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

by Robert Rankin

  Recalling a comic book hero, The Wolf of Kabul, the editor penned these words, “swinging his cane in the manner of Chung’s clicky-ba, the ancient warrior split many skulls in defence of his carrier bag”.

  The martial pensioner had made his escape by the time the stage took fire.

  Now, although much mob action is often precipitated by a single “Lord of Misrule”, stirring trouble, inciting violence and giving purpose to the venting of a collective spleen, there will many times be found within, factions with personal axes to grind.

  And, in a world where sexual discrimination and the infamous glass ceiling still predominate, the editor was heartened to view quite so many women laying into so many men.

  “—these Amazons, these present-day daughters of Athena the Huntress threw themselves with vigour into the fray”.

  In the editor’s humble opinion, this was award-winning stuff. For too long had The Brentford Mercury been denied the plaudit Newspaper of the Year.

  His account of tonight’s events would surely change all that. And he could see it now, tomorrow’s headline. So simple, so pithy and succinct.

  THE RAFFLE RIOTS

  And below, the words—

  I WAS THERE

  A beer bottle struck the editor’s head and he fell out of his tree.

  Alleyways are popular when it comes to taking shelter from a riot. But then alleyways are always popular.

  Popular with young lovers who cannot contain their passion. Popular with doggies when they choose to do their business. Popular with burglars when they seek illegal entry. Popular with 1950s genre detectives who strictly adhere to the four location rule.

  P.P. Penrose (a man who has not been forgotten in our narrative, and whose moment will come) had his private eye Lazlo Woodbine (the genre detective) get into many a sticky situation in an alleyway. Laz tended to employ his trusty Smith and Westlife at such times.

  And although today, when the casual gunning-down of suspects by trench-coated detectives has become little other than a fond recollection of a happier and more innocent age, there are still some who would seek to re-establish the practice.

  Such as those upon this night that carried the flaming torches.

  Jim and John cowered in an alleyway and neither held much hope for their survival.

  ‘I hate to say, I told you so,’ said Jim, with a shiver and a shake. ‘But then again, as you assured me that nothing could go wrong, I can only assume that I’m in my bed and simply dreaming this.’

  ‘Things did not go precisely as I planned them,’ mumbled John. ‘But it can hardly be considered my fault.’

  The sound of a muffled explosion reached them, followed by that of rapid machine gun fire.

  ‘That will be the lads from Special Forces,’ said John. ‘I thought I spied one of their stealth helicopters earlier. Everything will soon be under control.’

  ‘The mob carried off Norman,’ said John. ‘I overheard talk of them building a wicker man.’

  ‘Don’t get your genres jumbled, Jim, as your daddy used to sing!’

  ‘My daddy sung no such thing,’ said Jim. ‘Although I do recall him saying something else to me when I was a lad. “Stay away from that ne’er-do-well Omally”, I believe were his words. “For he will end his days at the end of a rope” were his words also.’

  ‘Such wit!’ said John. ‘Even in the face of dire adversity, you are a little ray of sunshine, Jim.’

  Pooley shook his head in sadness. ‘You might want to reconsider making a speedy departure from the borough,’ said he. ‘While breath remains within you.’

  ‘There is still the matter of the monument,’ said John.

  ‘Cast such a matter from your mind, my friend. This night is over for us.’

  Searchlights now flashed down from a silently circling stealth helicopter, adding just that little bit more to the tension.

  Omally gazed again at his nice new wristlet watch. ‘It’s getting on for ten,’ said he. ‘And since that chap in the armoured troop carrier broadcast the reading of the riot act through his public address system, the mayhem has certainly lessened.’

  ‘And so?’ asked Jim.

  ‘We lie low for now, I have arranged to pick up Leo’s truck at midnight and meet the giant at the place where the monument once stood.’

  ‘And the monument is now in the river, where?’

  ‘At the bottom of Ferry Lane. But it’s not in deep, the giant will soon have it out.’

  ‘And we will all live happily ever after,’ said Jim.

  ‘It has to be done, Jim. The giant and I will do it with you, or without you. There really is no reason for you to get involved, none of this is actually your fault.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to the Cheeky Girls,’ said Jim.

  Having left the Flying Swan some two hours earlier, light-headed from several pints of Quasimodo, the gorgeous girlies had returned to the Cheekymobile in the company of the bearded and bare-chested Johns.

  The driver, being the professional he was, expressed no surprise at this, he lived only to serve his esteemed employers and was eager to indulge their every whim.

  The Johns viewed the girls, the Jacuzzi and the snooker table. And agreed that this was shaping up as a night to be remembered.

  ‘I remember…’ said Jim.

  ‘Don’t start,’ said John. ‘We should find somewhere else to hole up for a couple of hours.’

  ‘A pub?’ said Jim.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But I could certainly do with a drink to be sure.’

  ‘The allotments,’ said Jim. ‘There’ll be no-one there at this time in the evening and you always have a bottle or two in your shed.’

  ‘Jim Pooley, you are the man,’ said John. ‘And I know a short-cut too.’

  Perhaps Lady Luck had changed her mind about John and Jim and decided to spread a little joy in their direction. For although the two crept through many back gardens, some the haunt of bad-tempered dogs with a love for human flesh, they went unmolested. No retired major in nightshirt and cap aimed a blunderbuss towards them. No man-traps closed sprung metal jaws about them (although perhaps the likelihood of this was not great). Neither did they fall through a fissure in the Earth’s crust to be roasted in magma. Nor unwarily step through a shed door and enter Banarnia. All went rather well for John and Jim.

  The St Mary’s Allotments by moonlight. There’s a thing. The work of John Betjeman once more springs to mind.

  Silver tinted by the moon,

  Night-questioned by an owl,

  Be-jewel-éd as a princely spoon,

  Behold my father’s trowel.

  His shed a castle in my youth,

  His hose an anaconda,

  My brother Paul once broke a tooth,

  While singing “Help me Rhonda”.

  Well, they can’t all be winners.

  The two friends sat before Omally’s shed.

  Sharing a bottle of home-made spud gin and a tailor-made Passing Cloud.

  ‘I didn’t think they made these fags any more,’ said John.

  ‘They are making a comeback apparently, Norman s getting new stock in, as well as traditional sweeties.’

  ‘Assuming, Jim, that Norman’s establishment is not even now in smoking ruination.’

  ‘Norman never means anyone any harm,’ said Jim. ‘Norman is a kindly soul.’

  ‘Agreed. So let us hope he is well.’

  Norman was well and he had not been burned in a wicker man. He had followed Old Pete and taken shelter in his house. The two sat in the oldster’s kitchen. Norman trying to refix his contraption, Old Pete counting out money on the table.

  ‘A profitable night’s work,’ said the ancient fellow. ‘And I quite enjoyed all that walloping folk with my stick.’

  Norman rolled his eyes and diddled with his old screwdriver. ‘I will get this working properly in time,’ he told Old Pete. ‘For a willing horse pulls harder on the plough and baby you’re a rich man too.’

/>   ‘Pardon?’ came the not unexpected reply.

  Jim lay on his back and viewed the heavens.

  ‘What is that up there?’ he asked Omally.

  Omally peered into the firmament. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘There was a flicker, yes look there it goes again.’

  Jim peered and John peered. Peer, peer, peer.

  Above them on this Midsummer’s Eve strange colours roiled and twisted in the sky.

  ‘It’s the Aurora Borealis,’ said John. ‘The Northern Lights and I’ve never seen them this far south before. Must be this hot weather.’

  ‘Oh how wonderful,’ said Jim. ‘And it is surely a sign in the heavens that everything will be all right with the world.’

  ‘I might need to consume another bottle of this before I endorse that conclusion,’ said John. ‘But it is indeed staggeringly beautiful.’

  The two men lay and smoked and drank and gazed in awe at the spectacle above. Luminous wisps of green twirled in upon themselves. Yellow ribands dangled in the cosmos.

  ‘Oh,’ went Jim, ‘it prickles.’

  ‘Oh,’ went John, for he had felt it too.

  ‘The hairs are standing up all over me,’ said Jim.

  ‘It’s static electricity,’ a sparkling corona encircled Omally’s head.

  ‘I like it, but I don’t like it,’ said Jim. ‘Make it stop now please.’

  ‘St Elmo’s Fire,’ said John, as light made sparkler cracklings across shed roof peaks and fizzed at the tips of bean poles. ‘We’re getting the full monty tonight to be sure.’

  ‘My hair is standing on end,’ wailed Jim.

  ‘Mine too,’ said John.

  ‘And what’s that?’ Jim pointed with a neon fingertip. Something round and ghostly was drifting across the allotments. Something that glowed very brightly and didn’t look too much fun.

  ‘That,’ said John. ‘Is ball lightning.’

  ‘You certainly know your meteorological phenomena,’ said the fiercely lit-up Jim.

  ‘And I know when to make myself scarce,’ said John. ‘For if ball lightning hits you, I hear you go up in smoke.’

  ‘Inside the hut,’ cried Jim.

  And inside the hut they went. Stepping nimbly over the ubiquitous half a bag of solid cement.

  Door slammed shut and faces to the window.

  The glowing ball of light veered past the door, swerved hither and thus, encountered wire netting, struck Old Pete’s allotment patch bounced onto the cold frame then exploded with a mighty bang.

  ‘And good riddance to that,’ said John, tipping his bottle and tasting spud gin.

  ‘Anything else I should be expecting?’ Jim asked. ‘Sun dogs, diamond dust, the Novaya Zembla effect?’

  ‘Not to mention Foehn wind,’ said John.

  And Jim did not. He did, however, do a bit more pointing. ‘John,’ he whispered. ‘What are those?’

  The electrical explosion had blown the lid from Old Pete’s cold frame and now, in the light of the full moon and the Aurora Borealis and St Elmo’s Fire, things were to be seen all moving about. Climbing from the cold frame, bobbing their heads and waving tiny hands.

  ‘Monkeys,’ said Omally, which was all he needed to say.

  A short while later, when a second bottle of spud gin had gone the way of the first, Jim Pooley said, ‘twelve monkeys, and red, like in the movie.’

  John Omally nodded gently. ‘Yes, I count twelve,’ said he, ‘twelve red monkeys.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ said Jim, ‘and shoot me down in flames if you think I am wrong,’ Jim’s words now had a certain edge as Jim was growing drunk. ‘But do you suppose that the monkeys came down from the sky in the ball lightning? That they might perhaps be red monkeys from Mars?’

  ‘Good point, well made,’ said John, for he was now a little piddled, also.

  ‘If it is an alien invasion we should probably report it,’ said Jim. ‘Just to be on the safe side. Before the monkey business starts,’ and Jim began to giggle.

  ‘I do believe you have been drinking, Mr Pooley,’ said John, mimicking the voice of Inspectre Hovis. ‘I shall ‘ave to ask you to accompany me to the station.’

  ‘Space station?’ said Jim and the two fell about in mirth.

  John peered once more at his wristlet watch.

  ‘I’m really beginning to hate that watch,’ said Jim.

  ‘It’s getting on for twelve,’ John told him. ‘We should be away to Leo Felix’s. Space monkeys or not, there is work to be done.’

  ‘Are you still sober enough to drive?’ Jim asked.

  ‘It’s of no consequence,’ said John. ‘I don’t have a driving licence.’

  ‘To Leo’s then,’ said Jim. ‘And then to replace the monument and save the town of Brentford.’

  Omally popped the top from another bottle of spud.

  ‘To Brentford,’ he said. ‘Cheers.’ And he passed the bottle to Jim.

  ‘To the borough,’ said Pooley. ‘And the honour of the restaurant.’

  Omally chuckled foolishly. ‘The regiment, you oaf.’

  ‘What regiment?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Who cares,’ said John. ‘We will get this done and go home to our beds, agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Jim. ‘For considering what we’ve been through today, what else could possibly go wrong?’

  The full moon went behind a cloud.

  Twelve red monkeys chattered in the distance.

  19

  As Inspectre Hovis, in the company of his two-man task force, led Leo Felix away in handcuffs, with Constable Gwynplaine cradling the royal corgi in his arms, John and Jim looked on from their place of hiding.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that,’ whispered Jim. ‘Does this mean that we cannot get the tow truck?’

  John Omally shook his head in the shadows. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘As I still have the spare key, it simply means that I won’t have to pay for the tow truck.’

  ‘So luck is as ever with us,’ Pooley offered up a sigh which might have been one of hope.

  Above, the Aurora Borealis rippled, tinting the night-time streets and houses with its wistful hues.

  Asleep in his bed at 23 Agamemnon Terrace, Harry Wistful-Hughes slept through it all. Offering final proof, if any was still needed, that humour is not as easy as it might at first appear.

  The final bottle of spud gin now almost depleted, the two men approached Leo’s tow truck in the manner of amateur funambulists.

  ‘We will get this done,’ said John, fumbling the spare key into the door lock. ‘I am quietly confident in this.’

  ‘The quieter the better for me,’ said Jim.

  John dragged the door open and climbed into the cab.

  ‘The steering wheel’s gone,’ said he.

  ‘Other side,’ said Jim. ‘Shift over and let me in.’

  John straightened himself behind the steering wheel. Jim looked warily towards his friend. Omally’s eyes were wide and his hands were shaking. John and Jim had enjoyed many a drunken evening together and many a staggering home. But Jim could see that this was more than drink. His friend was afraid. Genuinely afraid.

  ‘We’ll get through this,’ said Jim. ‘We’re Jim and John, we get through stuff like this.’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, but his voice lacked conviction.

  ‘Together,’ said Jim. ‘Switch on the engine, I’ll help you with the steering.’

  It is really no distance at all from Leo’s garage down by the old canal bridge to the site of the monument just along Pooley Plaza. One hundred and fifty yards perhaps and all lit brightly by moonlight. Not a soul to be seen, be it layman or lad of the law. Just road — or —

  ‘Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!’ went John, and—

  ‘Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-ugh!’ went Jim, for—

  Bumpity-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump went Leo’s truck on the newly-exposed uneven cobblestones.

  ‘I-I-I-I d-d-don’t l-l-like P-P-P-Pooley P-P-Plaza,’ Jim’s teeth rattled about in
his head. ‘I-I-It h-h-hurts m-m-my b-b-bum.’

  John clung to the steering wheel, he had nothing to add.

  Ahead, in the otherwise deserted plaza, a titanic figure loomed. Julian Adams looked even more impressive lit by the moon and the swirling Northern Lights. He waved in a jolly fashion and John drew the truck to a halt.

  ‘I had great hopes about meeting this fellow,’ whispered Jim.

  The giant’s voice boomed into the night. ‘What a very beautiful evening it is,’ said Julian and he rested a mighty hand upon the tow truck’s roof. Denting it alarmingly and causing the already knackered suspension grief.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Julian Adams.

  ‘No matter,’ said John, doing his best to affect a cheery smile. ‘Thanks for being here. This is my best friend Jim. He volunteered to lend a helping hand.’

  The giant grinned towards Jim Pooley.

  ‘An honour to meet you, sir,’ said Jim.

  ‘You are too kind.’ The giant sniffed and the giant then perused. ‘I observe that you are both far gone with the drink,’ said he.

  ‘Dutch courage,’ said Jim. And unconsciously quoting the Floyd. ‘We are but ordinary men.’

  ‘I will see that no harm comes to you.’ The giant pointed across the cobbles towards the top of Ferry Lane. ‘I assume the monument is down there,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not in deep,’ replied John. ‘I just nudged it into the water with the rear of this truck.’

  ‘Then we’ll soon have it out.’ The giant set off across the cobbled way.

  ‘In for a penny, then,’ said John and swung the steering wheel.

  The waters of the River Thames look beautiful by moonlight. And now, brought to queer fluorescence by the aurora’s scintillations, they rolled like mercury, creating an effect both dramatic and unsettling.

  The giant stood at the water’s edge, he took off his seven league sandals and rolled up his trouser legs.

  ‘Turn the truck around,’ he called to John. ‘So I can hook the monument to the towing cable, then we’ll haul it out.’