The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

5

Prelude to the Most Eventful Day

Jack was scraping at his face with a razor, which, like his wit, had lost its edge a good many years before.

“It was a close shave getting out of that little scrape,” said Jack, as he all but finished the messy chore. “As smooth as a baby’s bum-tiddly-um-bum-bum,” he continued, as he applied shreds of Kleenex to the profusion of nicks and cuts that now speckled the shaven area beneath his nose. “Pretty sharp,” he went on, as he examined his sagging features in the bathroom mirror. “And You’ll knock ’em dead,” he concluded, straightening his tie.

Jack’s wife, a beauty in her late forties, sliced bread in the kitchenette and worried quietly to herself. Worrying was good for her; it kept her mind off her problems.

Jack came down the stairs two at a time. “Good morning, wife,” he said, limping painfully into the breakfast area.

“Good morning, Jack,” said Jack’s wife. “And how would you like your eggs this morning?”

“I would like them many, speckled and various,” said Jack. “Ranging – free ranging, in fact – from those of the mythical Roc to those of the pygmy heron of Upper Sumatra.”

“They are on your plate,” said Jack’s wife. “Make of them what you will.”

It was going to be the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life, but he did not as yet know this.

The Excitement Hots Up

“How would you like your tea, dear?” asked Jack’s wife.

Jack worried a lot about her. Almost as much, in his own special way, as she did about him. Why does she say these things? he worried. Does she do it simply to annoy me? Or does she, perchance, believe that I am a different person every morning? Or possibly she is being unfaithful. Jack worried a lot about this.

“Sugar, dear?” asked Jack’s wife.

“Twelve lumps please,” said Jack.

Jack’s wife popped the usual two into his cup and stirred them with the usual spoon. And then she returned to her slicing and worrying.

Jack buttered up a slice of toast. “You’re a lovely bit of toast,” he told it. “Would you like to come to the pictures on Friday night?”

In Jack’s front garden a postman clung to the roof of Jack’s porch. “Treed by a bleeding lurcher,” he complained. “Or was it a Dane?”

And Grows Hotter Still

“I must be off to work now,” said Jack.

“Don’t forget your sandwiches, dear.”

Jack thrust the brown paper packet into his briefcase. “The price of butter is scandalous,” he told his wife. “But not to worry, eh?” And he kissed her lightly on the cheek, hoisted his trilby hat onto his head, shrugged on his camelhair coat, tucked his case beneath his arm, picked up his umbrella and departed.

“Morning, postie,” said Jack to the figure cowering on the roof of his porch. “I didn’t know it was raining.”

“Raining?”

“Well, as they say, any porch in a storm.”

“Most amusing,” said the postman, who considered it anything but. “I thought you told me your dog didn’t bite.”

“It doesn’t,” said Jack.

“But it nearly had my leg off.”

“This isn’t my dog,” said Jack. “It belongs to the wife.”

Tension Mounts on the Bus

The 8.15 bus was crowded with 8.15 passengers.

“Morning, conductor,” said Jack.

“Morning, Jack,” said the conductor. “Your mate Bill’s up the front.”

Jack craned his neck and bulldozered his eye-brows. “Morning, my mate Bill,” he cried.

“Morning, Jack,” Bill shouted back. “And how are you today?”

“Fair to middling,” called Jack. “Fair to middle-diddle-diddling.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it.” Bill returned to his study of the Daily Sketch. GIANT SPIDER CARRIES OFF WIDOW, ran the banner headline. She was probably asking for it anyway, thought Bill as his gaze left the tabloid and moved slowly up the legs of a particularly well-designed teenage schoolgirl. Shouldn’t be allowed, his thought continued.

And meanwhile at Jack’s house the postman was giving it to Jack’s wife doggy style upon the kitchen floor. This lino needs a dose of Flash, worried the wife of Jack.

Two stops on Jack got a seat. “We’re running thirty-five seconds late this morning,” he informed a fellow traveller.

“Thirty-five seconds late for what?” asked the traveller, whose name was John Omally.

“For work.”

“But I’m not going to work.”

“Where then?”

“I’m going home.”

“But this is the 8.15 bus.”

“It was the 7.30 bus when I got onto it.”

“Ah, I see.” The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a thirteen-year-old fist striking Bill in the face.

“I never touched her,” cried Bill as the bus conductor fought his way through the standing passengers to grasp him by the collar. “A man is innocent until proved guilty,” he complained as the conductor flung him off at the next set of traffic lights.

“It’s the same thing every day,” said Jack to his fellow traveller.

“Not for me it isn’t,” said John. “For I live the kind of life that most men only dream about. A riotous succession of society get-togethers, country weekends, operatic first nights and charity functions.”

“Get away,” said Jack.

“True as true,” said Omally. “Then there’s the skateboarding, the sky diving and the riding of the big surf. Not to mention the North Sea oil drilling.”

“North Sea oil drilling?”

“I told you not to mention that.”

“Sorry.” Jack scratched at his hat. “Do you do any crop spraying at all?”

“Heaps, and Formula One motor racing too.” Omally pulled off his cycle clips and adjusted his socks. “And I’m judging the Miss World competition this afternoon.”

“That must be interesting.”

“Extremely,” said Omally. “As long as you don’t have to sit next to Tony Blackburn or Michael Aspel.”

The bus shuddered to a halt, regrouping its standing cargo at the front end in an untidy scrum. As the struggling passengers regained their feet and began to dust themselves down, the driver put his foot down and they all bundled towards the rear.

A lady in a straw hat fell upon Omally.

“Is this a regular occurrence?” he asked.

“Sometimes we lose one or two at the roundabout,” said Jack. “Although I don’t recall there ever being any fatalities.”

“What about that dwarf the fat butcher fell on last month?” said the lady in the straw hat.

“Oh yes, there was him.”

“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.

“And there.”

“Here?”

“Just there. And there if you don’t mind.”

“Here?”

“No, there.”

“Sorry.” Dr Steven signed again.

“And if you’d just put your initials here.”

“Certainly.”

“And tick this box.”

“Of course.”

“And put today’s date.”

“My pleasure.”

“Then if you’ll be so kind as to fill in the details here and sign this.”

Dr Steven raised his eyebrows and lowered his ears.

“Did you learn that in Tibet?” Jack asked.

“There’s an awful lot of paperwork,” said Dr Steven.

“There is,” Jack agreed. “And all of it unnecessary. I only insist upon it to be officious. Would you mind repeating all that you’ve just done on the carbon copy, please?”

“Actually I would.”

“How very trying for you. But you can’t have the package if you don’t.”

“What blood type are you?” asked Dr Steven Malone.

Hang on to your Hats

“AB negative,” said Jack. “I used to bleed a lot as a child.”

“Nosebleeds?” Dr Steven asked.

“No, the top of my head.”

“How unusual.”

“Not really. My brother wanted to be a musician.”

“I don’t think I quite follow you.”

“He wanted to play the xylophone, but my dad couldn’t afford one, so my brother, my older brother, used to line up all us younger brothers in descending order of height, then go round behind us and strike each of us on the top of the head with a tent peg mallet. A sort of human xylophone, you see. He could do almost the entire Lennon and McCartney song book. I was Middle C. I used to suffer a lot from concussion.”

“Does your brother play the xylophone now?”

“In Broadmoor, yes.”

“I wonder if I might take a sample of your blood.”

“I don’t see why not. What do you want it for?”

“It’s a top secret experiment.”

“How interesting. What’s it all about then?”

“It’s top secret.”

“I can keep a secret,” said Jack. “Listen to this one.” He whispered words into the still lowered ear of Dr Steven.

“She never does,” said the doctor.

“She does too, but don’t tell anyone.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“So what’s the top secret then?”

Dr Steven Malone waved Jack into a fireside chair and seated himself upon another. “For the last two years,” said he, “I have been engaged upon a groundbreaking project. From all over the world I have gathered dried blood samples. From the Shroud of Turin, the Spear of Longinus, the purported crown of thorns in Troyes, nails from the true cross scattered in cathedrals across Europe, even an item claimed to be the holy prepuce. I have cross-matched two and I am certain that they come from the same being.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Jack.

“The very same. It is now my intention, using a reagent of my own formulation, to liquefy this blood and extract the DNA. With this I intend to clone…”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Exactly. And not just the one. I am going to clone at least six.”

“Like in that film,” said Jack. “The Boys from Brazil. Where they cloned Hitler.”

“Exactly. Mine will be The Boys from Bethlehem.”

“But surely,” said Jack, “you are tampering with forces that no man should dare to tamper with.”

“Oh, absolutely, yes. But then – do you mind if I stand up while I do this bit?”

“Not at all.”

Dr Steven Malone stood up, flung his pale arms in the air and began to stalk about the room. “They thought me mad, you see!” he cried out in a ranting sort of a tone. “Mad? I who have discovered the very secrets of Life itself?” He sat down again. “What do you think?”

“Very impressive. But you could also add, ‘One day the whole world will know my name.’”

“Thanks very much. I’ll remember that in future. Now, about your blood.”

“How much do you want?”

“About eight pints.”

Close Your Eyes and Cover Your Ears

“Well, I’d like to,” said Jack. “But I really should be getting back to work.”

“Another time, then. I’ll show you out.”

“Thanks very much. Goodbye.”

Eh?

“Well, I’d like to,” said Jack. “But I really should be getting back to work.”

Dr Steven Malone produced a small automatic pistol from a trouser pocket and pointed it at Jack. “Regrettably no,” said he. “I cannot allow you to leave. I require your blood and I require it now. It’s nothing personal, you understand. I would have used the blood of whoever had delivered the package. The isotopes are all I require to complete my procedures.”

Jack began to worry. “Aw, come on,” he whined. “You don’t want my blood. My blood’s just ordinary stuff. I could telephone my wife, she’s got terrific blood.”

“Is your surname Bryant, by any chance?”

“That’s right. Perhaps you know my wife. Wears a very short dress. Has this lurcher that’s also a Dane, and…”

“Likes to make love with her head in the fridge?”

“She hasn’t mentioned that to me,” said Jack.

“Move,” said Dr Steven. “Along the corridor and down the steps.”

“Oh no-diddly-oh-no-no.”

This had undoubtedly been the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life. Sadly it would also be the last.

Dr Steven stood in profile, pointing with his pistol to the basement off the page.