The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (The Brentford Trilogy Book 5)

by Robert Rankin

  THE BRENTFORD CHAINSTORE MASSACRE

  ROBERT RANKIN

  The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

  Originally published by Doubleday, a division of Transworld Publishers

  Doubleday Edition published 1997

  Corgi Edition published 1998

  Kindle Edition published 2012 by Far Fetched Books

  Diddled about with and proof-read by the author, who apologises for any typos or grammatical errors that somehow slipped past him.

  He did his best, honest.

  Copyright Robert Rankin 1997

  The right of Robert Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  This book is dedicated to

  VERITY

  Beautiful daughter of

  James and Yvette.

  SHAGGY DOG STORY

  GHOST STORY

  FAIRY STORY

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  SHAGGY DOG STORY

  What a wonderful lurcher you have there, Mrs Bryant,

  I haven’t seen as fine a one since long before the war.

  Can you make it roll about, play dead, or beg a biscuit?

  Nod its head or shake your hand by sticking out its paw?

  ‘Actually,’ said the lovely Mrs Bryant, whose dresses tended to terminate a mere six inches below her waist, ‘it’s a Dane, not a lurcher.’

  ‘Come off it,’ I said. ‘That’s a lurcher. My dad used to keep them back in the nineteen fifties.’

  ‘It’s a Dane,’ said Mrs Bryant. ‘A Dane, that’s what it is.’

  I shook my head and hailed a passer-by. ‘Is this dog a lurcher or a Dane?’ I asked him.

  The passer-by stroked his bearded chin. ‘Looks more like an Irish wolfhound to me,’ he said. ‘This woman is wearing a very short dress,’ he continued.

  I dismissed the hirsute passer-by and addressed the dog directly. ‘Are you Dane or lurcher?’ I asked it.

  ‘Dane,’ said one of the dog’s heads.

  ‘Lurcher,’ said the other.

  GHOST STORY

  The gambler was old and frail. The shoulders of his tired tuxedo hung like wounded wings, the cuffs were frayed and lacked their gilded buttons. Once he had worn a silk cravat, secured by a diamond pin, but now about his neck hung an old school tie.

  With a trembling hand he laid his final chip upon the gaming board. ‘Twelve black,’ he said. ‘It’s all or nothing.’

  The croupier called out something which sounded like ‘Noo-rem-va-ma-ploo’, and spun the roulette wheel. The silver ball danced round and round and finally came to rest.

  ‘Thirteen red,’ said the croupier.

  ‘Ruination,’ said the gambler.

  With dragging feet he left the casino, stepped onto the terrace, drew his ancient service revolver from his pocket, put it to his temple and took ‘the gentleman’s way out’.

  The casino too now lies in ruins. Fifty years have passed. But they do say that should you dare to visit here upon this very night, upon the anniversary of the tragedy, you can watch the whole sad scene re-enacted by its ghostly players.

  The three ghost-hunters watched the needles on their sensitive equipment dip and flutter. Professor Rawl made torch-lit notes on his clipboard, then studied the faces of his two companions, lit eerily by the moonlight. ‘Did anybody see anything?’ he asked.

  Indigo Tombs shook his head. ‘Not a thing,’ he whispered. ‘But I thought I heard––’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘A whirling sound.’

  ‘A roulette wheel,’ said Dr Norman. ‘I heard it too.’

  ‘And then––’

  ‘A gunshot,’ said Professor Rawl. ‘We all heard that, I’m sure.’

  ‘We did,’ the two agreed.

  Professor Rawl tucked his pen into his pocket. ‘The readings are inconclusive. We may have heard something, or nothing. It cannot be proved either way.’

  The three ghost-hunters dismantled their equipment and carried it back to the Land Rover. Professor Rawl keyed the ignition and they drove away into the night.

  A tramp called Tony watched the tail-lights dim into the darkness. ‘There you go, Tom,’ he said to his chum. ‘I told you it was true, and now you’ve seen them for yourself. Three scientists they were, or so the old story goes, died of fright or something, they did, many years ago.’

  His chum Tom coughed and spat into the night. ‘You’re drunk,’ said he. ‘I never saw a thing. Now come inside, it’s turning cold.’

  FAIRY STORY

  Once upon a time there were two men. An Irishman called John Omally, who was young and tall and dark and handsome, and an elder called Old Pete, who was none of these things.

  And it being lunchtime, these two stood at the bar counter of an alehouse discussing the ways of the world. The ways of the world have long been a subject for discussion. Ever since there have been any ways of the world, in fact. And an alehouse has always been a good place to discuss them.

  ‘The ways of the world leave me oft-times perplexed,’ said Old Pete, sipping rum.

  John Omally nodded. ‘Which ones in particular?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, you know that Mrs Bryant, who lives next door to me?’

  ‘The one with the two-headed dog?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘And the very short dresses?’

  ‘That’s her as well.’

  ‘I know of her,’ said Omally.

  ‘Well, last night her husband came home early from his shift at the windscreen wiper works to find an alien in bed with her.’

  ‘An illegal alien?’

  ‘No, a space alien, although I suppose they must be illegal also.’

  ‘Sounds a bit of a tall one,’ said Omally.

  ‘Yes, he described him as tall, and young and dark and handsome.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Omally. ‘Doesn’t sound that much like a space alien to me.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Old Pete. ‘Sounded more like an incubus in my opinion.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An incubus. It’s a sort of demon that takes on human form, creeps into the bedrooms of sleeping women and does the old business.’
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  ‘The old business?’

  ‘The old jigger-jig. My wife, God rest her soul, suffered from them something terrible while I was away at the war. They used to appear in the shape of American servicemen back in those days.’

  ‘Really?’ said Omally. ‘So you think Mrs Bryant was had by one of those?’

  ‘I think it’s more likely than a space alien. Don’t you?’

  Omally nodded. He could think of an even more likely explanation, one he could personally vouch for. ‘So she told her husband that this bedroom intruder was a space alien, did she?’

  ‘As soon as he regained consciousness. The bedroom intruder, as you put it, walloped him with a bedpan, and then took flight.’

  ‘In a spaceship?’

  ‘According to Mrs Bryant, yes.’

  ‘Makes you think,’ said John Omally.

  ‘Makes you think what?’

  ‘No, just makes you think. It’s a figure of speech.’

  ‘Well, I think there should be a law against it,’ said Old Pete. ‘If a woman can’t lie safely in her bed without some incubus claiming to be a space alien taking advantage of her. Where’s it all going to end?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Omally.

  ‘Why?’ asked Old Pete.

  ‘No, it’s another figure of speech.’

  ‘But you do think there should be a law against it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said John Omally. ‘There should be an Act of Parliament.’

  ‘Then you actually believe all that old rubbish, do you, Omally?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘About space aliens and incubi. You actually believe all that’s true and there should be an Act of Parliament?’

  ‘I do, as it happens, yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Old Pete finished his rum and placed the empty glass upon the bar counter. ‘Then what if I were to tell you that I personally witnessed the “incubus” making his getaway down the drainpipe? In fact I even recognized him.’

  Omally’s self-composure was a marvel to behold. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ said he.

  ‘You wouldn’t?’

  ‘Not at all, and if you were to tell me that this shape-shifting incubus had taken on the appearance of, well––’ Omally glanced about the alehouse, as if in search of a suitable candidate. ‘Well, let’s say myself, for example. It wouldn’t surprise me one little bit.’

  Old Pete ground his dentures. This was not the way he had planned things at all. The wind-up, followed by the sting, was the way he’d planned things. Good for at least a bottle of rum.

  ‘Would you care for another drink?’ asked Omally. ‘Perhaps a double this time? You look a bit shaky. Encounters with the supernatural can have that effect on people.’

  Omally ordered the drinks.

  Old Pete accepted his with a surly grunt. Omally pressed a five-pound note into his hand. ‘Why not get yourself a half-bottle for later on?’ said he. ‘For medicinal purposes.’

  ‘You’re a gentleman,’ said Old Pete.

  ‘I’m a scoundrel,’ said Omally, ‘and so are you.’

  The two men raised glasses and drank each other’s health.

  ‘But I’ll tell you this,’ said Omally. ‘Back in the old country we don’t make light of incubi and faerie folk and things of that nature.’

  ‘Don’t you, though?’ said Old Pete.

  ‘We do not. There’s a strong belief in such things in Holy Ireland.’

  ‘Is there?’ said Old Pete.

  ‘There is, and shall I tell you for why?’

  ‘Please do,’ said Old Pete.

  ‘Souls,’ said Omally. ‘The souls of the dead.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It is popularly believed’, said Omally, ‘that the faerie folk are the souls of the dead, the soul being an exact facsimile of the human form, though far smaller and subject to an entirely different set of laws and principles. Now, fairies are notoriously mischievous, are they not?’

  ‘So I’ve heard it said.’ Old Pete swallowed rum.

  ‘And this is because they are the earthbound souls of folk who were neither good enough to go to heaven nor bad enough to go to the other place.’ Omally crossed himself. ‘The mirthmakers, the folk who could never take life seriously.’

  ‘Folk such as yourself,’ Old Pete suggested.

  Omally ignored him. “Why do you think it is’, he asked, ‘that only certain folk are able to see the fairies?’

  ‘Several answers spring immediately to mind,’ said Old Pete. ‘It might be that there aren’t too many fairies about. Or that fairies employ an advanced form of camouflage. Or that they are for the most part invisible. Or, most likely, that those who claim to see them are in fact mentally disturbed.’

  Omally shook his head. ‘It’s down to susceptibility,’ he said. ‘Psychically speaking, of course.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Old Pete rolled his eyes.

  ‘To perceive the faerie folk requires a certain type of mentality.’

  ‘I think I gave that as one of my answers.’

  ‘Hence the Irish.’

  ‘Hence the Irish what? Or was that another figure of speech?’

  ‘The greatest proliferation of faerie lore and belief in the entire world, Ireland. And you will admit that the Irish mentality differs somewhat from the accepted norm.’

  ‘Willingly,’ said Old Pete. ‘Of course, your theory might gain greater credibility were you able to offer me some convincing account of an encounter you yourself have personally had with the faerie folk.’

  Omally grinned. ‘Well, I couldn’t do that now, could I?’

  ‘Could you not? Well, that is a surprise.’

  ‘Because’, said John, ‘the kind of mentality required to understand the whys and wherefores of the faerie folk is not the kind suited to their actual observation. I am too sophisticated, more’s the pity. A simple mind is required. A child-like mind.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Old Pete, regarding his now empty glass.

  ‘So tell me, Pete,’ said Omally, ‘have you ever seen a fairy?’

  Old Pete peered over his glass at Omally’s tweedy form. Throughout the conversation he had watched the ring of hobgoblins that encircled the Irishman’s head, the bogles and boggarts that skipped to and fro around his feet singing songs about shoemending, the fat elf that sat upon his shoulder and the unruly pixie that nestled in his turn-up.

  ‘Leave it out,’ said Old Pete. ‘There ain’t no such things as fairies.’

  And they all lived happily ever after.

  1

  If you ever had to describe Dr Steven Malone to someone who’d never met him, all you’d have to say was, ‘He’s the bloke who looks like Sherlock Holmes in the Sidney Paget drawings.’ Of course, there will always be some people who will immediately say Sidney who? And there may even be a few who will say Sherlock who? And you can bet your life that there’s a whole lot of others who will say Doctor Who. But to them you need only say Doctor Steven Malone.

  It wasn’t a curse to look like a Sidney Paget drawing of Sherlock Holmes, even if it did mean you were only in black and white and spent most of your life in profile, pointing at something off the page. It had never proved to be a big bird-puller, but it had served Dr Steven well at school for plays and suchlike, and it did mean that he looked dignified. Which very few people ever do, when you come to think about it.

  He looked dignified now, as he stood upon the rostrum in the lecture theatre of the Royal College of Physicians at Henley-upon-Thames. And he was dignified. He had carriage, he had deportment, and he had a really splendid grey with white check Boleskine tweed three-piece suit. It had the double-breasted flat-bottomed waistcoat with the flap on the watch pocket and everything. Tinker used to wear one in Lovejoy, but his had been in the traditional green with the yellow check.

  Dr Steven looked the business. And he was the business. Top of the tree in the field of biochemistry. The icing on the cake of DNA transfer symbiotics. And the ivory mouthpiece
on the chromium-plated megaphone of destiny when it came to genetic engineering. He was also very good to his dear little white-haired old mother, a 33° Grand Master in the Hermetic Order of the Golden Sprout and a piercing enthusiast who boasted not only a Prince Albert but a double ampallang and apadravya.

  Dr Steven sipped from a glass of liquid ether and gazed at the ranks of students with his cool grey eyes. ‘And so,’ he said. ‘What do we learn from these three short stories?’

  The students gazed back at him, none, it seemed, inclined to offer comment.

  ‘Come on, someone.’ Dr Steven made an encouraging face in profile. By the law of averages, some of the students must have been listening. Some might even have been interested. One might even have got the point.

  ‘Someone? Anyone?’ Dr Steven eyed his audience once more. His gaze fell upon a young man with a beard. His name was Paul Mason and he was a first-year student of genetics. Dr Steven pointed. ‘Mason, what of you?’

  The lad’s eyes focused upon his tutor. ‘Me, sir? Pardon?’

  ‘What do we learn from these three short stories?’

  ‘Not to believe the evidence of our own eyes?’

  Dr Steven raised his grey eyebrows and lowered his off-white ears (a trick he had learned in Tibet). Mason’s eyes went blink, blink, blink.

  ‘I’m very impressed,’ said the doctor. ‘Would you care to enlarge?’

  Mason shook his hirsute head. ‘I think I’ll get out when I’m winning. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘All right. But just before you do, tell me this: were they true stories?’

  ‘Well, certainly the first one. Because I was the bearded passer-by in that.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  Dr Steven lowered his eyebrows and raised his ears once more. ‘Anybody else? Pushkin, what of you?’

  Larry Pushkin, back for yet another year at the taxpayer’s expense and a chap who had as much chance of becoming the next Doctor Who as he had of becoming a medical doctor, was rooting about in his left nostril with a biro. ‘I’d rather not comment at this time, sir,’ he said, in a Dalekian tone. ‘I think a cockroach has laid its eggs in my nose.’