Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls (The Brentford Trilogy Book 6)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘But this pound note. Is it all right? Who’s this bearded bloke on the front?’

  Jim took to flapping his hands as he ran to the bog. Generally in moments of acute agitation he flapped his hands and turned around in small circles. But this time he had to flap on the hoof.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t something I said.’ Geraldo took his empty glass to the counter.

  Within the bog of the Flying Swan, Jim made for cubicle three. And here he emptied the contents of his stomach into the white china bowl.

  ‘Oh my God,’ went Pooley. ‘Oh my God.’ And he reached for the chain to flush away the horrors.

  ‘Don’t pull that,’ said a voice from above.

  ‘Oh my…’ and Jim’s hand hovered.

  ‘God,’ said the voice. ‘This is God.’

  ‘God?’ said a pale and trembling Jim, glancing all round and about.

  The bog was empty but for himself. But for himself and—

  ‘God?’

  ‘Don’t pull that chain,’ said God once more. Jim’s hands began to flap.

  ‘And don’t flap your hands,’ said God.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Jim, who was now on the point of collapse.

  ‘And down on your knees when you’re talking to me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, I’m sorry.’ Jim knelt down in the cubicle, his nose too near to the horrors. This was all he needed! A telling-off from God!

  ‘Pooley,’ said God.

  Jim shuddered at his name.

  ‘Pooley, I am displeased with you,’

  ‘But it isn’t my fault,’ said Jim to God. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘What, never?’ God asked.

  ‘Well, sometimes,’ said Jim. ‘But you’d know all about those.’

  ‘You’re a bad man, Pooley,’ said God.

  ‘But I don’t mean to be. I’d never knowingly do harm to anyone. I can’t be held responsible for things that happen in the future.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ God asked.

  ‘The future, sir, what happens in the future.’

  ‘So you want to know what happens in the future, do you?’

  Pooley nodded dismally.

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  ‘It’s a yes, sir,’ said Jim.

  ‘It’ll cost you,’ said God.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The information will cost you.’

  ‘Do you want me to put money in the poor box at St Joan’s?’

  ‘No, you can leave it here on the floor. I’ll see that they get it.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Jim.

  ‘Are you querying God?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, I’m not.’

  ‘Then I will give you a name and an address and you will give me a fiver.’

  ‘I don’t think I have a fiver left,’ said Jim. ‘It’s been a very expensive evening.’

  ‘What about the fiver you keep in your left boot for emergencies?’

  ‘You know about that fiver?’

  ‘Everybody knows about that fiver.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jim.

  ‘Well, whip it out.’

  Still in the kneeling position, Jim fought to remove his boot.

  ‘You want to wash your socks a bit more often,’ said God.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll do that.’ Pooley placed the crumpled fiver on the floor.

  ‘Right,’ said God, ‘So this is what you do.’

  And God spake unto Pooley and did tell him of a woman who dwelt in a terrace called Moby Dick. That she was possessed of great powers concerning the foretelling of the future, for she was a Penist and could read the willies of men. And God named this woman and gave Jim the number of the house and also the telephone number, which could, if he forgot it, be also found in any one of the local telephone boxes upon certain coloured cards affixed to the walls with blu-tack. And then God instructed Pooley that he should make off at the hurry up and be grateful that he hadn’t got a thunderbolt up the bum for being such a bad fellow and also that he should, in future, give money to people smaller and less fortunate than himself, if asked for it.

  ‘And so, on your bike,’ said God. ‘And sin no more, you blaggard.’

  And Pooley, having heard the word of God, did hasten from the bog.

  And God, having heard the door slam behind him, did hasten from his hiding place in the cistern of cubicle three. And did shin down the chain and snatch up Pooley’s fiver.

  ‘Thank you very much, Jim,’ said Small Dave, tucking it into his pocket.

  It was a pale and shaking Jim that returned to the saloon bar. A Jim that had had enough for one night and many nights yet to come.

  A Jim that—

  ‘Whoa!’ went Jim. ‘Where are they?’

  An equally pale-faced Neville was loading empties onto a tray. ‘Who?’ he asked, without enthusiasm.

  ‘The chaps I came in with. The chaps in the black T-shirts and shorts.’

  ‘The shorts!’ growled Neville. ‘The shorts!’

  ‘But where are they? Where’ve they gone?’

  ‘I barred them,’ said Neville, ‘and good riddance, too. Shorts in my bar. You’re a bad man, Pooley.’

  ‘No,’ mumbled Jim at the terrible phrase. ‘I’m not a bad man, I’m not. But I have to speak to Geraldo. Why did he go? Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No, he didn’t, and I didn’t ask. He came up to the bar just after you’d rushed off to the bog, and if you’ve been sick on my tiles you’re in bigger trouble. He came up to the bar and I said, ‘What’s the matter with Pooley?’ and he looked at me and said ‘Pooley?’ in that silly little voice of his and then all his friends started saying ‘Pooley?’ and looking at each other and then they all rushed out of the door. I barred them as they were rushing out.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Jim’s hands were flapping once again.

  ‘And don’t do that in here,’ said Neville. ‘It fair gives me the willies.’

  ‘The willies,’ said Jim. ‘The willies, that’s it.’

  ‘Go home and sleep it off, Pooley.’

  ‘I’m not drunk. I only wish I was.’

  ‘Well, you’re not drinking any more in here tonight.’

  ‘No,’ said Jim. ‘All right, I’m going.’

  ‘Good,’ said Neville. ‘Goodnight.’

  Jim wandered, lonely, through the night-time streets of Brentford. He was all in a daze and a dither and he didn’t know quite what to do. Although Norman admired Jim for living his life in little movies, the truth of the matter was that this was the only way Jim could live his life. One thing at a time was all the lad could ever deal with. Two or more and it was goodnight, Jim.

  The rain was falling once again and Pooley turned his collar up. ‘I am sorry, God,’ he said to the sky. ‘You don’t have to rain on my head.’

  A rumble of thunder came down from above and Jim put more spring in his step.

  He would greatly have preferred to have gone round to Omally’s. The Irishman was his bestest friend and Jim felt that he would have known what to do. But, as he hadn’t seen John since before the Gandhis’ remarkable performance, and had no idea whether he would even be home, and, as he really didn’t want to get on the wrong side of God, Jim pressed on towards Moby Dick Terrace.

  It was growing late now, after eleven, and Jim had no way of knowing whether the reader of willies would still be open for business. Nor was he exactly certain why God had sent him to seek out this woman anyway. Surely God knew all about the future, didn’t he? He could have just told Jim about it there and then.

  But, then, God knew his own job best, of course.

  And who was Jim to argue?

  And he had paid out five quid for the information.

  And he was really desperate to get this thing sorted.

  And it was getting late.

  And he was in a state.

  And that was a tiny little horse that just ran across the road up ahead.

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Jim, to no one but
himself. ‘I’m sure it really wasn’t.’

  Most of the houses in Moby Dick Terrace were bed and breakfasts, catering to the needs of the many tourists who poured in throughout the seasons to visit Britain’s best-loved borough. There was always a holiday feel to the terrace, no matter the time of the year.

  But at night time there was something more. A strangely nautical feel. Many might have put this down simply to the name. After all, this was the terrace where the legendary Captain Ahab was born. But there was more to it than that.

  Certain streets have their own personalities, which they often keep very much to themselves and which you may only catch by chance. And then only in the middle of the night.

  Moby Dick Terrace was one of these. A Bed and Breakfaster’s paradise by day it might have been, but by night, with the rain coming down and the wind in the right direction, you could almost smell the briny deep and hear the flap of sailcloth.

  It no longer seemed to be land-locked suburbia. Now it was harbour lights and fishing floats and crabbing pots and whalebone uplift bras.

  As Jim marched along through the wind and the rain he fancied that he heard the sirens singing. Seeking to lure him to his doom in front garden ponds. Or onto rockeries, where the ghosts of drowned sailors searched in vain for their hats.

  Beat beat beat went the rain on Jim’s head.

  And Jim beat a path to the Penist’s door.

  It was a bright-blue door, as it happened. Blue as the deep blue sea. The house was called Ocean View, as were many of the others, but the number was right. It was twenty-three.

  Jim ducked into the shelter of the porch.

  ‘Any old porch in a storm,’ said Jim.

  And gave the house a good looking-over.

  It was your standard two up, three down Victorian masterpiece. With a No Vacancies sign in the front window. It was as nice or as nasty a house as suits your personal taste. In his present mood, Jim was in no fit state to judge.

  He stood on the doorstep and dithered, damned by doubt and direly desirous of deep deliberation. He didn’t want to go through with this. He really, truly didn’t.

  The more he thought about seeing the Penist, the less he liked the idea. Jim was a sensitive soul. He wasn’t one of those blokes who whip their old chaps out at the slightest excuse. And certainly not in front of a lady.

  Jim would never even have considered displaying his private parts to a lady, unless he and the lady had been properly introduced, shared a romantic candlelit dinner for two and both got so out of their faces on wine that they probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.

  But this lark wasn’t for him. This was for the likes of John Omally. Or Small Dave. He was always pulling his tadger out and waving it all over the place.

  ‘I’m not doing this,’ said Jim.

  Crash went the thunder and flash went the lightning.

  And press went Jim’s finger on the bell.

  There was one of those little intercom things and this gave a sudden crackle and a lady’s voice said, ‘Can I help you, please?’

  Jim sighed a deep and heartfelt. ‘I’ve come to see Madame Crowley,’ he said.

  ‘In you come, then, dear.’ The door buzzed and clicked and Jim pushed it open. ‘And please wipe your feet,’ said the voice.

  Jim wiped his feet upon the mat. Shook what rain he could from his shoulders and head and closed the front door behind him. He was standing in a pleasant little hall, which had all the usual guesthouse how-do-you-do. The hall stand with the raincoats and the waders and galoshes, the buckets and spades and the shrimping nets, the coloured brochures advertising the beauties of the borough and where to go to get the best tattoos. There were the house rules. No sheep in the rooms after nine p.m. and suchlike. And so forth.

  And there was something more.

  The left-hand wall was covered in masks. Carnival masks. Dozens of them. Masks of clowns and public figures, film stars old and new. In the very midst was a sign.

  And this is what it said.

  CLIENTS OF A MODEST DISPOSITION OR OTHERWISE DESIROUS OF ANONYMITY MAY CHOOSE AND DON FROM THIS COLLECTION BEFORE HAVING THEIR WINKIES READ.

  Courtesy of the management.

  ‘Very thoughtful,’ said Jim, wondering what he should choose.

  He passed on the Bill Clinton. It looked rather worn out and over-used. And he gave the Hugh Grant a miss too. The Dalai Lama seemed hardly appropriate and exactly what Sister Wendy was doing there—

  Jim settled for a rather dashing domino, which lent him, he thought, the look of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Or Batman’s Robin, at a push.

  And having posed a bit before the hall mirror and wrung what rain he could from his hair, Jim squared up his sagging shoulders and knocked on the living-room door.

  ‘In you come, dear,’ said the lady’s voice and Jim put his best foot forward.

  He found himself in a room that might have been anyone’s. It might have been his Aunty Norma’s, or his Aunty May’s. It was an aunty’s room that looked just the way that aunties’ rooms always do. Jim squeezed past the stuffed gorilla and stepped over the stripped-down Harley-Davidson. His shoes made sucking noises on the latex rubber carpet.

  ‘Hold it there, dear, if you will.’

  Jim held it there and sought out the owner of the voice. His gaze fell upon an ancient white-haired lady of respectable good looks, who wore more lace than a Southern belle and sat at a table littered with all the usual tools of the duff clairvoyant’s trade. The crystal ball, the tarot cards, the magnifying glass...

  And the pair of surgical gloves.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Jim nervously. ‘Are you Madame Crowley?’

  ‘I am she. Now just hold still for a mo, if you will, dear.’

  Jim held still for a mo and Madame Crowley gazed thoughtfully towards his trouser fly.

  If it’s X-ray eyes, I suppose I don’t mind, thought Jim.

  ‘Well,’ said the elderly mystic. ‘I can tell that you’re not a bad man.’

  ‘You can?’ said Jim. ‘You can?’

  ‘I can,’ and the old one nodded her head. ‘You ‘dress’ on the left, that’s always a good sign.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Jim. ‘I mean, what?’

  ‘The side you dress. The side your penis hangs.’

  Jim shivered. Somehow the word penis always sounded ruder than any of its slang counterparts.

  ‘The left side is the right side. Which is odd when you think about it, because the left-hand course is the wrong course, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jim. Do what? he thought.

  ‘Never mind, my dear. Never mind. Would you care to take a seat?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jim. ‘I suppose you want me to take off my trousers first.’

  ‘I sense that you’re not very keen.’

  ‘I’m not very keen at all, as it happens. Do you think we could do it some other way?’

  The mystic cocked her head on one side. ‘I am versed in many forms of divination,’ she said. ‘I can read all parts of the body. The penis, of course, is the easiest to read. Men think with their penises, you know.’

  ‘I’ve heard that said,’ said Jim. ‘But only by women, if I recall.’

  ‘Women are the more intelligent sex.’

  ‘I’ve heard them say that too.’

  ‘Well, as you please, dear. I can see that you’re deeply troubled. Let us take a little look at your palm and see what might be done.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Jim sought out the nearest chair. It was constructed from the bones of sheep, but the cushion looked quite soft.

  He drew up the chair to the table and placed his soggy bum upon it. ‘Which hand would you like to see?’ he asked.

  ‘The left one, dear. The left one is the right one. Which is curious when you come to think about it, because—’

  ‘The left one it is, then.’ Jim stretched his paw across the table.

  Madame Crowley took up her lens and peered at Pooley’s palm. She p
eered at it once and she peered at it again and then she shook her ancient head and peered at it once more.

  And then she turned it over and took to peering up Jim’s sleeve. ‘Could you draw back your shirt cuff?’ she asked.

  Jim drew back his shirt cuff.

  ‘Up to the elbow.’

  Jim drew his shirt cuff up to the elbow.

  ‘Utterly remarkable,’ said Madame Crowley, sinking back into her chair. ‘I have never seen anything quite like that before.’

  ‘Is it bad?’ Jim asked, examining his palm.

  ‘I really don’t know if it is,’ Madame Crowley beckoned back the palm of the peering Pooley. ‘You see,’ she continued, pointing at it with her thumb, ‘you have two lifelines.’

  ‘Two?’ Jim leaned forward for a squint.

  ‘Two. Here and here. This one,’ and she pointed once again, ‘comes to a rather sudden halt.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Jim.

  ‘But this one, this one runs right round to the back of your hand and vanishes up your sleeve.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pooley, without the ‘dear’ this time.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Madame C. ‘Remarkable indeed.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ Jim asked.

  ‘It means—’

  But now a knock came at the door.

  ‘Mrs Crowley,’ came a young man’s voice. ‘Can I come in, please?’

  ‘No, sorry, dear, I’m with a client. What was it you wanted?’

  ‘A clean towel, is all.’

  ‘There’s new ones in the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs. Please take as many as you like.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Crowley,’ said the young man’s voice.

  The mystic listened to the young man’s footsteps on the stairs. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said to Jim. ‘It’s just the young gentleman who’s lodging with me for a couple of days.’

  ‘Tourist?’ Jim asked.

  ‘I don’t think so. He says he’s here on family business, trying to locate an ancestor. Trace records, I suppose. He says he has a loose end he needs to tie up. I offered him a reading – I do the past as well as the future – but he said no. He said he had to deal with it himself. To tell the truth,’ Madame Crowley now whispered, ‘I didn’t much like the way he said it. But he keeps himself to himself, and I do need the money.’