The Brentford Triangle

20

The editor of the Brentford Mercury screwed the cap back on to his fountain pen and wedged the thing behind his right ear. He leant back in his pockmarked swivel chair and gazed up at the fly-specked yellow ceiling of his grimy office. Before him, upon the overloaded desk, was a mountain of reports which, although being the very bread of life to the Fortean Society, could hardly be considered even food for thought to the simple folk of Brentford.

Certainly mystery and intrigue had been known to sell a few papers, but this stuff was silly season sensationalism and it wasn’t the silly season for another month or more. The editor reached into his drawer for his bottle of Fleet Street Comfort. Tipping the pencils from a paper cup, he filled it to the brim.

It all seemed to have started with that riot in the Ealing Road. He had been receiving odd little reports prior to this, but they had been mainly of the lights in the sky and rumblings in the earth variety, and merited little consideration. The riot, strange enough in itself in peace-loving Brentford, had turned up the first of a flock of really weird ones, and this verified by the Brentford constabulary.

There was the long black limousine of American manufacture which had roared away from the scene of the crime pursued by two squad cars, and then simply vanished in a most improbable fashion up a cul-de-sac. The boys in blue had made a full-scale search of the area, which backed on to the allotment, but had come up with nothing. The car had simply ceased to exist.

There was this continuing sequence of power cuts the area had been experiencing. The local sub-station had denied any responsibility and their only comment had been that during their duration the entire power supply seemed literally to drain away, as if down a plughole.

If the disappearance of Brentford’s electricity was weird, then the sudden appearance last week of a one-inch layer of sand completely blanketing Brentford’s football ground was weirder still. The groundsman’s claim that it was sabotage upon the part of a rival team seemed unlikely.

And then, of course, there was this lunatic craze for Jack Palance impersonation which was sweeping the borough. It seemed a localized vogue, as he had had no reports of it coming in from outside the area. But there they were in Brentford, lounging on corners or skulking about up alleyways. Nobody knew who they were, what they were up to, or why they did it, but all agreed that, whyever it was, they did it very well.

The editor sighed. What exactly was going on in Brentford? And whatever it was, was it news? He drained his cup and stared for a moment into its murky bottom for inspiration. He would adjourn to the Swan for a couple of pints of liquid lunch, that was the best thing. Get all this ludicrous stuff out of his mind. He flicked through the pages of his appointments diary, which were as ever blank. All except for tomorrow’s date and this, surprisingly, was encircled thickly in red ink.

Now what might that be for? The editor drew his pen from behind his ear and scratched at his head with it.

Of course, how could he have forgotten? Tomorrow night was the most important night of Brentford’s social calendar. The night which Brentford annually awaited with eagerness and anticipation. Tomorrow night was darts night at the Flying Swan. And it promised to be a night that all present would long remember.