The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (The Brentford Trilogy Book 5)

by Robert Rankin

  Bang went the gavel onto the block, the court cleared and Jim was left alone in his wheelchair.

  At a little after lunchtime closing John Omally arrived to push him home. ‘Look on the bright side, Jim,’ he said. ‘At least you were on legal aid.’

  Months passed, bruises healed and bones knitted themselves back together. Out of respect for the punishment Jim had taken, the patrons of the Flying Swan made no further reference to winds from the East. And after the brief excitement of the court case, the borough of Brentford settled itself down to do what it did best. Nothing. With style.

  It was almost a year to the day of Jim’s beating that a large brown envelope tumbled through his letter box and came to rest upon a welcome mat that had long worn out its welcome. Jim plucked the item up and perused it with interest. He hadn’t ordered anything and it wasn’t his birthday. A present from a well-wisher? An admirer? Ever the optimist, Jim took his treasure into the kitchenette, placed it upon the stained Formica worktop and worried it with the carving knife. Away came the wrappings and out came the book.

  The book!

  Brentford: A Study of its People and History.

  Jim stared at it in disbelief. Compton-Cummings had actually had the bare-faced brutality to send him a copy. It beggared all belief.

  ‘You swine!’ Jim snatched up the book and stared it in the glossy cover. ‘I just don’t believe this.’ He put a foot to the pedal-bin pedal and raised the lid. A noxious stench rose from within, possibly even as noxious as the infamous, and now publicly chronicled, ‘breath of Pooley’. Jim released the pedal and fanned his nose with the book. ‘I’ve been meaning to empty you,’ he told the bin and carrying the book to the cooker he said, ‘but you’re going to burn!’

  It had been a slow month financially for Jim. The gas had been disconnected.

  Jim carried the book to the sink. ‘Drown, then,’ he said, then shook his head. Drown a book? He sat down at the kitchen table and thumbed the pages. They fell one upon another with the silky flow of an old school Bible. Jim sighed once more and with weary resignation flicked through the index for P.

  His finger travelled down the page.

  Plague Origin of Black Death traced to Brentford.

  Planetary Alignments Astrology invented here.

  Plasma Vortex Engine Invented here.

  Plastic Ditto.

  Platform Tickets World’s largest collection housed in museum.

  Pooley’s finger travelled further down.

  Plot Guy Fawkes’s confession fingers Brentonian.

  Pocahontas Born here.

  ‘Eh?’ said Pooley.

  Pomegranate Farming Doomed attempt by local man.

  Poor House Location of.

  Pooley’s finger went up, then down again. ‘I’m not here,’ he said with some elation. ‘He’s left me out. He’s a decent fellow after all. Well, what about that? He sent me a free copy just to show there were no hard feelings about taking him to court for beating the life out of me. What a gent! I wonder if he signed it.’Jim flicked back to the fly-leaf. ‘No, he didn’t. But I think he should. I’ll go round there now, I’ve nothing else on.’

  And so saying, he did.

  For the reader who, now thoroughly won over by Jim’s personality, is eager for a description of the man, let it be said that Jim Pooley looked the way he always has looked. Except when he was younger, of course.

  A man of average height and average weight, or just a tad above the one and underneath the other. A well-constructed face, a trifle gaunt at times; a shock of hair. Well, not a shock. A kindly countenance. His most distinctive feature, the one that singled him out from all the rest, was of course his––

  ‘Golly,’ said Jim. ‘Whatever is going on here?’

  He had reached Golden Square, a byway leading from the historic Butts Estate. A Georgian triumph of mellow rosy brick, once home to the wealthy burghers of the borough, now offices for solicitors and other folk in ‘the professions’.

  Jim stopped short and stared. There was an ambulance drawn up in front of the offices of Mr Compton-Cummings. His door was open and out of it a number of men in paramedic uniforms were struggling beneath the weight of something spread across two stretchers. Something covered by a sheet.

  Jim hastened forward. The genealogist’s secretary, the one who had handed Pooley the teacup, stood on the pavement sobbing into a handkerchief. A crowd was beginning to gather. Jim pushed his way into it.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Robbery,’ said somebody. ‘Bloke shot dead.’

  ‘He was never shot,’ said somebody else. ‘Axed, he was.’

  ‘Garrotted,’ said yet another somebody. ‘Head right off.’

  ‘Talk sense,’ said Jim.

  ‘Some big fat fellow’s died,’ said a lady in a straw hat. ‘Myocardial collapse, probably. It’s always your heart that gives out if you’re overweight. I used to be eighteen stone, me, but I went on a diet, nothing but roughage. I––’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Jim, pushing past. He caught the arm of the weeping secretary. ‘Is it Mr Compton-Cummings?’ he asked.

  The secretary turned her red-rimmed eyes up to Jim. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, between sobs. ‘I remember you.’

  ‘Is it him?’

  The secretary’s head bobbed up and down. ‘He had a heart attack, just like the lady said.’

  ‘Told you,’ said the straw-hatter.

  ‘And he’s dead?’

  ‘I tried to, you know, the kiss of life, but he––’ The secretary sank once more into tears. Jim put a kind arm about her shoulder. It was a pretty shoulder. Well formed. Actually, all of her was well formed. The secretary was a fine-looking young woman, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by Jim. ‘Come inside and sit down,’ he told her.

  The paramedics, now aided by several members of the crowd who were eager to get in on the action, were forcing the lifeless sheet-shrouded corpse of Mr Compton-Cummings into the back of the ambulance.

  Jim led the secretary up the steps and through the front door. In the outer office Jim sat the secretary down in her chair. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I came here to thank him for sending me a copy of his book, and for leaving the bit about me out of it.’ Jim placed the book upon the secretary’s desk. Unsigned it would always remain.

  ‘He felt bad about that,’ sniffed the secretary. ‘And about beating you up. It played on his mind. He was a good man, I liked him a lot.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Can I get you a cup of tea, or something?’

  ‘Thanks.’ The secretary blew her nose. ‘The machine’s over there.’

  Pooley applied himself to the task of dispensing tea. He’d never been very good with machines. There was a knack to technology which Jim did not possess. He held a paper cup beneath a little spout and pressed a button. Boiling water struck him at trouser-fly-level.

  ‘It does that sometimes,’ sniffed the secretary.

  Eyes starting from his head and mouth wide in a silent scream, Jim hobbled about the office, fanning at himself with one hand while holding his steaming trousers away from his seared groin region with the other.

  ‘I’ll make my own then,’ said the secretary. ‘How do you like yours? Two lumps?’

  Jim hobbled, flapped and held out his trousers.

  ‘It was horrible,’ said the secretary, handing Jim a paper cup.

  ‘It still is,’ croaked Jim.

  ‘No, Mr Compton-Cummings, dropping down dead like that.’

  ‘Oh yes. It must have been.’

  ‘One moment, big jolly bear of a man with his trousers round his ankles, the next––’

  ‘Hang about,’ said Jim. ‘You don’t mean that you and he were––’

  ‘Well, of course we were. It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but––’

  ‘We always do it on Tuesdays.’

  What? You and him? I mean, well, you’re so...and he was...well, I mean.’

  �
��A Mason,’ said the secretary.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A Freemason. I always helped him dress for the lodge meeting on Tuesdays. Here, you weren’t suggesting––’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ said Jim, crossing his heart with his cup-holding hand and sending tea all over his shirt. ‘Oh, damn.’

  ‘You’re very clumsy, aren’t you?’

  ‘I try not to be.’ Jim plucked at his shirt and shook his head. ‘So he died while he was putting on his Masonic regalia.’

  ‘It was the way he would have wanted to go.’

  ‘Was it?’

  Well, no, I suppose not really. But you can’t choose how you die, can you? It’s like you can’t choose your parents. No offence meant.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Jim. ‘So he just dropped down dead while you were helping him on with his apron and whatnots.’

  ‘I never touched his whatnots.’

  Jim looked the secretary up and down. She was a beautiful young woman, but she was clearly not for him. Jim had never harboured a love for the toilet gag or the double entendre. The entire Carry On canon left him cold. Imagine having a relationship with a woman who could turn anything you said into a willy reference. Nightmare.

  ‘So,’ said Jim, once more and slowly. ‘You think that the exertion of putting on his Masonic vestments caused him to have a heart attack?’

  ‘Well, it was either that or the blow job.’

  4

  ‘She said that?’ Omally spluttered into his pint of Large. ‘You’re jesting.’

  ‘I am not.’ Jim crossed his heart once more, careful to use the hand that was not holding the drink. ‘Of course, she then went on to explain that she meant the job of blowing into the spout of the tea dispenser to clear a blockage. I’d had enough by then, so I made my excuses and left.’

  ‘And quite right too,’ agreed Omally. ‘That’s not the way we do business in Brentford. A woman like that is quite out of place.’

  Jim Pooley raised an eyebrow to this remark, coming as it did from John Omally, whose reputation as a womanizer was legend hereabouts. But he knew what his best friend meant. There was something very special about the little town of Brentford, something that singled it out from the surrounding territories, that could not be quantified and catalogued and tamed by definition. It was subtle and elusive; it was precious. It was magic. And the folk who lived there felt it and were glad.

  Jim sighed and drained his glass and placed it on the counter.

  The two stood in the saloon bar of the Flying Swan, that Victorian jewel in the battered crown of Brentford pubbery. Raking shores of sunlight venturing through the etched glass windows sparkled in the ashtrays and the optics, on the polished mahogany counter top and from the burnished brass. There was magic here all right.

  ‘One of similar, Neville, please,’ said Jim as he pushed his glass across the bar counter.

  ‘And one for me,’ said John.

  Neville the part-time barman pulled the pints and smiled upon his patrons. ‘You know, Jim,’ said he, when the pints were drawn and paid for, ‘that book you have there might prove to be worth a few bob.’

  ‘This book?’ asked Jim, turning the item which lay before him on the counter. ‘How so?’

  Neville took up Mr Compton-Cummings’s posthumous publication and idly turned the pages. ‘Well, I was talking just yesterday with that chap Gary. You know the fellow, tall, good-looking, posh suit, always carries the––’ Neville paused and made a face.

  ‘Mobile phone,’ said Omally, crossing himself.

  ‘The very same, and those abominations remain as ever barred from this establishment. Well, Gary works for Transglobe, the company responsible for the publication of this book. It came up in conversation.’

  ‘Oh, did it?’ said Jim. ‘Just came up in conversation. You weren’t perhaps hoping to get a free copy?’

  Neville made the innocent face of the guilty man. ‘As I was saying, it came up in conversation and Gary told me that it was scheduled for publication this very week, this very day in fact. But at the eleventh hour all copies were withdrawn and pulped.’

  ‘Blow me!’ said Jim.

  ‘Language,’ said Omally.

  ‘All pulped,’ said Neville. ‘Even the original manuscript had to be destroyed.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Gary wasn’t altogether sure. But he was mightily peeved. The book was destined for the world market. It was expected to sell millions.’

  Jim glowered into his ale. ‘So much for the “elite minority”.’

  ‘Gary was cursing because he hadn’t actually got round to reading a copy himself. But he said the talk was that the book contained certain “sensational disclosures” and that the order to pulp it had come down “from above”.’

  Jim’s eyes rolled towards the Swan’s nicotined ceiling and stared unfocused, as if viewing through it the infinity that lay beyond. ‘From God?’ he whispered.

  ‘From the board of directors,’ said Neville.

  Omally plucked the book from the part-time barman’s fingers. ‘You pair of buffoons,’ said he. ‘That Gary was winding you up, Neville. It would all be a publicity stunt.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I do. And to prove I’m right I will take this book home with me now and read it from cover to cover. If there’s anything in it worth talking about, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘I think not.’ Pooley availed himself of his book. It was a struggle, but he managed it in the end. ‘It was I who suffered at the fingertips of the martial genealogist, and if this book contains anything of a sensational nature, which might be turned to a financial profit, then I should be the one to benefit.’

  ‘The thought of turning a financial profit never entered my head,’ said Omally, in a tone which might well have convinced those who didn’t know him. ‘But as it seems to have entered yours, then please do so with my blessing.’

  ‘Thank you, John. I shall.’

  Omally raised his glass in toast. ‘There, Neville,’ he said, ‘you see a man of steely nerve and fearless disposition. An example to us all. Let us salute Jim Pooley, “he who dares”.’ Omally swallowed ale.

  ‘He who what?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Dares,’ said John. ‘As in takes risks. Big risks.’

  ‘What big risks?’

  ‘The modesty of the man,’ said John. ‘As if he doesn’t know.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Only this. Supposing that the book really does contain “sensational disclosures”. They must be pretty damn sensational if they’ve caused a publishing house the size of Transglobe to call in and pulp millions of copies rather than risk the consequences of publication.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Jim. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And call me a conspiracy theorist, but isn’t there something highly suspicious in the fact that on the very day the book was due to be published, its author drops down dead from a so-called heart attack?’

  ‘Coincidence,’ said Jim.

  ‘Oh, right,’ said John. ‘So if I find you lying dead in your kitchen, with your trousers round your ankles and the teapot stuck in your gob, I’ll put that down to coincidence too.’

  ‘I...er...’

  ‘Stop it, John,’ said Neville. ‘You’re frightening him.’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ said Pooley.

  ‘I would be,’ said Neville.

  ‘Me too,’ said Old Pete, shuffling up to the bar. ‘What are we talking about?’

  ‘Jim’s book,’ said John.

  ‘Jim’s written a book?’

  ‘No, he’s been given one.’

  ‘Well, let me have a look at it when he’s finished colouring it in.’

  ‘Most amusing,’ said Jim. ‘You are, as ever, the wit.’

  ‘Large dark rum please, Neville,’ said Old Pete. ‘And give Jim whatever he wants.’

  ‘He wants a bodyguard,’ said Omally, ‘or possibly a change of identity.’

  �
��Stop it, John.’ Pooley held out the book. ‘Go on, you take it then. I’ve quite lost interest in the thing.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Omally.

  ‘You, Neville?’ Jim asked.

  ‘No thank you.’ Neville shook his head.

  ‘Cor blimey,’ said Old Pete, ‘reminds me of that joke about the ten commandments.’

  ‘What joke’s that?’Jim asked.

  ‘Well, you see, this is back in biblical times, right, and God goes to the Arabs and he says, “Would you like a commandment?” and the head Arab says, “What is it?” and God says, “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” and the head Arab says, “No thanks, we do that all the time, we enjoy it.”

  ‘So God goes to the Egyptians and he says to the Pharaoh, “Would you like a commandment?” and the Pharaoh says, “What is it?” and God says, “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, or his ass or whatever,” and the Pharaoh says, “No thanks, coveting’s what we do best, we thrive on it.”

  ‘So finally God goes to the Jews and he says to Moses, “Would you like a commandment?” and Moses says, “How much do they cost?” and God says, “They’re free.” So Moses says...“I’ll take ten.” ’ Old Pete collapsed in laughter.

  ‘Surely that is anti-Semitic,’ said Jim.

  ‘Not when it’s told by a Jew. Especially one who’s just bought you a drink. But I’ll take that free book if it’s still going.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Omally. ‘I’ll take it.’

  When Neville called time for the lunchtime session, Pooley and Omally parted company. John returned to his rooms in Mafeking Avenue and Jim took himself to his favourite bench before the Memorial Library. It was here, on this almost sacred spot, that Jim did most of his really heavyweight thinking. Here where he dreamed his dreams and made his plans. Here too where he sat and smoked and soaked up sunshine. Jim placed his bum upon the bench and stretched his legs before him. He’d been shafted again. Omally would root out whatever sensational disclosures the book held and profit there-from and Jim would wind up empty-handed. But surely John wouldn’t grab the lot? He was Jim’s best friend, after all. There’d be something in it for Jim. But probably not a very substantial something.