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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Neville ‘and I never thought I would utter these words, but we only have Large today.’

  Norman perused the row of eight brass-tipped beer pump handles. ‘What about the other six?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you ever known anyone to order one of the other six?’ Neville asked.

  ‘A pint of Large please Neville,’ said Norman. ‘And do take a half for yourself.’

  Neville drew off the perfect pint and then the perfect half. ‘I surmise that you are celebrating,’ he said.

  Norman paid up with exactitude. ‘Exactly right,’ said he.

  ‘The hearing aid?’ asked Neville.

  ‘That very thing,’ and Norman toasted Neville with his glass.

  ‘Well, I don’t know where the old scoundrel’s got to today,’ said the part-time barman. ‘Why not sit on his stool, that should bring him in at the double.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Norman. ‘I’ve seen the walking stick at work. Not to mention the doggy’s teeth.’

  Neville didn’t mention the doggy’s teeth. ‘Omally’s been in,’ Neville told Norman. ‘Left a pile of fliers.’

  Neville indicated same, Norman took up one and gave it a brief perusal.

  ‘Brentford Lottery,’ he read. ‘Big cash prizes. Coming soon to a corner-shop near you,’ Norman sipped further Large. ‘Not mine,’ he said. ‘Another one of Omally’s dodgy schemes.’

  ‘He has the council’s go ahead,’ said Neville, finding something to polish and polishing it. ‘It’s to raise money for the renovations to the High Street and such like. Seems a worthy enough cause, but if Omally is involved. Well—’ Neville found no reason to say more and the two men drank in silence.

  Lunchtime patrons entered the bar and Neville took to serving them.

  Norman removed his astonishing creation from the carrier bag and placed it on the bar top.

  ‘I wonder where Old Pete has got to,’ Norman wondered.

  Old Pete hadn’t left the allotments. He had visited his hut to brew some tea, a cup for himself and a watering-can-full for his nephew, and the two sat down and set to chattings.

  ‘I have heard great things of you, Julian,’ said the ancient uncle. ‘Things that would have made your daddy proud.’

  ‘I do my best,’ said the giant. His mighty voice rattling flowerpots. ‘But there is still so much to do. So much that is wrong that must be put right.’

  ‘And none more suited to do so than you.’

  ‘It is tiring work, Uncle, but I soldier on.’

  ‘Good lad, and why do you find yourself here after all these long years?’

  ‘I received a message from the professor, he requires my assistance.’

  ‘In what matter?’

  ‘The message did not specify. I shall visit today and find out.’

  ‘The professor is a great man and can be trusted in all matters.’

  ‘I know. He has done so very much for me.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ said Old Pete, ‘it must be something important.’

  ‘I fear so,’ said the Goodwill Giant.

  ‘Fear?’ said Old Pete. ‘What do you know of fear?’

  ‘Can’t you feel it, Uncle?’ Julian Adams glanced this way and that. ‘There is something in the air. Something odd. Something is here that should not be here. Something that makes me afraid.’

  Old Pete shuddered, his dentures rattling wildly. ‘I have felt it for quite some time,’ said he. ‘And I have heard it singing. Queer words carried upon the east wind. But with the professor’s help you will triumph as you always do. I feel certain of that.’

  ‘I wish that I did,’ said the giant. ‘All I wish to do is to bring good will. I’m not any kind of a hero.’

  One of the fictional heroes of Rule Brentannia almost missed his stop. Jim Pooley, not a man easily roused to anger, was fuming. He had been reading the eBook on his Kindle and he was not pleased.

  It was plagiarism, or a breach of copyright, or cultural appropriation or habeas corpus or a tradition or an old charter or something. He and John had been hijacked. Used and abused and things of that nature generally.

  It was what Tony Hancock would have referred to as “a diabolical liberty” and Tony Harrison, “an outrage!”

  Jim thrust his Kindle into his pocket and slouched across the road to the Flying Swan. Old Pete was entering and Pooley followed on behind.

  Old Pete ordered a pint of Quasimodo and upon Neville giving him the bad news, feigned mighty outrage and received a small dark rum in compensation.

  Jim, though full of considerable outrage, was made to pay for his pint of Large.

  Old Pete mounted onto his stool and before Jim was able to get any kind of a rant going, Norman presented the oldster with his new hearing aid.

  ‘What is this buffoonery?’ Old Pete asked.

  ‘Your new hearing aid,’ said Norman.

  ‘Pardon?’ said the old one.

  Norman raised his voice and shouted.

  ‘Well, very nice.’ Old Pete examined the workmanship. ‘I see you’ve chamfered the toggle ends and obfusticated the bevelled chuff tunnels.’

  ‘PETE!’ shouted Norman. ‘JUST PUT IT ON!’

  With all the shouting, folk were turning; all were starting to stare.

  ‘You expect me to put this ludicrous contraption on my head?’ Old Pete shook the head in question fiercely.

  ‘IT WILL IMPROVE YOUR HEARING INCREDIBLY. TRUST ME, PETE.’

  ‘Norman,’ said Neville. ‘If you do not stop shouting I will be forced to strike you with my knobkerrie and heave your lifeless body into the street.’

  ‘Well, you make him put it on,’ Norman begged the part-time barman. ‘I’ve been working my privvy parts off building the thing and it’s a long straight road that has no turning.’

  ‘Oh go on,’ said Neville to Old Pete. ‘It can’t hurt to give it a try and Norman has clearly put a lot of effort into it.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Old Pete.

  ‘PUT THE DAMN THING ON!’ roared Neville.

  Old Pete put the damn thing on.

  ‘Testing,’ said Norman. ‘One, two, three, four.’

  ‘I look like a right Charlie in this.’

  ‘No you don’t, you look fine.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Old Pete.

  ‘I said you look fine.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It doesn’t work,’ said Neville.

  ‘It should,’ said Norman and he drew out a tiny screwdriver and did some little tweakings here and there.

  ‘HOW’S THAT?’ shouted Norman.

  Neville displayed his knobkerrie.

  ‘I must remember to get a pint of milk,’ came the voice of Old Pete.

  ‘It should be working,’ said Norman. ‘I don’t know why it wouldn’t be.’

  ‘And an ounce of tobacco, but I won’t buy it from this clown, all his stock is out of date.’

  ‘A bit harsh,’ said Norman.

  ‘What?’ asked Old Pete. ‘What are you saying?’ ‘And a can of Chum for Young Chips.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Neville. ‘How does he do that?’

  ‘Do what?’ Norman asked.

  ‘That,’ said Neville. ‘He said that without moving his mouth. How did he do that? Ventriloquism?’

  ‘Right I’m done with this nonsense.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Norman, ‘you’re right. Can I shout one more time please, Neville?’

  The part-time barman nodded. ‘Yes, go on.’

  ‘HOW ARE YOU TALKING WITH YOUR MOUTH SHUT, PETE?’ shouted Norman.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Old Pete. ‘And I mustn’t forget to water the monkeys before I take a nap.’

  ‘There, he did it again,’ said Neville.

  Jim Pooley, who hadn’t said anything, said, ‘That is rather weird.’

  ‘Rather,’ said Norman peering at the complicated headset. ‘No, it can’t be, can it, tell me that it can’t.’

  ‘What?’ went Neville.


  ‘Why?’ went Pooley.

  ‘’Pardon?’ said Old Pete. ‘And these things don’t bloody work.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Norman. ‘It’s true. It must be.’

  Heads were shaking all around. Someone muttered ‘Voodoo.’

  ‘No,’ said Norman, ‘it’s the headphones. They are supposed to magnify the noises of the outside world and broadcast them into Pete’s ears. But I must have put them on round the wrong way—’

  ‘You mean?’ said Neville.

  ‘You don’t?’ said Pooley.

  ‘I do,’ said Norman. ‘Instead of broadcasting the sounds of the outside world into his head, they are broadcasting his thoughts into the outside world.’

  ‘If I was a fictional character,’ said Jim. ‘I would probably end the chapter right around here’

  9

  Moments of enlightenment often accompany moments of crisis. As Jim watched the lunchtime patrons of the Swan fall upon Norman with cries of ‘give us a go of that, mate’, and ‘I wanna stick that on my wife’s head’, enlightenment came unto Jim.

  It spoke in a voice both virtuous and pure as that of a seraphim.

  ‘Jim,’ said this angelic manifestation, ‘now is certainly not the time to make an announcement that a goodly number of Brentonians have been ripped off by Mr P.P. Penrose. For such might provoke a riot of litigation in the pursuance of cash compensation.

  ‘Better surely to keep this matter secret for now. The fewer the litigants, the greater the shares of whatever money might become available. Wiser it would be that this intelligence is only known to you, yourself and John.’

  Jim mulled this over.

  He was not by any means a greedy man.

  But neither was he stupid.

  Jim thanked the melodic voice of enlightenment and ignoring the antics of those anxious to try out Norman’s ‘mind machine’, finished up his drink and left the Flying Swan in search of John.

  John Omally was not a man to be easily found. Having parted company with Jim outside the Plume Café, John had returned home. His present dwelling was a ground floor flat in Mafeking Avenue. His landlady Mrs King occupied the floor above. To a degree it might be said that John was an ideal tenant. For after all he was very tidy and very, very quiet. There however all recommendations ended, his quiet ways were contrived to convince Mrs King that he wasn’t actually home.

  Especially when she came knocking for the rent.

  In his spotless kitchenette (experience had taught John that women favour a man with a clean kitchenette) John opened up the executive case, stuffed his pockets with money notes, went out to his secluded backyard and there buried the case, still crammed with cash, beneath the mulberry bush.

  Then he set out upon business of his own.

  Firstly to the local printers, where he ordered ten thousand fliers advertising the coming Brentford Lottery. The borough has a population of twenty-eight thousand souls and John felt that a cash bribe to *****, the postman that dared not speak his name, should ensure that every Brentford household received a flyer on the following morn.

  Secondly John visited the offices of The Brentford Mercury. The borough’s organ had known many editors. Several had come to sticky ends in various scandalous court cases, one had run off with the wife of Norman Hartnell (not to be confused with the other wife of Norman Hartnell, because Norman had never married again). One had been eaten by the very last fresh water shark to live in the Grand Union Canal and another had self-immolated as a protest about the wrestling being taken off the television. Although that was a very long time ago.

  As such the job of editor came, some might say, with its own baggage. The present editor had started well, a sprightly and industrious chap, both spare and kempt, but soon the rot had set in, the curse had been cast and his mental health gone absent without leave.

  The present editor now believed that his entire body was made out of cheese and he lived in mortal fear that mice would devour him as he slept.

  If you sought to butter up a man who thinks himself composed of cheese, what kind of gift would you bring him?

  Omally purchased a bottle of port from the offie.

  The editor’s personal assistant sat in an outer office texting on her mobile phone. At length she acknowledged Omally’s presence and offered him the broadest of smiles. Given the quantity of make-up adorning her face, which oddly resembled the war paint favoured by Sitting Bull at the battle of the Little Big Horn, the smile presented itself in a manner which was to say the least, startling.

  But did find appeal with Omally.

  Who wondered whether a woman such as this might take joy in his kitchen’s cleanliness. Before proceeding to the bedroom for the getting down and dirty.

  ‘Mr Omally,’ said John. ‘Of the Goodwill Landscaping Company. I would gladly present you with my card, but the latest batch are still at the printers having their edges gilded.’ Which was the truth, although it sounded otherwise.

  The personal assistant employed her favourite couplet. ‘Mr Howe will see you now,’ she said.

  John knocked and entered the editor’s office.

  It had undergone certain modifications since the last time he had visited. The mousetraps that carpeted the floor were new, as was the mosquito netting that depended from the ceiling’s centre light to surround and shroud the editor, his chair and desk and all.

  ‘Come,’ called the editor. ‘And step carefully as you do so.’

  John stepped very carefully and approached the editor’s desk.

  ‘Take a sniff,’ said the editor.

  ‘A sniff?’ said John.

  ‘A great big sniff and tell me what you smell.’

  John did so. ‘I cannot smell anything,’ he said.

  ‘No rankness? No pungency?’

  ‘None,’ said John.

  ‘No fetor, rancidity or whiffyness?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ said John.

  ‘No malodorous reek of putrefaction?’

  John shook his head. ‘Nor noisome odour of suppurating empyema,’ said he. ‘All is fragrant as a perfumed pot-pourri.’

  ‘Saint Agur be praised. It is this hot weather you see. I fear that I might be going off.’

  ‘No, you are fine,’ Omally proffered his present. ‘I brought you a bottle of port.’

  ‘Another?’ the editor sighed. ‘Well I suppose it’s better than that box of Christmas crackers I was given last week. Cheese and crackers, get it?’

  ‘Sadly so,’ said John. ‘But I have come here to offer you a piece of front page news that will increase your circulation considerably.’

  ‘Enter the cheesecloth bower then.’

  John lifted the netting and entered the cheesecloth bower. ‘Very cosy,’ said he.

  ‘No visitor’s chair, I regret,’ said the editor. ‘How do I look, do you think? Somewhat jaundiced about the gills?’

  ‘I have heard the term “pale and interesting” used to describe your complexion,’ said John, placing his bottle of port amongst many others. ‘Ladies like a sophisticated, scholarly chap, I am told. Byronic with a hint of anaemia.’

  ‘Behold my fingernails,’ said the editor. ‘The shape of Dairylea cheese spreads before they turned decimal and became rectangular.’

  ‘Regarding this lottery,’ said John.

  ‘This what?’ asked the editor.

  ‘This fund-raising lottery,’ said John. ‘The one I would like to grace your entire front page tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t be done,’ said the editor, sticking out his tongue and examining it in a magnifying mirror. ‘Like a slice of Lincolnshire Pink,’ he observed.

  ‘The front page will be dedicated to something involving the ring road, I suppose,’ said John.

  ‘No, that’s for the day after tomorrow, when the Prince of Wales comes to visit.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’ John asked.

  ‘Cat show at the church hall. Lovely creatures cats, aren’t they?’

  ‘Lo
vely,’ John agreed. ‘Well, such a pity then. I know many think me mad, but I really believe that given the funds I could employ the person to purge the borough.’

  ‘What of this?’ the editor asked, as he sniffed his fingertips.

  ‘The money raised by the lottery,’ John explained. ‘To pay the piper as it were.’

  The editor cocked his head on one side, ‘to pay the who?’ he asked.

  ‘The Pied Piper,’ said John. ‘She recently dealt with that rain of frogs in Chiswick. Not to mention the midges in Gunnersbury Park.’

  The editor did not mention the midges. ‘Did you say she?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s an equal opportunities thing, I believe,’ said John. ‘I was thinking, you see, to employ her in Brentford to purge us of rats and MICE.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the editor. And ‘ah’ too.

  ‘But such is life,’ said John. ‘I was hoping to employ her services before she returns to Germany. Something to do with Brexit and the rising importation costs of flute reeds, I believe.’

  ‘Flute reeds?’ queried the editor.

  ‘Well, it hardly matters now,’ said John. ‘What time does the pussycat show start? I would like to pay it a visit.’

  ‘Let’s talk about this,’ said the editor.

  Leo Felix seemed pleased to see John. ‘Good morning Babylon,’ said he.

  ‘Good morning, Leo,’ said the son of Eire.

  ‘You be after hirin’ me tow truck, I’m thinkin’,’ said the seller of pre-owned automobiles.

  ‘And how did you arrive at that conclusion?’ asked Omally.

  ‘Voodoo magic,’ quoth Leo.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ said John.

  ‘No doubt of dat, Babylon. But I an’ I only pullin’ yo’ plonker.’

  Omally shook his head, ‘how then?’

  ‘Because I be sittin’ behind you in de Plume Café an’ I overhear dat Pocklington tellin’ you to pull down de monument. And I do be sayin’ to meself, dat Omally bound to come here and try to hire me tow truck to do de pullin’ down.’

  ‘It is all so simple, when it’s explained,’ said John.

  ‘Nothin’ simple in this world, Babylon.’

  ‘So, is the tow truck available?’ John asked.