The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

32

Glass shattered and stormed and the chamber collapsed.

Abel stepped from the wreckage and stared down at the man now cowering on the floor.

“How?” gasped Dr Steven Malone. “What?”

“There are many differences between Cain and I,” said Abel. “And one of these is that I can read your thoughts. I emptied the gas canister last night. And now I must do what must be done. Cain told you that he feared for your life. His fears were not unfounded.”

“No,” screamed Dr Steven Malone. “Get away from me. No, no, noooooooo.”

“Whoa!” went Derek. “What happened? Ouch, my bloody head!”

“The bastard played us false!” Fred’s face was most unpleasant. It was almost as unpleasant as that of the creature that now sat between him and Derek. This creature had a seriously unpleasant face. All scaly it was, with a lolling black tongue and glaring red eyes.

“Oh, shit a brick,” said Derek, staring into this face.

“You’ve grown a bit, haven’t you? I mean, pleased to meet you again, sir, I mean…”

“Shut up, Derek,” Fred roared. And a roar it was. “Keep right up behind them, Clive, don’t let them out of your sight.”

“They’re running into the crowd at the top of the street, sir.”

“Well, there’s nowhere else for them to run, is there? Mow the crowd down, Clive, mow the crowd down.”

“Like that sea shanty,” said Derek. “Mow the crowd down, Clivey, mow the crowd down. Hey, ho, mow the crowd down.”

“Shut it,” said Fred.

“We’ve got to get out of this crowd,” shouted Jim. “He’ll just drive through it and kill people.”

“Into the football stadium,” shouted John.

“Are you jesting? There’s even more people in there.”

“That car will never get through this turnstile, will it?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

Omally shinned over the turnstile and helped Suzy after him.

Jim glanced back over his shoulder. Screams and shouts and BAA-BA-BA-BAAAAA. Jim leapt over the turnstile.

On stage the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies were giving it the freeform Auld Lang Syne. Behind them the groundsman fed defunct fireworks into the mobile de-entropizer, while Norman prepared to flick the big switch and set off WELCOME TO THE YEAR 2000.

“Any particular place you’d like to go for?” Jim asked John, as they pressed into the assembled throng.

Omally pointed to the stage. “Make for the high ground,” was his suggestion.

BAA-BA-BA-BAAAAA.

“This was a very bad idea.”

“But we’re committed to it now, Jim. Get a move on.”

“I’m with you. Come on, Suzy, come on.”

The Car burst through the turnstile and swept down the walkway into the stadium. The crowd scattered before it. A crowd of laughing, cheering folk, well buoyed up with alcohol and New Year jollity. They skipped aside this way and that, convinced that this must surely be some extra entertainment laid on for their enjoyment.

The crowd swarmed from the pitch up into the stands and then sat down to watch the show.

On stage the Hollow Chocolate Bunnies gaped in awe as The Car rushed towards them in pursuit of three racing figures.

“Now that is one tasty automobile,” said the lead singer.

“Split up!” shouted Omally. “I’ll meet you backstage.”

“You have an idea?” Jim huffed and puffed.

“It’s a long shot.”

“Oh dear.”

And The Car was on them.

Jim dragged Suzy to the right and John dived to the left. The Car smashed into the stage, dislodging Chocolate Bunnies, who tumbled down to the football pitch.

Norman’s finger hit the switch and the Roman candles flared up the rickety scaffolding, spelling COME TO THE EAR 20, which was a start.

The Car reversed then ploughed once more into the stage, buckling scaffolding. Up in the stands the crowd roared applause. A bit like a bullfight was this.

Norman clung to his de-entropizer. The groundsman clung to Norman.

“Was this supposed to happen?” asked the groundsman.

Back and forwards went The Car, growling and smashing and crashing. John Omally was up on the stage now, clawing his way towards Norman. Jim was climbing the scaffolding, pushing Suzy before him.

The stage slewed forwards. Marshall stacks, amps and speakers toppled and fell, mikes and drum kits, all those wonderful guitars that rock musicians rack up to make you jealous, down they came, wires and cables, sparking electrical flares. The Car backed away. Its doors opened.

Fred climbed out. And Clive climbed out. And Derek climbed out. And something really vile sort of slurped out.

“Well well well,” shouted Fred. “It all looks a bit precarious up there. Why don’t you come down for a little chat?”

“Boo,” went the crowd. “Boo and hiss.”

“Stuff you!” shouted Omally.

“Hoorah,” went the crowd, and “Cheer.”

The Bunnies’ lead singer crawled over to Fred. “How much do you want for this mother-crunching motor?” he asked.

Fred kicked him in the head.

“Ouch!” went the lead singer.

“Boo!” went the crowd.

Fred pointed at Pooley. “You are a very dead man,” said he. “You will know such torment as you never knew could be.”

If Jim had had a spare hand free he might have managed a two-fingered salute. But he didn’t so he just climbed higher.

“There’s nowhere to go.” Fred did a bit of the old manic laughing. “Bring him to me, Igor.”

“Igor?” said Derek. “Is its name Igor?”

“Like Dr Frankenstein’s assistant,” said Clive. “And Dr Frankenstein was of course played by Colin Clive. How about that?”

“So who played Igor?”

“Bela Lugosi.”

“Oh yeah, old Bela. His real name was Marion, you know.”

“That was John Wayne.”

“The hell it wa…”

“Shut your bloody mouths!” Fred rose quivering on his toes. Higher than his toes, in fact. An inch or two higher. “Igor, fetch him, bring him to me.”

“Slurp,” went the creature, then “Aaaararghooowaaghooow!” like it did the last time. And then it unfolded hideous membraney sort of wings and took flight.

“Oh shit!” went Jim, as you would.

And “Boo!” went the crowd.

“Get the Irishman,” Fred told Derek and Clive.

“Yes sir!” said Derek.

Igor swept up from the pitch, over the sloping stage and flung itself at Jim, talons clawing, jaws going snap, snap, snap. Jim kicked it away, but it lunged at him, again and again, ripping, tearing, and then it fastened hold and clung right on. The scaffolding shivered. Roman candles, fast giving out on their surreal message, dropped from their sockets. Dropped upon John and Norman and the groundsman.

“Ooh! Ouch! Aaagh!” they went, skipping this way and that.

Rip went a sleeve from Jim’s jacket and the taloned claws bit into his arm. Suzy clung on to him, but the beast pulled and pulled.

Norman’s de-entropizer started to roll down the sloping stage. Omally put his foot against a wheel, and his hand fell upon a very huge firework that was spilling off the conveyor. Above him the beast pried Jim loose from his precarious mooring. “Fetch him down!” shouted Fred. “Boo, boo,” went the crowd.

“I wonder where this is leading?” asked the lady in the straw hat.

“There’ll be a trick ending in it,” said Paul. “There always is.”

“in Duos: Duo in Unum; Unus in Nihil,” Professor Slocombe concluded his rite.

Within the basement at Kether House, Cain and Abel stared down at the broken corpse of Dr Steven Malone.

“All in Two,” said Cain, touching the hands of his brother.

“Two in One,” said Abel, holding tight to his hands.

“One in Nothingness.”

A bright light glowed. Brighter than a summer sun. And All in Two and Two in One, the brothers vanished into nothingness.

A bright light flared on the concert stage, a Zippo lighter it was. As Igor tore Pooley from the scaffolding, John angled up the very huge firework, lit the blue touch paper and did not retire to a safe distance.

“Aaaararghooowaaghooow!” went Igor, victorious.

“Whoosh,” went the very large firework.

“Huh?” went Igor, looking down.

“Whoosh,” went the firework, heading up.

Then Huh?

Then Whoosh!

Then, THUNK!

Now what is that sound? THUNK?

That is the sound of a firework entering the anal cavity of a creature named Igor at about one hundred miles an hour. And then,

All in Two: Two in One: One in Nothingness.

AAAARARGHOOOWAAGHOOOW!

Pooley fell from the creature’s grasp. The creature rocketed into the sky (as well one might) and the very huge firework exploded.

CRIMSON SMOKE. STARBURST FLARE. GOLDEN SHOWERS.

“Oooooooooooooo,” went the crowd, cheering wildly.

“Told you,” said Paul.

“The show’s not over ’til the lady in the straw hat sings,” said the lady in the straw hat.

“That was a good one,” said cowering Norman, and then “Ooow!” he continued as Pooley fell upon him.

“Take them!” ordered Fred.

Clive and Derek were on stage now. Derek was rolling up his sleeves. Clive had his fists up in a rather foolish fashion.

“Just do what I do,” said Derek. “Poke ’em in the eyes and kick ’em in the bollocks.”

“Right,” said Clive. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Pooley scrambled up and Omally scrambled up. The groundsman scrambled up (and ran). Norman just lay there moaning.

“Sorry, Norman,” said Pooley.

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Norman. “I’m just faking it in the hope I won’t get a thrashing.”

“Very wise!”

And Clive took a swipe at Pooley.

The crowd now roared further approval. They’d had the rock concert, the fireworks, an automotive bullfight, the Ray Harryhausen special effects flying creature that got a rocket up its arse, and now they were getting Rocky 6, or was it 7? Bloody good value for free of charge.

Pooley ducked and hit Clive in the stomach.

“Ow!” said Clive, stamping on Jim’s foot.

Derek took a swing at John, who side-stepped and kicked him in the nuts.

“Bloody unsporting,” howled Derek.

“You fools,” shouted Fred. “Kill them. Kill them.”

“Boo,” shouted the crowd. “Boo boo boo.”

Fred turned upon the crowd. “No more!” he screamed. “No more. I will destroy you all.”

“Oh no you won’t,” the crowd chanted.

“Oh yes I will.”

“Oh no you…”

There was a bit of hesitation there, prompted no doubt by the look of Fred. It wasn’t so much the look he was giving them. More the look of him. The look of what was happening to him.

Fred rose once more upon his toes. Threw wide his arms.

Joints crackled, clothing tore. His flat cap rose as monstrous horns sprouted from his head. With sickening crunches and hideous bone-snapping reports Fred began to swell and distort.

All semblance of human form was gone. The Beast rose grinning. A medieval monster of depravity. The evil one made flesh.

The fighting came to a standstill on the stage. The bell seemingly called for the end of round one.

“Oh shit,” said Jim. “Are we in trouble now.”

Abaddon, the arch-fiend of the bottomless pit, fallen angel, dweller in Pandemonium, denizen of hell, stood upon the sacred turf of Brentford football ground. Cloven hooves dug into the eighteen-yard line, forked tail curling, brimstone-breathed and hung like a python with the mumps.

“Avert your eyes,” said Paul.

“No way!” said the lady.

“All of you.” The Beast’s voice echoed, rumbled thunder-like and awesome, quivering the scaffolding to which Suzy clung, rattling ten thousand teeth. “All of you will die. All of you.”

And fire belched from the belly of the Beast, and sulphur smoked and people cowered and screamed and made to flee.

And then.

And then.

A golden glow lit up the sky.

A false dawn?

What?

And a sound, far distant, yet close at hand. A sound that filled the air and the substance of the air and all the matter of the planet. The note. The Universal note.

Of Om.

That symbol given with love to be received with love.

An act of love.

And all the people stared. And the Beast turned and glared and breathed his fire and pawed the ground with cloven hooves.

And a man stepped out onto the turf. A golden man shining like the sun. And he walked forward, hands raised.

And the golden light surrounded him and the sound that was Om was everywhere.

“No,” cried the Beast. “Not you. Not you.”

“This is not your time,” said he that was All in Two and Two in One and One in Nothingness. “Return at once to whence you came. Get thee behind me, Satan.”

And the Beast screamed and clawed at the sky and squirmed and writhed and shook and moaned and trembled and was gone.

And the golden man held up his hands, and faded, and he too was gone.

And then there was a silence. And some silence it was.

And then the crowd looked up.

For the heavens seemed to part, the moonlight cleft the clouds and down swept beings, beautiful in white on wings of gossamer. Down and down, circling and swaying. Angels of light.

Derek looked up and Clive looked up.

And the beings swept down upon them.

And kicked them clean off the stage.

“Whoops, pardon,” said Mrs Elronhubbard. “I’m sorry we’re a bit late, but it’s a right old struggle to the top of the gasometer. I had to help my friend Doris here with her Zimmer frame.”

“Hi,” said Doris, waggling her fingers. “I hope we haven’t missed anything.”

And then the crowd really cheered. Cheered and cheered. Gave a standing ovation. Clapped their hands and cheered again.

Oh yes indeed.

And the lady in the straw hat began to sing.

“Amazing Grace,” I think it was.