The Sprouts of Wrath (The Brentford Trilogy Book 4)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘It always is.’

  ‘Because today you will place a bet which on the face of it will appear so ludicrous that he of the golden gonads will rock to and fro upon his chair doubled up with laughter.’

  ‘He always does,’ said Jim.

  ‘You will ask him what odds he will give you,’ John continued, ‘and between the tears of mirth he will say something like ten thousand to one, possibly even more if he is feeling particularly rash,’

  Jim scratched at his head. Ten thousand to one?’ he queried.

  ‘At the very least, you will bet ten pounds, and pay the tax.’

  ‘Ten pounds?’ Pooley clutched at his heart. ‘All at once? Ten pounds?’

  Omally nodded, ‘I myself will wade in with a oncer.’

  ‘A oncer?’

  ‘Certainly, to show that I have the courage of my convictions. Ex unque leonem, as the French will have it.’ Here he pulled from his pocket the said groat note, which by its appearance was evidently a thing of great sentimental value, and presented it to Pooley.

  ‘Gosh!’ said Jim. ‘All this and money too.’

  ‘No idle braggart, I.’

  ‘Perish the thought. But do tell me, John, exactly what shall I be betting on?’

  ‘You will be betting on a sure thing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jim, without conviction, ‘one of those lads.’

  ‘One of those very lads. Straight from the horse’s mouth this very morning. A little bird whispered it into my ear and I do likewise into yours.’

  ‘You seem to hold considerable sway with the animal kingdom.’

  ‘It is a sure thing.’

  ‘At ten thousand to one?’

  ‘Would you care now that I whisper?’

  ‘What have I to lose, saving the nine pounds?’

  Omally leant forwards and poured a stream of whispered words into Pooley’s left ear. Jim stood there unblinking. A piece of chewing gum upon his instep attracted the attentions of an ant.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jim at length, when Omally had run dry of words.

  ‘Ah,’ said John, nodding enthusiastically.

  ‘No,’ said Jim. The word is no.’

  ‘The word is yes, Jim, the word is yes.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Pooley shook his head in time to his ‘nos’. ‘Never, and again no.’

  John put his arm about his best friend’s shoulders. ‘Believe in me,’ he said. ‘Would I steer you on to a wrong’n?’ Jim chewed upon his lip in hesitation, and as the old saying goes, ‘he who hesitates is banjoed’. Then you’ll do it, Jim?’

  ‘Why not?’ Pooley sighed pathetically. ‘I will be the laughing stock of Brentford, the butt of all ribaldry in the Swan for months to come, a veritable byword for buffoonery, what do I have to lose?’

  ‘But think what we might do with our winnings.’

  ‘You cannot be serious, John, you are telling me that...’ Omally clapped a hand across his partner’s mouth. ‘Not even here,’ he said, pressing a free finger to his lips. ‘Walls have ears.’ Jim shrugged and sighed simultaneously. ‘Now then,’ John continued brightly, ‘I suggest you bung a couple of free-rangers into the old non-stick and have a bit of brekky. We have a busy day ahead and I’ve a couple of phone calls to make.’

  Shaking his head in dismay, Pooley dug eggs and sausages from the fridge. The bangers were Walls. They didn’t have any ears.

  6

  At shortly after nine: Norman returned from his paper-round whistling a tuneless melody which may or may not have been ‘Dali’s Car’. Just before he reached his shop, however, he discovered to his chagrin that he still had a single copy of the Brentford Mercury in his bag. Being uncertain as to whether he had posted one to Neville when he first set out upon his round he popped it through the Swan’s letterbox. Just to be on the safe side.

  The part-time barman, who was still recovering from not only his undeserved nasal larruping but also the trauma of discovering the first ever copy of the Mercury to arrive on his doormat, looked up in horror at the arrival of the second and quickly reached for his dog-eared copy of Krafft Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis.

  At shortly after nine-fifteen: Inspectre Hovis strode into Brentford police station. He awoke the snoozing duty officer with a summary blow to the skull from his silver-topped cane, identified himself and poured forth a torrent of instructions, demands, directives, exactions, mandates, impositions, requisitions and ultimatums.

  Pausing only to draw breath and savour the bewildered sergeant’s look of horror, he asked, ‘Are you receiving me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, sir, loud and clear.’ Sergeant Gotting’s head bobbed up and down between his blue serge shoulders. He was only the second man in Brentford to encounter the great detective, but he was the second to really truly hate his guts.

  At shortly after nine-thirty: Jennifer Naylor steered her Porsche into the council car park. Binding, the scrofulous attendant, lurched from his sentry box and put up his hand. ‘Pass?’ he demanded.

  Jennifer generally let him do this several times before winding down the window to enquire what exactly he wanted. Today, however, she was in a hurry. Regarding him as she might a dollop of poodle-doo on her Gucci instep, she indicated the pass, affixed as ever to her windscreen.

  Binding leant forward, his ghastly hands deep at some nefarious activity within his trouser pockets. He examined the pass and what he could of Jennifer’s cleavage by turn. At length, evidently satisfied that each was in order, he mumbled, ‘I’ll guide you in,’ and turned to view the all but empty car park with a thoughtful gaze. There’s one over there in the corner by the bottle bank.’ But his words were lost amidst a squeal of expensive rubber as Jennifer spun the Porsche into the nearest parking space. That of Major McFadeyen.

  ‘You can’t park there!’ wailed Binding, withdrawing his terrible hands from their place of business and waving them in the air. That’s the Major’s bay! It’s more than my job’s . . .’ A loud blast from the Porsche’s horn drowned out the deadly phrase.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jennifer Naylor, ‘this will do nicely.’

  At shortly after ten o’clock: Jim Pooley left Bob the Bookie’s at the trot, the millionaire’s guffaws ringing in his ears. He had got far greater odds than Omally had predicted. In his eagerness to acquire ten pounds from Pooley all at once, Bob had informed him that upon this special occasion the sky was the limit. Jim felt it best to keep this information from John, as the Irishman would only become over-excited if he knew the true extent of the projected winnings. ‘Also,’ thought Jim, ‘as I have taken the greater financial risk then so should I reap the greater reward.’

  Pleased with the persuasiveness of this argument he jingled the last of his small change, winked at the sky and sauntered into Norman’s cornershop in the hope of five Woodbine on tick. ‘You never know your luck,’ thought Jim Pooley. ‘You never know.’

  At shortly after ten-thirty there was a council meeting.

  7

  ‘Lunacy! Madness!’ Major McFadeyen struck the council table with two tightly knotted fists. A surprising tangle of veins arrayed themselves upon his neck, lending it the appearance of one of those nasty anatomical models surgeons like to frighten patients with. Something resembling a blue slug pulsed away upon the major’s left temple.

  ‘Madness!’ Momentarily exhausted by the ferocity of his out-cries, he slumped back into his chair. ‘And I’ll tell you this . . .’ He rose again, supporting himself upon his palms. ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’ A button flew from the top of his waistcoat, tinkled to the table and rolled in a curious geomantic circle before rattling to a standstill. ‘It’s . . . lunacy!’ He sat down, puffing and blowing.

  Councillor Ffog examined his fingernails and made little embarrassed tutting noises with his mouth.

  Philip Cameron chewed his lower lip and rattled coins in his trouser pocket. Sensing his anxiety, Mavis Peake slipped a calming hand on to his thigh and smiled encouragingly.

  For their part the
brothers Geronimo stared into the middle distance, arms folded, knees together, minds upon the Little Big Horn. Ms Naylor regarded the Major with a mild expression.

  ‘Lunacy, I say.’ McFadeyen, now a shade of purple that interior decorators describe as crimson magenta, arose for another blast.

  Ms Naylor smiled the sweetest of smiles towards the fuming fogey. ‘And might I enquire as to why?’

  ‘Well . . . well . . .’ The Major reclenched his fists. ‘Dammit, woman!’

  ‘Yes?’ Ms Naylor leant forward as if attentive to the Major’s every word. As she did so, her breasts, constrained within her silken blouse, gently caressed the table top. The calculated eroticism of the act was not lost upon Philip Cameron, who found his loins responding appropriately. The fingernails of Mavis Peake dug in deeply.

  ‘I’m speechless.’ Major McFadeyen sank away into his seat, fanning himself with last week’s minutes.

  ‘It is all perfectly straightforward.’ Ms Naylor rose upon the four-inch heels she had considered suitable for the occasion, and tossed her auburn hair back in delicious waves across her perfect shoulders. ‘As you are all no doubt aware, the disastrous fire at Birmingham this week has, on the face of it, ruled out Great Britain’s chances of hosting the Olympic games.’ Heads nodded, Ms Naylor continued. ‘It is my proposal that Brentford rise to the call of its country and host the games. This is the motion that I am forwarding.’ She stared deeply into Philip Cameron’s eyes. ‘Will someone second me?’

  Wilting visibly beneath the emerald stare, Councillor Cameron bobbed his head up and down after the fashion of a nodding dog in a Cortina rear window. Mavis Peake gave his left testicle a terrifying tweak which doubled him up in a paroxysm of pain. As his forehead struck the council table with a sickening thump the brothers Geronimo considered his scalp, their hands straying towards the Bowie knives in their trouser pockets.

  ‘Why, thank you, Philip,’ said Jennifer Naylor.

  The Major, now Ribena-hued and apoplectic, gathered what wits remained to him and prepared to come up fighting. He hadn’t blasted buffalo in the Ngora Gora basin, topped tigers in Tibet and walloped the Watusi in God knows where, to be put down by a damned woman. ‘Where?’ he spluttered. ‘Where?’

  ‘Right here,’ Ms Naylor indicated the immediate vicinity.

  Councillor Ffog put up his hand. ‘If you will pardon me for asking, who would be expected to foot the bill for this . . . uh . . . venture?’

  ‘I have all the figures to hand. What particular costs were you interested in?’

  Councillor Ffog wiggled his fingers foolishly. ‘I mean the expense, how much would it cost?’

  Ms Naylor snapped open her Filofax. To build an Olympic stadium, complete with all facilities, Olympic village, public access roads, etc., etc., etc.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Councillor Ffog.

  ‘Around one hundred million pounds.’

  Now, there are silences, and there are silences. Some are such that a pin hitting the old fitted Axminster is capable of breaking them. This one, however, was of such a nature that within it the distinctive futt futt of brain cells dying within Major McFadeyen’s head were clearly discernible.

  ‘We have fifty-one pounds, thirty-four pence in the kitty,’ said Mavis Peake, a woman to whom silences were simply moments that people used to draw breath between statements. ‘If you can come up with ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and forty-eight pounds sixty-six pence we shall be home and dry. Here,’ she continued, with what she considered to be crushing irony, ‘I’ll throw in my box of matches to light the Olympic flame.’

  Councillor Ffog chuckled horribly. Major McFadeyen munched upon a phenobarbitone. The brothers Geronimomade grave faces and nodded towards one another.

  Paul said, ‘One hundred million heap big wampam, squaw gott’m screw loose in wigwam attic.’

  Barry nodded. ‘Me agree, noble brother, squaw been bunging too much loco weed down cakehole.’

  Ms Naylor drew back her shoulders and smoothed down her blouse. ‘I am well aware that Brentford Borough Council cannot be expected to raise such a sum. The money must come from a private backer.’

  Councillor Ffog, who considered himself to be, as the French have it, ‘somewhat of a garçon’, enquired as to whether anybody had Bob Geldof’s telephone number. Rising from his seat he said, ‘Although one hundred million is a mere dip into Paul McCartney’s petty cash box, it might not be readily accessible to the average punter.’ Satisfied that he had wrought crushing defeat upon his adversary, Ffog grinned smugly and resumed his seat. Before his bum had hit the cushion, however, he was aware that Ms Naylor was continuing her discourse as if he had never spoken.

  ‘And what if such a backer could be brought forward at this very moment? What then, gentlemen?’ Ms Naylor glanced pointedly towards Mavis. ‘And lady, of course.’

  ‘Do so!’ roared the Major. ‘Do so, madam!’

  ‘Macca’s petty cash box, eh?’ whispered Ffog, winking lewdly and nudging a Geronimo twin about the buckskin ribs. Mavis Peake leant forward in her chair. Any attempt upon her part to indulge in any erotic breast-brushing, however, would have required her to place her chin firmly upon the table. ‘If you can find a philanthropist willing to finance a Brentford Olympiad to the tune of one hundred million pounds,’ she sneered, ‘then we shall all second the motion and declare it carried.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ mumbled a muddy brown Major, drifting into a pharmaceutical haze. A further chorus of hear hears filled the unhealthy atmosphere of the council chamber. Philip Cameron clutched at his testicles and maintained a bitter, clench-toothed silence.

  Ms Naylor smiled and nodded her head gently as if in time to some secret melody. ‘So be it then,’ she said dramatically. ‘Consider it done.’ She clapped her hands and at the signal the doors of the council chamber opened to reveal a pair of Covent Garden design-studio-executive-types sporting designer sunglasses, clipped beards and Paul Smith suits. They flanked what appeared to be a hospital trolley, its upper regions shrouded beneath folds of white linen.

  ‘Oooh!’ said Clyde Ffog, straightening his tie. ‘Nice.’

  ‘May we enter?’ enquired the taller of the two.

  Clyde Ffog nodded enthusiastically. ‘Please do,’ said he.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the smaller of the pair, ‘I am Julian Membrane and this is my associate, Lucas Mucus.’ Lucas bowed slightly from the waist, anticipating the looks of disbelief which generally greeted his name. ‘Of the Membrane, Mucus, Willoby, Turncoat and Gladbetook Partnership, specialists in the conceptualizing of new marketing trends through increased consumer product awareness. Design Consultants. Our card.’

  Paul Geronimo eyed the thing suspiciously, ‘White brother speak with forked tongue,’ he observed. Talk load of old buffalo chips,’ his brother agreed.

  ‘We should very much like to make for you our presentation,’ Membrane continued. ‘We are acting upon the part of our client, a great philanthropist who wishes to finance the games here. He is a scientist and something of a recluse and he wishes for us to make this presentation upon his behalf. He chooses anonymity; we honour his wishes.’

  ‘Words spill from white brother’s mouth like wheat from chafing dish of careless squaw,’ said Paul Geronimo.

  Barry eyed his brother proudly. He could never think of things like that to say. He went along with Paul’s conviction that they were a dual reincarnation of the great Apache chief mostly because he liked dressing up.

  ‘Thus,’ said Julian Membrane, ‘we offer our conceptual representation for the proposed Brentford Olympiad.’ With a flourish, he drew aside the linen cover from the trolley to expose a scale model of Brentford. With a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’’, those councillors that were able rose from their seats to view the wonder. For wonder it indeed was.

  The model’s realism was uncanny - the entire borough reduced, as if by magic, to doll’s house proportions. The councillors gathe
red about it, cooing and pointing, anxious to examine their own houses, as well as those of their fellows. Mavis Peake let out a little excited cry. ‘Even my bedroom curtains are the right colour!’

  ‘What are those things in your back garden then?’ Philip Cameron asked Clyde Ffog. They look like instruments of torture.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ spluttered the reddening Ffog. They’re . .. er . . . bean-frames.’

  Philip Cameron was unconvinced. Paul Geronimo whispered loudly to the effect that ‘brown-hatted brother heap big bondage fan’.

  ‘This is an invasion of privacy!’ cried Ffog. ‘So where is the damned stadium then, under the ground?’

  Lucas Mucus shook his cropped head. ‘On the contrary, very much over the ground, as it happens.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ crowed Ffog. ‘And where do you propose to put it?’

  Mucus took up a pointer. ‘Here, here, here, here and here,’ he dipped variously about the borough.

  Clyde Ffog looked baffled. Ms Naylor said, ‘I think you’d better demonstrate, Lucas.’

  ‘Certainly, madam. If you would be so kind, Julian.’

  Julian smiled, nodded and, stooping, withdrew from a compartment in the trolley a glittering object approximately a third of the size of the model village. It had much the look of a flat star which contained at its centre a dancehall mirror-globe. Julian held it out proudly before the assembly. The Star Stadium,’ he said. If he had been hoping for a round of applause then he was to be sorely disappointed.

  ‘And where would you like to stick that?’ asked Ffog pointedly.

  ‘Lucas, if you would be so kind.’

  Lucas nodded with politeness and pressed a small button at the side of the model. There was a hiss of hydraulics, and from each of the five locations previously appointed arose a telescopic column. When these had risen to their full extent, Julian stepped forward and placed the ‘star’ gently upon them, tip upon tip. ‘Wallah,’ he said.

  Lucas made free with his pointer. The columns will be five hundred feet high,’ he said proudly. Traffic will flow into the North and East legs directly from the Great West Road, to rise upon a continuous belt lift to parking bays beneath the stadium. Each area between star tip and sphere houses an Olympic village, the central sphere a stadium seating five hundred thousand, swimming pools, full games complexes, etc., etc., etc.’