggering,” said Neville. “Truly staggering.”

“Jim found them,” said John. “I told you he did.”

“And there was I not believing you.”

“You are forgiven.”

“And which emperor did you say they belonged to?”

“Not an emperor, a monk.”

“No, I’m sure it was an emperor.”

“Monk,” said John.

“Emperor,” said Neville.

“Monk.”

“Emperor.” Neville reached across the bar and snatched John’s glass from his hand. “The one with the new clothes. Get out of my pub, you’re barred for life.”

“What?” John swung the casket round and looked inside. “Aaaaagh!” he went.

“What’s happening, John?” Jim Pooley took a look. “Aaaaagh!” he agreed.

“Out,” cried Neville. “The both of you, out.”

“No, Neville, no.” Jim’s hands began to flap.

Omally’s did likewise.

“They’re gone,” cried Jim. “My God, they’re gone.”

“And for best actor nomination in Farewell my Scrolls, we have James Pooley and Jonathan Omally. Get out!” shouted Neville. “Never darken my drip trays again.”

“No, Neville, this is serious. Deadly serious.”

Neville reached for the knobkerrie he kept beneath the bar. “Out, Jim,” he shouted. “Or know the wrath of my displeasure.”

Jim snatched up the casket. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“We go back,” said Omally. “To the Professor’s. Unless you think they might just have fallen out while you were carrying them here.”

“No, I don’t think that.”

“Nor me. Come on, let’s go.”

They went at the trot.

“Oh dear,” wailed Jim, while trotting. “Oh doom and gloom.”

“Be silent, man. There must be some simple explanation.”

“They were nicked. While we were all at the town hall.”

“Too simple,” said Omally. “Though all too possible.”

“But no one can sneak into the Professor’s. There’s magic all over the place.”

“Perhaps these lads have magic too.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. Come on, let’s run faster.”

By the time they reached the Professor’s, Jim was half doubled up with a stitch. “Leave me here to die,” he croaked.

“Let’s go in.” John pushed upon the garden gate.

The garden gate refused to budge.

“But it’s always open. Come on, I’ll give you a leg up over the wall.”

“No way.” Jim shook his head fiercely. “Remember that time we saw a tom cat trying to climb over the wall and he sort of…”

“Ah, yes. Horrible smell of frying. Put me off beefburgers for a week.”

“So do you want me to give you a leg up?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“What shall we do, then?” Jim clutched at his side and did deep breathing.

“Round to the front. But slowly. Take a little peep.”

“I’m right behind you.”

“Come on, then.”

John crept along the garden wall.

Jim put down the empty casket and followed.

John reached the corner and took a little peep around it.

“All clear,” he whispered. “A couple of soldiers over the other side of the square having a fag, but they’re not looking over here.”

“It could be a trap. Perhaps we should come back later.”

“Poltroon,” said Omally. “Let’s knock at the front door. See what happens.”

“OK. I’ll stay here as look-out.”

“Good idea.”

“Why, thanks very much.”

“I was joking. Come on, let’s do it.”

John marched up to the front door and knocked. KNOCK from the outside sounds different from the inside. There’s not quite so much of it. KNOCK went Omally again, KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“All right,” called the voice of Gammon. “I’m coming.”

“It’s Gammon,” said John.

“And he’s coming,” said Jim.

Gammon put his eye to the little spy hole. “Are you alone?” he asked.

“I am,” said John. “What about you, Jim?”

“Yes, I am too.”

“All right, come in.” Gammon pulled upon numerous bolts and turned several keys in heavy locks. “Hurry, now. They’re back, Professor,” he called.

“Send them in then.”

Gammon hustled the pair towards the study.

Professor Slocombe sat at his desk, quill pen poised above a sheet of vellum. “I didn’t expect you back,” said he.

“We came at once,” said Omally. “As soon as we could.”

“Very good. And you put the scrolls somewhere very safe?”

Jim Pooley groaned.

“Why are you groaning, Jim?”

“The casket was empty.”

Professor Slocombe laughed. “A most convincing ruse, you will agree.”

“What?”

“An illusion,” said Professor Slocombe. “A little magical camouflage. It obviously had you convinced. Let’s hope it does the same should anyone else take a look in the casket. So where did you put it? In the priest hole?”

John looked at Jim.

Jim looked down at his empty hands. “Aaaaaagh!” went Jim.

The garden gate opened without difficulty from the inside. Jim plunged through it and out into the street. And stared down at the place where he had put the casket.

“Aaaaaagh!” went Jim again.