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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Will you be taking your morning walk about the boundaries of the borough?’ asked the giant.

  ‘I think not,’ said the professor. ‘It is something best done alone and today the early morning streets throng with people.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ Julian Adams enquired.

  ‘Let us join in the celebrations. Prince Charles will shortly be declaring the ring road open and it would be nice to have a chat with him again.’

  ‘You know Prince Charles?’ asked the giant.

  ‘I have a long acquaintance with the royal household.’

  ‘I recall a signed photograph of Queen Victoria that used to hang in your study.’

  ‘It still hangs there, Julian. She signed it to me in gratitude for the counsel I gave her when Prince Albert died.’

  The giant counted on his giant fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘A very long time ago. Let us go and hear what the prince has to say.’

  The prince stood in the council chamber talking to the town clerk. Talking mostly now it seemed, of cake.

  ‘Battenberg is one of one’s favourites,’ said the prince. ‘Named after a duke on the great grandmother’s side. We royals have given our names to many cakes. Victoria Sponge, Gateau Alexandra, Apple Charlotte, Queen Elizabeth cake, named after mummy. Not to mention Treacle Sponge Bastard.’

  Although on this occasion the temptation to mention Treacle Sponge Bastard was large, Stephen Pocklington restrained himself. ‘If I might broach the matter of sir’s speech,’ he said.

  The prince made a face convincingly suggestive of thought and concern. ‘One was incorrectly advised,’ he said. ‘One thought one was going to Bradford.’

  ‘No matter,’ said the town clerk. ‘I have an opening speech written out for you here.’

  He handed same to the prince.

  ‘Is it a song?’ asked the royal son. ‘It looks rather song-like to one.’

  ‘It is a poem,’ said the town clerk. ‘Your love for the arts, and for poetry in particular is well known and greatly admired.’

  The prince now made his “modest” face.

  Stephen Pocklington tried very hard not to laugh.

  ‘If you would just be so kind as to step onto the stage and read out the poem, I would be forever grateful.’

  ‘Just you?’ asked the prince.

  ‘Oh no, sir, many, many others indeed, I assure you.’

  ‘What are these bits?’ asked the prince.

  ‘Well, sir, you read out two lines and then the audience repeat them.’

  ‘Just like my chum Freddie Mercury used to do,’ said Prince Charles. ‘He named his band after mummy you know.’

  Stephen Pocklington bit his lip. ‘Yes sir, I am sure that he did. So I will go onto the stage and introduce you and then you come on, read out the poem and all will be set to rights.’

  ‘And the cake?’ asked Prince Charles.

  ‘Plenty of cake afterwards,’ said Stephen Pocklington. And he aimed his special smile towards the prince.

  Rather than attempt to squeeze himself once more through the professor’s garden gateway, the Goodwill Giant vaulted nimbly over the high garden wall. Professor Slocombe vacated his garden in the generally approved manner and the two stood, side by shin in The Butts Estate.

  ‘I should prefer to keep to the shadow of the oaks,’ said Julian Adams. ‘I will cause too much of a stir amongst so many people.’

  ‘I shall stand with you then,’ the ancient scholar said. ‘My old bones are brittle and the crowd seems somewhat vigorous in its movements.’

  Merkin Holocaust had left the makeshift stage to be replaced by the Lady Gardeners, the Brentford all-woman morris. They practised weekly at the Rusty Trombone ale house near the river and their band with tabor, western pipes, fiddle, banjo and theremin had the crowd linking arms, kicking high their legs and generally carrying on in a fashion of those who have quaffed too freely and have nary a care for the morning after.

  The giant stood with his head amongst the lower branches of a stately oak. He snapped his fingers in time to the tune and hummed in a basso profundo of a key so low it had yet to be given a name.

  The professor stood upon tippy-toes and gazed upon the crowd that spread before him.

  There were hundreds of people, thousands in fact, perhaps a quarter of Brentford’s entire population. And they danced with such — the professor sought for a suitable word — purpose, that was it. They were clearly enjoying themselves, truly caught up in the moment. But their wide eyes and their fixed smiles troubled the professor. It might well be said that they were going at it a bit too hard. And it was very early on for them all to be drunk.

  Professor Slocombe did not possess the spider senses of Peter Parker, but he had to him a wisdom which spoke in no uncertain terms that something was not right.

  ‘Oh my,’ said the giant, shaking his head. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Are you all right up there?’ called the professor.

  ‘I think so, yes. Something seemed to brush past me. Something cold. Yes, see.’

  Professor Slocombe peered up and for a moment glimpsed something brightly green that seemed to scamper through the branches.

  The giant ducked low his great head. ‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘And yes, see there,’ and he pointed.

  There were flickerings of violent green amidst the other trees. Things were leaping, branch to branch, things most odd indeed.

  ‘Are those monkeys?’ asked the Goodwill Giant.

  ‘Monkeys? No,’ Professor Slocombe peeped and peered. ‘There must be a dozen of them. Keep a wary eye out, Julian.’

  The band of the Lady Gardeners reached the final number in their set. And as it was a song well known to many Brentonians, many Brentonians sang along with it.

  The song was dedicated to that Christmas season television favourite World’s Strongest Man and went as follows.

  THE BIG MEN LIFTING THINGS

  Now I like Father Christmas

  And the presents that he brings,

  But I’d rather watch the big men lifting things.

  And I buy Elvis records,

  But I won’t buy one of Sting’s.

  I’d far rather watch the big men lifting things.

  Those big men can lift anything at all

  They pick up those Atlas Stones and stick them on the wall.

  Ships and shoes and sealing wax

  And cabbages and kings.

  I’d rather watch the big men lifting things.

  Now I might go down under

  And live in Alice Springs

  But I’d rather watch the big men lifting things.

  And I might go to Heaven

  Borne aloft on angel’s wings

  But I’d rather watch the big men lifting things.

  Those big men they pull aeroplanes

  And they pull trucks as well

  They do not wear deodorant

  But I don’t think that they smell.

  Ships and shoes and sealing wax

  And cabbages and kings

  I’d rather watch the big men lifting things

  COME ON ENGLAND

  I’d rather watch the big men lifting things.

  The Lady Gardeners left the stage to thunderous applause.

  The giant stooped low and spoke into the professor’s ears. ‘The green things have all gathered in the trees nearest to the stage,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the look of them, professor.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said the ancient. ‘I think I know what they might be. But they cannot be. Precautions have been taken. Defences made. They cannot be here. Not here and not now.’

  ‘Let us get closer,’ said the giant. ‘Shall I carry you, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said the professor, ‘that would be most undignified. Let us slip along the edge of the crowd, this side of the trees. Be ready, my friend, something is here that should not be. We must act with caution.’

  Together they crept for
ward, moving as stealthily as they could from the cover of one tree to the next. But none of the crowd paid them the slightest attention, their eyes were fixed upon the stage onto which Stephen Pocklington climbed.

  Omally stood in the mosh pit, as it were, leaning his bum upon Marchant’s crossbar and sampling an old-fashioned ale that was new to his tasting. He was only yards away from the stage and as the town clerk approached the microphone John looked up at him with something close to awe.

  Mr Pocklington literally shone. Charisma seemed to ooze from him and spread in joyful waves. As he opened his mouth to address those before him a sudden hush fell over The Butts Estate.

  John Omally glanced about, something now felt very wrong indeed.

  ‘My friends,’ said Stephen Pocklington. ‘Dear people of Brentford. This, as I think you are all now aware, is a very special day. A day unlike to any other. A new beginning. A return you might say to old values. A return to a time that was, well, how might I put this? Or indeed might I put this at all? I think not. And so to officially open the ring road that now encloses the borough, might I ask you, one and all, to please put your hands together, for His Royal Highness, Charles, the Prince of Wales.’

  Omally did not put his hands together for the Prince of Wales. Omally hailed from Dublin and the good folk there do not hold the English royal family in particularly high esteem.

  The crowd went at it though, as if possessed. Mighty were the cheers that day upon The Butts Estate. Amidst the rousing hoorahs and huzzahs, Prince Charles ambled onto the stage.

  And it was a definite amble, not a march, a stride, or even a strut, as might befit one who was of noble birth. As Omally looked up at the prince, it struck the Irishman that here was a truly lost soul. An amiable enough fellow probably and not at all a bad man by any means. A chap of good intention, who tried his best to do the right thing, if and when he was able.

  But, as had been previously noted, he was no longer a young man. The years had taken their toll upon his looks, his health, his strength and his wits. He was, it seemed to John, but the shell of a man.

  If the crowd in general harboured any such thoughts it was not letting on. The crowd was truly in the spirit of things now and how often do you get to see Prince Charles on a stage in Brentford at this time in the morning?

  The prince did that thing he does with his shirt cuffs when he’s nervous. And through doing that thing he dropped his script onto the stage. The town clerk retrieved it and returned it to him and while the prince bumbled about before the microphone, trying to get the script the right way up, Stephen Pocklington grinned towards the crowd, rolled his eyes and twirled an index finger at his temple.

  This outrageous breach of etiquette, blatant mockery of a royal personage, should have brought the crowd’s damnation. But it did not.

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  John Omally shook his head.

  Prince Charles shook his also. ‘Did one say something witty?’ he asked.

  The crowd once more fell to hilarity.

  ‘You are too kind,’ said the prince. ‘And might one say what a pleasure it is to find oneself in Brad…. Brentford. To open the Prince Charles Circulation System—’

  Stephen Pocklington frowned at the prince.

  The crowd held its collective breath.

  ‘Or some such,’ the prince continued. ‘Oh deary me,’ and he peered at his script. ‘One hasn’t done this quite right, allow one to go off and come on again.’

  Silence from the crowd.

  The prince went off then came back on again.

  Mighty roars of applause once more from the crowd.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the prince and reading from his script. ‘I always appreciate a warm hand upon my opening.’

  A moment of silence.

  Then volleys of laughter.

  The town clerk waved to the crowd and left the stage.

  John Omally looked at his watch. The Flying Swan would not be open yet.

  ‘I should like to read,’ read the prince, ‘a poem. Dedicated to this wondrous day. To make it even more lovely, I will read two lines, then you all will repeat the two lines and so on. Won’t that be fun?’

  Heads nodded wildly. Oh what fun that would be.

  Lily sometimes keeps a bottle of vodka under her counter at the Plume, thought Omally.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Prince Charles. ‘And so let us begin.’ And he began.

  Good people of the marsh and heath

  Ye folk above and folk beneath

  The good people of Brentford parroted the prince’s poetic proclamation.

  Rejoice with me in magick old

  Raise ancient gods with sacred gold

  The vociferous vox pop vocalised the versification

  Oh spirits of the earth and trees

  Come quench the fire and still the seas

  And thus chorally cried the crowd.

  Oh nature spirits heed my call

  The circle now encloses all

  Embracing alliteration, Professor Slocombe tugged the titan’s trouser-wear. ‘Prepare yourself, Julian,’ he cried. ‘I have heard this invocation before.’

  I offer up my life to thee

  The future now the past must be.

  ‘Protect him,’ cried Professor Slocombe. ‘Protect the prince, you must.’

  Let me be numbered with the dead

  Let now my royal blood be shed.

  ‘No!’ The Goodwill Giant shouted and he plunged into the crowd. Folk tumbled before him and to the right and left. Many cheering as they did so, for here was the famous giant they had read about. Here was fine entertainment indeed.

  John Omally ducked as the giant’s shadow blotted out his little piece of sunshine. Julian Adams flung himself towards the stage where stood the royal prince.

  But then, of a sudden and high in the trees, came terrible screaming wails. The keening banshee cries that rose from green and ghastly throats. And with these dreadful howlings came the twang of leathern strings. As many arrows streaked from many bows.

  Darkening the sky they fell, a baleful blizzard of death.

  Down and down towards the Prince of Wales.

  For he had offered willingly, his royal blood in horrid sacrifice.

  15

  Prince Charles looked up to receive applause and found instead that arrows were coming his way. Many arrows and swiftly did they come.

  The prince now made his “alarmed” face, which conveyed its meaning without ambiguity.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said the prince, as one would.

  The crowd was applauding though, with cheers and laughter and some flag waving too. Being an educated man, Prince Charles knew that he could not outrun an arrow, let alone many arrows. And knowing this he realised that in a moment he would surely be numbered with the dead.

  Did, in that brief moment, the life of Prince Charles flash before his eyes? Did he find that he had led a good and honest life? Had his life had meaning? Had the very fact of his being made this world of ours a slightly better, or a slightly worse place to be? For by such a test is a man’s life judged to have had a meaning.

  What thoughts and what conclusions entered the royal head at this moment may never be known. For with a fearsome suddenness the prince’s vision was no longer one filled with streaking arrows. The prince’s vision was now filled with giant!

  Julian Adams leapt over John Omally and spread wide his arms. Arrows spattered into his mighty shoulders and his back. The giant sheltered the prince until the arrows ceased to fall, then slowly turned to confront his tormentors, seeking creatures to kill.

  The prince had fainted dead away and but for a single arrow-nicked finger, which leaked but a little, retained the measure of his royal blood.

  Julian Adams roared in a manner much favoured by the Incredible Hulk. The creatures in the trees were reloading their weapons, the crowd beneath cheered wildly and John Omally crouched behind his bike.

  And now Professor Slocombe gained t
he stage. Always a favourite with the locals, his appearance gave rise to considerable applause; a Jeremy Corbyn at Glastonbury moment, as it were.

  ‘Save the prince,’ he told Julian Adams. ‘Let me deal with those in the trees.’ And sighting John Omally, Professor Slocombe called to him. ‘Help the giant, John,’ the old man shouted.

  As making a getaway was high upon Omally’s list of immediate priorities, he was happy to oblige and as the giant handed the prince down to him, John Omally draped the royal personage across Marchant’s crossbar and had it away as fast as his toes would carry him.

  The creatures in the trees howled curses and aimed further arrows. Professor Slocombe raised his arms and uttered words of magic.

  To the further joy of the crowd the tree top assassins exploded in brilliant shards of dazzling light. A day-time firework display.

  Professor Slocombe smiled and took a bow.

  ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,’ sang the crowd.

  The editor of The Brentford Mercury, ale in hand at the beer stall, sought his notebook and his biro. There was definitely a headline in this for tomorrow.

  Jim Pooley bumbled along the High Street. The cheers of joy did not bring joy to his ears. Jim’s head was down as he bumbled and plodded and the flicker of movement in the near distance that suddenly caught his eye, brought even greater sorrows unto Jim.

  For surely there was the Goodwill Giant. But the Goodwill Giant was with Omally. And who? Jim rubbed his eyes — oh say it cannot be — John Omally had the Prince of Wales upon his crossbar.

  ‘I probably have enough cash to check myself into the Priory,’ said Jim.

  In his office in the town hall, Stephen Pocklington was hastily packing a suitcase. Although the room was rich with trappings of grandeur, the Louis furniture, the Renaissance paintings in their gilded frames, a floor covering that had once by its look graced a sultan’s palace, the town clerk was only packing the contents of desk drawers. And these appeared to consist of coloured stones.