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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Gunned down?’ Soap did further steadyings. ‘Gunned down? Here? How? When? Why?’

  ‘This was five years ago,’ said the barman, staring hard at Soap. ‘It made all the papers at the time. Local bloke, shot down by a contract killer, they reckon. Sniper rifle off the flat blocks opposite. The ones they’re pulling down.’

  Soap’s chest heaved. His breath went in and out.

  ‘Yeah, big news,’ the barman continued. ‘They never caught the killer. Some witnesses said that they saw a kid in a black T-shirt and shorts legging it away afterwards, but the investigations came to nothing. I’ve got all the news clippings. First shooting here, that was. Been a lot more since then, of course, during the riots and stuff.’

  ‘Riots?’ Soap managed to say.

  ‘When Virgin bought up the borough under a compulsory purchase order. Lots of riots. The locals put up quite a struggle.’

  Soap felt giddy and sick. ‘I’m in the future,’ he mumbled. ‘That’s what it is. Somehow I’m in the future.’

  ‘You not from around these parts, then?’ said the barman, squinting fixedly at Soap. ‘Only you do look familiar.’

  ‘This is all wrong.’ Soap shook his head. ‘It was all wrong before but it’s much more all wrong now.’ Soap looked up at the barman. ‘Do you know a man called Omally?’

  ‘John Omally?’

  ‘John Omally, yes.’

  ‘You just missed him,’ said the barman. ‘He always comes in on this day.’

  ‘He always comes in every day,’ said Soap. ‘Some things will never change.’

  ‘Once a year is all that he comes in,’ said the barman. ‘Famous man like that.’

  ‘Famous? John Omally? Famous?’

  ‘Where have you been, mate? Underground or something? John Omally is the big record producer. He comes in here on this day every year. Because this was the day it happened.’

  ‘The day?’

  ‘The day of the shooting. The bloke who was shot was John Omally’s bestest friend.’

  ‘Jim…’ whispered Soap. ‘Jim Pooley.’

  ‘That was his name. John Omally comes in here and drinks one pint of Large. We have to get it brewed specially for him. He drinks one pint of Large and he weeps. Can you imagine that? A manly man like him crying? Fair turns my guts, that does.’

  ‘I have to go. I have to go.’ Soap lurched up and made for the door.

  ‘Hold on there,’ called the barman. ‘I do know you. I do.’

  Soap ran back down the Ealing Road.

  Within the Swan the barman was leafing through a pile of wanted posters. ‘I do know you,’ he said, and, ‘Yes.’

  He withdrew from the pile a single sheet of paper. On the top were printed the words ‘Have You Seen This Man?’ Below this was a photograph of Soap, blown up from a frame of surveillance footage. ‘Wanted for assault and the theft of a valuable wristwatch. Five thousand pounds reward!’ The barman whistled. ‘They’ve been reprinting this poster every month for the last five years. No wonder he looked so familiar.’

  The barman pulled out his mobile phone and dialled the Virgin Police Service.

  Soap turned a corner, then another and ran into Mafeking Avenue. John Omally lived at number seven.

  John Omally had lived at number seven.

  The man who now did drove Soap away with a stick.

  Soap limped on, bound for heaven knows where.

  Back in the Swan the barman was babbling into his mobile. ‘It was definitely him. He was wearing one of those old-fashioned library clerk outfits. And he’s well out of it. Drugged up or something. He can’t have gone far. You’ll catch him on camera and don’t forget who called it in. I want my five thousand quid.’

  The Memorial Library was still standing. The bench outside was broken, but Soap sat down upon it. He buried his face in his hands and trembled terribly. He was in the future. Five years into a horrible future. A future where Brentford was being pulled down. A future where John Omally was a famous man, but Jim, poor Jim, was dead.

  Soap struggled like the drowning man, for some small straw to clutch at. There had to be some sense to this. Some logic. Some reason. Someone to blame.

  ‘It’s them.’ Soap raised his head from his hands. ‘It has to be them. The men in the black T-shirts. The one running away after Jim’s murder. The ones on the speed cameras. The same ones at the Beatles’ concert in nineteen eighty. Exactly the same. The same age, the same clothes. My God.’ Soap took a deep breath and nodded his head. ‘It is them. It’s time. That’s what it is. That’s what all this is. They travel through time. And they change things and no one knows they’ve been changed. No one but me. Me. I’m the only one who knows. I’m not affected by their changes. Because…’ Soap paused. Because, was a tricky one. Why hadn’t he been unaware that the past had been changed? ‘Because,’ Soap continued, ‘because I was beloooooow. I was deep beneath the Earth. That has to be it. Something to do with the magnetic field or something. Yes, that has to be it. So…’ Soap drew in a very deep breath.

  ‘So what the hell am I doing in the future?’

  It was a good question, that. And one that, given time, Soap might well have answered. He had done remarkably well so far, considering the state he was in and everything.

  But to have answered that question, Soap would definitely have needed quite a little time. And quiet time.

  Uninterrupted.

  The helicopter came in low. It swept down over the library roof and hovered over Soap.

  ‘Lay down your weapons and prostrate yourself upon the ground,’ called that old loudhailer voice. ‘If you obey at once you will not be harmed. Any attempt to make an escape will be met by force of arms.’

  ‘*********!’ said Soap, which is just what would you say. ‘I’m in big trouble here.’

  Soap stood up slowly, his hands in the air and then Soap panicked and ran.

  Off went Soap at the hurry-up, action once more his word.

  Above him flew the helicopter. All red and white with that logo on the side.

  ‘Somewhere to hide,’ gasped Soap as he ran. ‘Somewhere to hide, and quick.’ He ducked down an alleyway between two terraced houses and fell straight over a dustbin.

  Remembering the words of Inspectre Hovis, Soap did not hide in the dustbin. He stumbled on, between back gardens now, the helicopter keeping easy pace.

  ‘Halt, or I fire!’ came the voice from above.

  ‘******* **** ***********.’ Soap rushed on and down another alleyway and out into another street. From above came the rattle of rapid fire, around his feet burst the bullets.

  ‘No,’ wailed Soap, rushing on.

  He had almost reached a corner when a long black car came sweeping up from behind. It swerved directly into his path and Soap toppled over the bonnet. He fell to the road, all flailing arms and legs, prepared to come up fighting.

  The driver’s window of black mirrored glass slid down and a voice from within shouted, ‘Soap!’

  Soap staggered to his feet. ‘You won’t take me alive,’ he shouted back, as brave as brave can be.

  ‘Come with me if you want to live,’ called the voice – which rang a certain bell.

  Soap gaped in at the driver. He glimpsed a great black beard, woven into intricate knots and laced with coloured ribbons, a pair of red-rimmed eyes and—

  ‘Down on your knees!’ called the voice from above. ‘Down on your knees, or I fire!’ The helicopter dropped even closer to the ground, the noise of the blades becoming deafening.

  ‘Come.’ The driver beckoned Soap. ‘Hurry, or you’re dead.’

  Soap couldn’t hear what the driver said, but, as his options were severely limited at the present, he tore open the rear door of the car and flung himself inside.

  The driver put the car in gear and it shot forward, catching the still-open door on a lamp post and smashing it shut with a bang.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ shouted the driver. ‘And don’t get sick on my seats.’


  Now, your modern Virgin Police Service helicopter comes fully equipped with an impressive assortment of weaponry. You have your small-bore machine guns for taking out a suspect at close range. Your General Electric mini-gun, dispensing its six-thousand-rounds-per-minute pay-load for crowd situations. And, of course, your missiles. Your missiles are usually reserved for special circumstances, destroying a paramilitary stronghold, or a tank, say. But, as every good Virgin Police Service officer knows, there’s nothing quite like the thrill of letting one of those suckers loose at a speeding motorcar.

  Laser-guided too, they are. You just lock on and hit the button.

  The driver of the black car swung the wheel and pushed his foot to the floor. Soap clung onto whatever he could, as the car took a corner on two wheels alone and swerved into the Ealing Road. Leaving really brilliant skid-marks. Burning rubber all the way.

  Behind it came the helicopter. Low to the ground now, a few feet above. In the cockpit the pilot winked at his fellow officer. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Lock on and hit the button.’

  The long black car rushed past the Flying Swan.

  Behind it came the helicopter.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrm, went the black car’s engine.

  Chb, chb, chb, chb, chb, went the helicopter blades.

  On, went the laser-guiding system.

  On, went the little telescreen.

  Green electric cross-wires focused.

  ‘Keep your head down!’ shouted the driver.

  ‘Press the button,’ said the pilot.

  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrm and rev and roar went the car.

  And chb, chb, chb, chb the helicopter blades.

  The black car passed over the railway bridge, its four wheels leaving the road.

  Soap’s head hit the roof and a finger hit the button.

  Out of the sky came the missile. Out from the sky and down to the road.

  The explosion swallowed up tarmac and pavement, rubber and metal, in fragments and fistfuls.

  The helicopter circled through the smoke and flame. Of the black car and its occupants, nothing whatever remained to be identified.

  17

  Soap’s heart seemed to be beating. He could feel it in his chest. But as he couldn’t actually see his chest, or indeed any other part of himself, he concluded, dismally, that he probably was dead. He could think of no other logical explanation to account for the fact that he now seemed to be floating, in a disembodied form, out of Brentford and up the Great West Road.

  ‘Bummer,’ said Soap. ‘That’s a real bummer.’

  ‘I think it’s pretty impressive,’ said the driver’s voice.

  Soap sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you got killed for helping me.’

  ‘We’re not dead, you buffoon.’

  There was a whirl and a click and a whoosh, and the car and its driver and Soap appeared out of nowhere at all.

  ‘What?’ went Soap, and, ‘How?’

  ‘Stealth car,’ said the driver, winking over his shoulder at Soap. ‘Latest military technology. Cost me an arm and a leg on the old black market, as you can imagine.’

  Soap stared at the driver and the light of realization dawned. ‘John,’ he said, ‘it’s you.’

  ‘Of course it’s me.’ said Omally. ‘Who did you think it was?’

  ‘I don’t know, I…’

  ‘Ah,’ said Omally, turning back to his driving. ‘The beard. I haven’t had a shave for five years. Not since—’

  ‘Jim,’ said Soap. ‘I heard about Jim. I’m so sorry, John.’

  ‘You might have turned up to the funeral. We sent him off in style.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I’m sorry.’

  Omally swung the steering wheel and the car turned off the Great West Road and in through the gates of Gunnersbury Park.

  ‘So, where have you been?’ John asked. ‘And whatever possessed you to go wandering about in Brentford? You’re a wanted man.’

  ‘Well, it’s all your fault,’ said Soap. ‘If you hadn’t made me stick Small Dave up the back of my coat.’

  ‘Your being wanted has got nothing to do with Small Dave. As you well know.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Soap. ‘But listen. Thank you for saving me back there, John. You didn’t have to take a risk like that.’

  ‘A friend in need and things of that nature.’ The car moved up the gravel drive towards the imposing Georgian pile that was Gunnersbury House.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ asked Soap.

  ‘This is where I live.’ Omally drew the car to a halt, switched off the engine and tugged the key from the dash. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You could use a drink.’

  John climbed from the car and Soap followed on buckling knees. He had all but caught up, when a Godalmighty crash from above had him ducking to his bucklers. Glass and wood rained down on the drive and a television set bounced off the bonnet of John’s car and came to rest in a flowerbed.

  ‘Help!’ wailed Soap. ‘We’re under attack.’

  John helped the lad to his feet. ‘I have guests,’ he explained. ‘That’s just their way of saying hello.’

  ‘Are they loonies?’ asked Soap. ‘Is this a loony bin?’

  ‘The whole world’s a loony bin. Come on, they’re okay.’

  The entrance hall of Gunnersbury House might well have been described as a symphony in marble. But only by a lover of Karl Stockhausen. The glorious classical line of the place, with its travertine floor and graceful columns of fine Carrara rising to a Robert Adam ceiling frescoed with Arcadian scenes was messed all to hell by the chaos of ‘things’ that filled it.

  There was a Harley motorcycle, lacking much of its engine. Several stereo systems in various stages of assembly. At least five Stratocaster guitars, leaning against as many amps and speakers. There was a Rock Ola jukebox and a pinball machine and a mountain bike. There were many many cardboard boxes and an awful lot of bubble wrap.

  Soap took in as much as he could and the phrase ‘toys for boys’ rolled into his head and out again. ‘You never married, then?’ he said.

  ‘Ah, no,’ said John. ‘I’ve got some booze in the kitchen. Shall we—?’

  Soap remembered John Omally’s previous kitchen. He tried to picture it on a larger scale.

  ‘Is it really grubby?’ he asked.

  ‘Really,’ said John, with an under-beard grin.

  ‘You lucky sod.’

  ‘I don’t feel very lucky.’ John went in search of the booze.

  Soap sat down upon a fibreglass stool tastefully constructed from the body-cast of a kneeling naked female. Presently John Omally returned with a champagne bottle and two grubby tumblers. He popped the cork, poured the drinks and handed one to Soap.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Soap. ‘And thanks again.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said John. ‘You’re welcome.’

  Soap sipped champagne. ‘This is good,’ he said. ‘But how did you come by all this? The barman at the Swan said you were famous now. What did you do exactly? What do you do?’

  ‘I manage a rock band and I produce their records. They’re a big band and very famous. Jim and I were partners at the beginning. But when Jim got killed the police confiscated all the money he’d raised and everything went poo-shaped. But I kept working away. I did it for Jim, it mattered so much to him. He knew what it could mean to the world.’

  ‘Good musicians, eh?’ Soap reached for the bottle.

  ‘More than good. The lead singer, Litany. You’ll meet her soon. Her voice had the power to heal the sick.’

  ‘Had?’ said Soap, topping up.

  ‘She lost it. After Jim died. I think she really must have cared for him. I heard she went to the mortuary. Tried to sing him back to life.’

  ‘Urgh,’ went Soap. ‘That sounds rather sick.’

  ‘Well anyway, it didn’t work and she lost the power. But the band were still red hot and I toured them and brought out some records on a private label, using the money I had. And eventually we were made an offer we
couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Soap, a-sipping.

  ‘We got a record deal with Virgin.’

  Soap spat Champagne all over John.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Soap. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Never mind,’ John shook champagne spray from his beard. ‘But…and there’s a big but.’

  ‘But me this but,’ said Soap.

  ‘But it’s all wrong. All of it. The company. The entire set-up. It’s like some world domination thing. The company is taking over. You’ve seen what they’ve done to Brentford.’

  Soap gave a shudder. ‘I did,’ said he. ‘It made me sick at heart.’

  John took the bottle and topped up both glasses. ‘It’s got to be stopped and we’re going to stop it.’

  ‘We?’ said Soap. ‘You and me?’

  ‘Me and the Gandhis.’

  ‘You and Gandhi’s family?’

  ‘The band. They’re called Gandhi’s Hairdryer.’

  ‘What a foolish name,’ said Soap. ‘Why do they call themselves that?’

  Omally tugged at a yard of beard. ‘I never thought to ask. But we’re going to bring down the company. This very weekend. There’s going to be a big rock concert, right here in Gunnersbury Park. The biggest ever. Everybody who’s anybody will be coming, and the whole world will be watching it live on TV. It’s the concert that Jim wanted to happen, but it’s taken me five years to set it up.’

  ‘And what will be so special about this concert?’ Soap asked, as his glass became empty once again.

  ‘It’s the Beatles’ farewell concert.’

  Soap made a terrible groaning sound.

  ‘And Prince Charles is going to be there.’

  Soap added moans to the groan.

  ‘You don’t sound too keen,’ said Omally.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Soap. ‘But just how are you hoping to bring down the company? You’re not going to blow up the Beatles or something, are you?’

  Omally emptied his glass and shook the Champagne bottle. ‘These don’t last long, do they?’ he said. ‘But, no, Soap, we’re not going to blow up the Beatles. But we are going to bring down the company. You see, we could never get a record deal to begin with, because of Litany’s power. No big company would touch the band. Her voice had the power to heal, as I’ve said, and these big companies make their fortunes out of pharmaceuticals. If all people needed to get well was to listen to a CD, then no more pharmaceuticals.’