The Lord of the Ring Roads (The Final Brentford Trilogy Book 1)

by Robert Rankin

  Next to her sat Councillor Frances Dashwood, many times great granddaughter of Sir Francis. Tantalisingly slender and extensively tattooed, she favoured the graveyard makeup of the dedicated Goth. She liked to picture Mr Pocklington in a full length leather coat, New Rock boots and very little else.

  Her fantasy paramour continued his address.

  ‘We are here today,’ said he, ‘to discuss the final details of the new ring road.’

  ‘On a point of order,’ said Councillor Ted, rising to his feet. ‘By “final details” I trust you mean “any details at all”. As you have so far failed to share with us anything regarding this ludicrous project.’

  Stephen smiled his winning smile. ‘If you will kindly allow me to continue,’ he said.

  ‘By furnishing the details?’

  ‘To the very fullest.’

  The greengrocer folded his arms and sat down. ‘Ridiculous,’ said he.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the town clerk. ‘I should simply throw this matter open to the floor. I would naturally welcome the opinions of any of my esteemed colleagues.’ His warm smile fell upon Frances Dashwood, who found herself wilting beneath it.

  ‘I have certain questions,’ said the lovely Ms Naylor. ‘Regarding the financing of this project. As the town clerk must surely know the Town Hall’s coffers contain insufficient coinage to replenish the contents of our tea caddy.’

  ‘It’s all the bloody professor’s fault,’ said Councillor Ted arising once more. ‘If he’d keep his veiny hooter out of our affairs we could run the Town Hall at a profit.’ He sat himself heavily down once more, Ms Naylor continued to speak.

  ‘Might I enquire of the town clerk precisely how he intends that we fund the construction of this ring road?’ she asked.

  ‘In a word, or three, we do not,’ said Stephen.

  Ms Naylor shook her raven-haired head and asked for an explanation.

  ‘You have all seen the map,’ said the town clerk. ‘And the proposed route of the ring road. Surely you must have observed that it surrounds Brentford. It does not enter Brentford at any point. That is the point of a ring road, surely?’

  ‘And your point is?’ asked Councillor Naylor.

  ‘The ring road passes through four other boroughs. Those of Hounslow, Ealing, Chiswick and Kew. They will cover the costs, not we.’

  ‘I an’ I hate to put a downer on yo’ scheme, Babylon,’ said Councillor Felix. ‘But me knowin’ some of de councillors from de other boroughs, cos me be playin’ de Sunday League football wiv dem. And me be tellin’ you dat dey won’t be doin’ no forking out for no ring roads through dere territory. No way bloody likely, dem sayin’. Just sayin’.’

  ‘I thank you for your valuable input,’ said Mr P. ‘and in all truth I would not expect them to do so. Willingly.’

  ‘So where you get de dosh den?’

  ‘Allow me to explain.’ The town clerk’s smile beamed blessings upon all. ‘The route of this ring road has been very carefully plotted. It follows certain ancient track-ways, now long closed to the public. Track-ways which unrepealed laws of the land still demand to be kept open. These laws have been broken for centuries due to the closure of these track-ways and as such considerable financial recompense must legally be made and the track-ways reopened to the public.’

  ‘Sounds very unlikely,’ said Councillor McCready.

  ‘No, hear him out,’ tiny Councillor Bob now spoke. ‘I read recently of a case where a bloke had blocked off an ancient bridle path to extend his back garden. He was taken to court by the Ramblers Association and it cost him a pretty penny in fines and court costs.’

  The town clerk smiled upon Councillor Bob. ‘Quite so,’ said he. ‘And a full transcript of this case along with all the details of the ancient trackways and the violated rights of way have been sent by myself to the town clerks of Hounslow, Ealing, Chiswick and Kew. Prior to receiving these details they were very outspoken that they would have no part in funding their sections of the ring road. Now, however they have all agreed to do so. Out of Court, as it were.’

  High in the Gods, John Omally paid a silent tribute to Mr Pocklington. A man who certainly knew how to get what he wanted. Although precisely why he wanted a ring road was quite beyond John.

  ‘So Brentford Town Council would not be expected to contribute a single penny towards the construction of this ring road?’ said Councillor Ms Naylor.

  ‘Not a penny, nor a farthing, dear lady.’

  ‘But what about all the work within the borough?’ These words came from within the mouth of Councillor Ted McCready. ‘What about all this pedestrianising of the town centre? Who is going to pay for this?’

  Good question, thought John Omally, leaning forward in the darkness.

  ‘The people of Brentford,’ said Mr Pocklington. ‘And willingly too. Allow me to explain.’

  Uncertain now whether he was standing or sitting. Councillor McCready did whatever he had not been doing. ‘Oh please do,’ he said.

  ‘A lottery,’ said the town clerk. ‘As you must know the National Lottery has somewhat fallen from favour, the odds against winning it being so large. This will be a lottery open only to the people of Brentford and no others. There will be generous cash prizes and I calculate that within two weeks sufficient funds will be raised to finance the pedestrianisation.’

  A smile of considerable dimensions appeared upon the face of John Omally. He wrote the words “PUT IN TENDER TO RUN LOTTERY” into his notebook.

  ‘Any further questions?’ asked the town clerk.

  Councillor McCready ground his teeth and made fists with his fingers. ‘You appear to have it all worked out,’ he snarled through gritted teeth. ‘So perhaps you will favour us with some timescale regarding this nonsensical scheme. How long construction will take and when you propose the roadworks to begin.’

  ‘At midnight upon Midsummer’s Eve,’ said the town clerk.

  ‘When the work begins?’

  ‘And ends,’ said the town clerk. ‘The entire ring road will be laid in a single night, you have my promise on that. No fuss, no bother, no inconvenience. It will be officially opened upon Midsummer’s Day by the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Prince Charles?’ spat Councillor Ted. ‘The Prince of Wales?’

  ‘Unless he has ascended to the throne by then. In which case it will be King Charles.’

  ‘Absurd!’ raved Councillor Ted. ‘You’re mad. Quite mad!’

  ‘No ‘n’ no,’ said Councillor Felix. ‘Give Babylon de credit. Prince Charles have big love for Brentford. I done business wiv him a couple a times. Sold him a Morris Minor dat he drove round Highgrove in.’

  ‘Ludicrous,’ cried Uncle Ted.

  ‘Not a bit of it, bloodclart. A design classic de Morris. Good gas mileage and supreme comfort. De radio didn’t work though!’

  ‘There!’ bawled the disconcerted Councillor McCready. ‘Now I know you’re lying. The Morris Minor was never fitted with a radio.’

  ‘Fitted it meself,’ said Leo. ‘Along with a special tow bar for his plough. De Prince like to do all his own ploughing of the cabbage patches on his land.’

  Councillor McCready threw up his hands, swore loudly and expressively and stormed from the council chamber.

  The town clerk beamed upon all and sundry. ‘I propose that we put this to the vote,’ said he. ‘In due democratic process. All those in favour of the new ring road and town centre pedestrianisation scheme, please raise a hand.’

  — the town clerk’s massive manhood pounded her eager — Councillor Naylor nudged the typing hand of Councillor Sterne, ‘sorry to intrude upon your muse, dear,’ said she, ‘but the subject of your latest masterpiece would like a show of hands.’

  Samantha Sterne raised high her hand, as did the other councillors present.

  ‘Passed unanimously,’ said Stephen Pocklington. ‘And now, as the Town Hall caddy is apparently empty, why don’t we take ourselves to the Plume Café where I will treat you all to a cup of tea.�
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  He glanced towards the public gallery. But this was now empty as John Omally, lately self-appointed chairman of the Brentford Lottery Company (salary yet to be agreed upon, but likely to be preposterously high) no longer lurked in the shadows.

  For he had, like Elvis of old, left the building.

  5

  The Goodwill Giant’s name was Julian Adams and the rumours that surrounded him were many.

  Jim Pooley had read, upon numerous websites, theories concerning the giant’s identity and the reasons for his travellings. These ranged in credibility from the ridiculous to the truly ridiculous.

  A website favouring the music of the nineteen-sixties identified the giant to be none other than ‘The Mighty Quinn’, immortalised in song by Bob Dylan. There was no question in the mind of the website’s author that this was the case. What with all that good will, love and peace and everything. For had not Bob written prophetic words to the effect that, “when Quinn the Eskimo gets here, everybody gonna jump for joy”?

  An Earth Mysteries site run by a certain Danbury Collins proclaimed that the giant was in fact King Arthur, lately risen from his slumbers in Avalon and returned unto the people of Albion to sort out Brexit and the like. Before so doing, Mr Collins suggested, the giant would most likely establish himself at Stonehenge, where he would replace the roof and open up a vegan restaurant with a side line in crystal healing and holistic massage. This, and many other such Cosmic Truths would be found in a new book Mr Collins was working upon.

  Those who had been fortunate enough to strike up an acquaintanceship with the wandering giant, and had learned his name, had other theories.

  He was the last descendant of John Adams, the second president of the United States of America. John Adams had, according to one such website, been a professional sideshow giant before giving up this glamorous life to pursue a career in politics. His many times great-grandson Julian had in fact run away from Zippo’s Circus, where he starred as The Human Colossus and was hitch-hiking around the country prior to putting himself forward as an independent parliamentary candidate.

  Jim wasn’t too impressed with that one, but the next one he liked very much.

  The Goodwill Giant was immortal: Julian, the fourth son of the Biblical Adam. Adam is attributed in having had only three sons, Cain, Seth and Abel and two daughters, Awan and Azura. Through their brotherly and sisterly love we now have a worldwide population.

  Julian does not get a mention in the Old Testament as he was something of a rebel. Refusing to join the family gardening business, he struck out on his own intending to make a name for himself as the very first comedian.

  History (biblical or otherwise) does not record Julian as becoming the world’s first comedian. That honour goes to Aristophanes (446-386 BC), writer of comic plays and inventor of the running gag.

  Tragedy, rather than comedy attends this Julian the Giant, who continues to wander the world, bringing joy and laughter wherever he can and seeking “The Funniest Joke that Ever Was Told”, in the hope that he might one day tell it to God and be admitted to the Kingdom of Heaven.

  Only two men knew the truth about the giant and his purpose and it was towards one of these, an inhabitant of Brentford, that Julian Adams steered his seven league sandals.

  Professor Slocombe sat in his study, leafing through an ancient tome.

  To speak of the professor’s study is to speak of wonders.

  To speak of mummified mermaids and pickled homunculi. Of rare volumes, leather-bound and wrought with the seals of antique dynasties. Of brass contrivances and astrolabes. Of alchemical flasks containing liquefied gold. Of canopic jars and magical weapons, talismans and amulets, Congolese power figures studded with nails, shrunken heads and steles of revealing.

  From a gilded music stand, which had once been the treasured possession of Peter the Great, hung a somewhat crumpled map of Brentford and the surrounding territories.

  Professor Slocombe looked up from his tome and studied the map and shook his old head for the umpteenth time that morning.

  Gammon, the professor’s moribund man-servant knocked and entered, bearing a glass of sherry on a tray of Nubian silver.

  ‘Your midday livener, sir,’ said this antiquated personage.

  The professor accepted the glass and tasted sherry. ‘This map,’ said he, to Gammon, ‘that you so skilfully liberated from the pocket of Mr Omally as he gained illegal entry to the Town Hall—’

  Gammon grinned a toothless smile and nodded a hairless head.

  ‘—has me fair perplexed,’ said the professor.

  ‘Sir no doubt will conjure light from darkness.’

  ‘Sir certainly hopes so.’ Professor Slocombe pointed hither and thus. ‘Behold if you will our beloved Brentford, enclosed as it is within an equilateral triangle, composed of the Grand Union Canal, the River Thames and the Great West Road.’

  Gammon inclined a creaking neck. ‘As ever has been, sir,’ he said in reply.

  ‘As ever has been,’ Professor Slocombe stroked his pointed chin. ‘And here we see the configuration of this proposed ring road, perfectly encircling the borough. My researches revealed that our Mr Pocklington has certainly done his homework. He spoke of ancient track-ways, did he not?’

  ‘Yes, sir. As instructed I followed Mr Omally into the Town Hall and secreted myself in another part of the public gallery. I overhead all that was said and it would appear that Mr Pocklington has the town council very much in the palm of his hand. He speaks with considerable authority.’

  ‘Such would seem to be the case. The route of this proposed ring road does indeed follow the previous routes of numerous ancient public footpaths and track-ways. I cannot fault him on this.’

  ‘But the question you ask yourself, sir, is why?’

  ‘Indeed, Gammon. To go to so very much trouble for a development that serves next to no purpose. A very queer business indeed, you must agree.’

  ‘But hardly our concern, sir. The ring road does not enter the sacred triangle that marks the borough’s boundaries. Brentford can only benefit by this.’

  ‘So it would seem. But something, something, troubles me about it.’

  ‘Would sir care perhaps for a second sherry?’

  ‘Sir certainly would, my kindly friend, and why not bring another for yourself.’

  As the town hall clock struck one-thirty in the distance Norman considered that he might just close up the shop and take a lunchtime pint in the Flying Swan.

  After all it had been a busy morning for Norman. He had sold three newspapers, a magazine and a packet of cigarettes. True, one of the gentlemen who had purchased a morning newspaper had returned it complaining that it was at least a week out of date. Norman patiently explained that it did not make commercial sense for him to buy in any new newspapers until he had sold all his existing stock. And that this was the last of the old stock and there would be fresh papers in tomorrow. The customer had rolled his eyes, flung the out of date newspaper at Norman and demanded his money back.

  Norman had rightly binned the returned newspaper, as he did not want to gain a reputation as a man who sold second-hand goods.

  Norman’s shop counter was now one greatly littered with small brass screws and countless bits and bobs of odd machinery. Norman had dismantled the yea-big thing-a-me-bob to determine exactly what made it run.

  Or did not.

  This yea-big thing-a-me-bob it might now be convenient to explain was a Bunson’s Necromunicator. A piece of equipment that Norman had only previously read about and never before seen in all its coggy flesh. It was the single prototype of a device conceived in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Norman had found it on eBay, incorrectly listed and going for a song. The shopkeeper had considered that it probably contained parts that might be used in the construction of Old Pete’s new hearing aid.

  And this was why.

  Lord Charles Bunson (1850-1922) had been a notable engineer and practising occultist. A friend to Isam
bard Kingdom Brunel and a serving general in The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers (Queen Victoria’s very favourite regiment). During the final years of the nineteenth century spiritualism had become increasingly fashionable and the idea of communicating with the dead was greatly entertained by the highest echelons of society.

  At a Windsor Castle dinner party, Queen Victoria, who had taken quite a shine to the dashing Lord Charles, had struck up a conversation with him, prior to the arrival of the pudding course, regarding his opinion upon what was then referred to as “table turning”.

  ‘Has some merit to it, ma’am, I so believe,’ had been his lordship’s reply.

  ‘One has dabbled,’ Her Majesty confided. ‘In the hope of speaking once more with dear Albert.’

  ‘Seems to me all a bit hit and miss,’ Lord Charles told his monarch. ‘A few too many hobble-de-hoys passing themselves off as spirit mediums when all they are truly good for is gathering the pure.’

  Queen Victoria agreed that there were simply too many hobble-de-hoys lounging about anyway, when they should better be spending their time in one of Her Majesty’s armed services.

  Lord Charles nodded in agreement. ‘The entire spiritual mediumship business requires a more disciplined approach. A military approach, allied to one of advanced engineering.’

  The Queen asked his lordship to explain.

  ‘If communication with the dead could be conclusively proved and entered into, it is my opinion that the British Empire might be extended into the afterlife.’

  The Queen called for further explanation.

  ‘I read in The Times recently, ma’am, that the dead outnumber the living by three to one. Now when your Majesty — heaven spare us from the evil day — leaves her loyal subjects here—’

  ‘You mean when one snuffs it?’ said the Queen who had recently heard Mr Gladstone use the term.

  ‘Quite so, ma’am. When this day of dread comes to pass and you are carried off to glory, would it not be fitting for you to take your place upon a celestial throne and rule over a Heavenly British Empire for all eternity to come?’