The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

11

They strolled along the thoroughfares of Brentford.

“All right,” said John. “My plan is this…”

“Your plan?” Jim put up his hand. “I thought all this was to be a fifty-fifty deal.”

“You have a plan of your own you would like to discuss?”

“Not as such.”

“Well, until you do, perhaps we might try mine.”

“Fair enough. I just felt it needed saying.”

“Quite so.”

“Thank you.”

“Might I continue?”

“Certainly.”

“My plan is this. I go now to the canal and attempt to recover Marchant. You go to the Memorial Library, dig out all the ancient maps of the borough you can find and photocopy them. Can you manage that?”

“Don’t patronize me, John.”

“My apologies. Bring the photocopies and meet me in the Swan at, say,” John looked down at his naked wrist, “precisely twelve noon, that’s an hour and five minutes from now.”

“John,” said Jim.

“Jim?” said John.

“I hope you get your bike back OK.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later, then.”

“So there’s this Eskimo,” said Old Pete. “And his snowmobile breaks down, so he hauls it to the garage. And the mechanic has a look at it and says, ‘I think you’ve blown a seal, mate,’ and the Eskimo says, ‘No I haven’t, it’s just frost on my moustache.’”

There was a moment’s silence in the Flying Swan before the lunchtime patrons took in the enormity (and indeed the genius) of this particular joke. And then there was a great deal of laughter.

“Surely,” said Small Dave the postman, “that is somewhat racist.”

“Not if it’s told by a policeman,” said Old Pete.

John Omally entered the bar, sighted Jim in a far and private corner and squelched over.

“You’re squelching,” said Jim, looking up.

“I had to wade.”

“But you got Marchant back?”

“What’s left of him. I carted the old boy around to Norman at the corner shop. He has agreed to rebuild him for me.”

“That will cost a bob or two.”

“Not a penny. I have offered Norman a seat on the board of the Brentford Millennium Committee. He was happy to accept.”

“Did you mention to him that all depends upon us finding the Brentford Scrolls?”

Omally tapped his forehead. “It somehow slipped my mind.”

Pooley grinned. “I’ve got you a pint in.”

“Cheers. Are those the copies of the maps?”

Jim spread the photocopies before him. “There’s not a lot to go on, but we have to start somewhere.”

Omally sat down, tasted ale and joined Jim in perusal.

“The Professor must have been through all these,” said Jim.

“The Professor is a scholar, Jim. A magus, an illuminatus.”

“And we’re a couple of louts.”

“I am not a lout. What I mean is, his approach to a problem differs from ours. We are free spirits, we think differently.”

Jim swallowed ale. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s always been like that for me. I could never be one of the gang. When everyone else was being a mod, I was being a beatnik.”

“I was a mod,” said John. “I had a Vespa. Now that was a fanny-magnet.”

Pooley thought Sandra and said, “Well, we’re certainly not part of the herd, whatever we are.”

“We are individuals, Jim, and you are a character, sir.”

“So does this mean that we can find the scrolls in a couple of days, when it’s taken the Professor God knows how long not to find them at all?”

“It means that if we set about the task and do it our way, we’ll succeed.”

“So, where are the scrolls hidden, John?”

“Good question.”

John gave the maps further perusal. “Which is the earliest one?”

“This one. It’s dated 1580.”

“About the right period, then. So what’s on it?”

“Very little really.” Jim swallowed more ale. “A few tracks, some farms. A tavern, right here, Ye Flying Swanne, a manor house, and a few rude huts.”

“Why do they call them rude huts, do you suppose?”

“Because of the arse-ends, I think.”

“The what?”

“Arse-ends, wooden trusses that support the roof.”

“Fascinating. Anything else on the map?”

“Only the monastery.”

“Not a lot to go on. But I suppose we should check the obvious places first.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Jim. “And where might those be?”

“Well, if you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?”

“In my boots.”

“In your boots! Very good, Jim. And there was I thinking that monks wear sandals.”

“Oh yeah. Do monks wear underpants, do you think? Or are they like Scotsmen with kilts?”

John drummed his fingers upon the table. “I will ask the question again. If you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?”

“I know. In the monastery.” Jim gave John the old thumbs up.

John gave Jim the old thumbs down. “No,” he said. “Not in the monastery. In the pub.”

“Eh?”

“When you’re really pissed…”

“Which I can rarely afford to be.”

“But when you are, what is the last thing you say before you leave the pub?”

“Goodnight?”

“No, you say, ‘Neville, please mind my wallet.’”

“Do I?”

“You do.”

“Oh yes. And the next morning I wake up and I can’t find my wallet and I get all depressed and I’m really hung over, so I gather up some pennies and halfpennies for a hair of the dog and I come into the Swan and Neville says, ‘You left your wallet here last night,’ and I get really cheered up.”

“Exactly. So if you were a monk and you’d just come back from this pilgrimage to Rome and you were really proud of yourself because you’d pulled off this great deal with the Pope and you wanted to get a skinful for celebration, where would you go?”

Jim pointed to the map. “I would go to Ye Flying Swanne.”

“And so would I. So let’s check here first.” John finished his ale, took up the two empty glasses and went over to the bar.

“… the Irish Uri Geller,” said Old Pete, “rubbed a spoon and his finger fell off”

“You old bastard,” said Omally.

“Who are you calling old? That’s an ageist remark. There should be a law about people making comments like that!”

John held the glasses out to Neville. “Two of similar, please.” And the part-time barman did the business.

“Neville,” said John. “Do you have a lost property cupboard?”

“Certainly do. It’s a priest hole, been there since the pub was built.”

“Really?” said John, in a casual tone.

“It’s got stuff in it going back years.”

“Really?” said John once again.

“Oh, yes. Umbrellas, packs of cards, a couple of top hats, some flintlock pistols, even a monk’s satchel.”

Omally tried to say “Really?” but the word wouldn’t come.

“I should have a clear-out, I suppose,” said Neville. “But I never seem to find the time.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing it for you,” said John, in a curious strangled kind of whisper.

“Something wrong with your voice, John?”

“No.” John cleared his throat. “Lead me to it. I’ll clear it out right now.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t put you to the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, I assure you. Consider it my good deed for the day.”

“Well, if you really want to.”

John rubbed his hands together.

“No, it doesn’t matter,” said Neville.

“Oh, it does, it really does.”

“Well, please yourself,” said Neville. “But there’s nothing of value down there.”

“I never thought there was.”

“Oh, good,” said Neville, “then you won’t be disappointed when you don’t find the Brentford Scrolls.”

John returned to Jim’s table with the drinks. “Why is everyone up at the bar laughing?” Jim asked. “And why have you got a face like a smacked bottom?”

“Never mind,” said John, in a bitter tone.

“Am I to assume that we will be continuing our search elsewhere?”

“You are. Let’s have another look at those maps.”

“I don’t think it will help. Look here, I photocopied a present-day map of the borough. The whole place has been built over. See what stands on the site of the old monastery?”

John saw. “The police station,” he said.

“We’re not going to find it from maps.” Jim sipped some ale. “How many people must have tried before us?”

“At least two dozen in here, apparently,” said John through gritted teeth.

“What was that?”

“Never mind. All right, throw away the maps. Let us apply our wits.”

“You’re not hoping for an early result then?”

“If the scrolls exist, we will find them. Trust me on this.”

“Oh, I do. But we’ll have to come up with something pretty radical.”

“Necromancy!” said John.

“Yes, that’s pretty radical. What are you talking about?”

“Calling up the spirits of the dead.”

“Get real, John, please.”

“Spiritualists do it all the time.”

“I got thrown out of a spiritualist church once,” said Jim.

“Did you? Why was that?”

“Well, I went along because they had this guest medium, Mrs Batty Moonshine or someone, and she kept saying, ‘There are spirits here, I can see them all around, they’re trying to communicate,’ and then she said, ‘I’m getting a message for someone called John.’”

“Yes,” said John, “curiously enough they always say that.”

“And she did and there’s Johns all over the church putting up their hands. So I called out ‘Ask the spirit for John’s surname,’ and they threw me out.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I was only trying to be helpful. But I don’t think it works really, do you?”

“Probably not. But if it did and we could speak to the monk directly…”

“The only way you could do that is if you had a time machine.”

Omally laughed.

But Pooley didn’t. “That’s it,” he said.

“That’s what?”

“A time machine.”

“Did you suck a lot of lead soldiers when you were a child, Jim?”

“No, I mean it. That’s how we do it. Travel back in time.”

“Travel back to the bar and get some more drinks in.”

“No, John, I’m not kidding. I’ve been doing these mental exercises for months. Trying to travel forwards in time through the power of the mind.”

“In your search for the winning lottery numbers. I’ve tried hard not to laugh.”

“But I can only travel backwards. I relive my childhood over and over again.”

“That’s not time travel, Jim. You recall your childhood memories because they are memories. Just memories.”

“I could do it. I know I could.”

“Away into the night with you.”

“I could do it.” Jim made a most determined face.

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“I’ll get these in,” said John, taking up the glasses. “And we’ll speak some more of this.”

At a little after lunchtime closing, John and Jim were to be found once more strolling the thoroughfares of Brentford.

“All right,” said John. “We’ll give it a go. Where do you want to do it?”

“I’ve always done it on the bench outside the Memorial Library.”

“It’s a bit public there. Do it in the park.”

“Okey-dokey.”

John and Jim strolled down to the park. There were few people about, a dog-walker or two, a pram-pushing mum.

Jim sat down with his back against a tree.

“What exactly do you do next?” John asked.

“I just sort of go to sleep.”

“Oh dear, oh dear.”

“But it’s not a real sleep. It’s an altered state.”

“Are you usually sober when you do this?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You could make a noise like a road drill.”

“Why?”

“Well, they’ve been digging up the road near the library and I find the noise seems to help.”

“Brrrrrrrt!” went John Omally, trying to keep a straight face.

“Curiously that sounds just like a Vespa.”

“Raaaaaaaa!” went John.

“Not bad, but can you do it in A minor?”

“A minor,” said John. “That takes me back.”

“It takes me back also, but why does it take you back?”

“A minor. Blues harmonica. I had a Hohner. It was in A minor. The blues are always in A minor.”

“Perhaps that’s significant. Go on then, do it in A minor.”

Omally did it in A minor.

A lady in a straw hat walked by. “Shouldn’t be allowed,” she said.

John continued in A minor as Pooley settled back against the tree and readied for the off. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes. And soon the dreaming mind of Jim went once more on its walkabout.

Lottery balls went pop, pop, pop and the Blue Peter bloke-who-wasn’t poured out the same old spiel. Jim saw himself in the audience again with his left foot bandaged up. Then there it was again, the breakfast-then-the-bookies-the-bookies-then-the-pub-the-pub-then-home-for-tea

“Back,” commanded Jim. “Go back.”

“Mmmmmm,” went John Omally.

Back went Jim. To his teenage years, the Blue Triangle Club and Sandra of the rhyming slang. Then back to the childhood holidays and school and the headmaster’s room.

“Go back.”

To nursery school, the cradle, the maternity ward, then

WHACK!

And it wasn’t the sound of a door on a wall. It was a WHACK of a different persuasion.

“I’m going,” whispered Jim. “I’m off and going now.”

“Then go with God, my friend,” said John, for this seemed the right thing to say.

And so Jim drifted back.

Streets of houses rose up before him and fell away behind, women in mop caps with babies on their hips, gentlemen with high wing collars, splendid in their sideburns. Hansom cabs and broughams, horses and pony traps, then dandies in coloured waistcoats, fops and dollymops, ladies with pompadours, hoop skirts and silken drawers. Back.

Jim felt heat upon his face. Where was he now? It was hot here. In the distance rude dwellings. Jim thought himself closer. Phew! What a stink! So that’s why they were called rude. But who’s this?

Jim saw him marching over a hill, his robes blowing about him. Brown robes, knotted at the waist, bare legs and sandals. He was clutching something to his chest, something wrapped in a velvet cloth.

The monk marched ever closer.

Jim could see his face now. It was the face of an Old Testament prophet. Noble-browed, wild of eye, with a great beak of a nose, a chin thrust forward.

And on he marched. Right past.

“Hold on,” cried Jim. “I want a word with you.”

But the monk didn’t turn.

He didn’t see Jim.

But who was this?

A hooded rider was coming out of the East, as though borne on the wind. He rode towards the monk, reigned in his horse and dismounted.

“Ho there, holy father,” he cried.

“Out of my way, villain.”

Rather harsh words for a monk, thought Jim, but he stared in awe at the rider. For the rider had now pulled back his hood and his face could clearly be seen.

“I go with God,” declared the monk. “Do not stand in my way.”

“But I am God’s messenger, or rather the messenger of his messenger.” The rider smiled wickedly. “I have something to deliver.”

“I want nothing from you, odorous one. I smell the breath of Satan on you. The sulphur of the pit.”

“Your words are unappealing, monk. What have you in your bundle?”

“I have the Days of God. And God will not be denied them.”

“God may not be denied his days. But I deny you yours.”

“Stand aside, Antichrist.”

“Your days are numbered, monk. Your end is now.”

“Stand aside.”

“Recommend yourself to your maker.”

And then a blade flashed in the sunlight and the searing wind and drove in again and again.

And then Jim saw more. Much more. Horror piling on horror.

And then he awoke with a scream.

Omally was shaking him. “Are you all right, Jim? You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m OK. I’m OK.”

“You’ve a terrible sweat on you.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Did you see him? The monk, did you see him?”

“I saw him all right. I saw everything. It was terrible, John. Terrible.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It was the stuff about me in Compton-Cummings’s book. ‘Surely this is the breath of Pooley.’ An assassin came out of the East with the wind and the assassin was me.”

“You?”

“One of my ancestors. One of my ancestors murdered the monk.”

“Holy Mary!”

“He was sent by the Pope. You see, the Pope couldn’t rescind the papal bull. Those things are supposed to be inspired by God. And God isn’t noted for changing his mind. So the Pope called in an assassin to murder the monk and destroy the Brentford Scrolls.”

“And this assassin was one of your blokes?”

“He looked just like me.”

“And did he destroy the scrolls?”

“No. He tried to blackmail the Pope. Demand piles of gold for the scrolls.”

“So what did the Pope do?”

“He sent an assassin to assassinate the assassin.”

“Bastard.”

“Too right. That assassin was a Mr Scan Omally.”

“God’s teeth and trousers.”

“So then the assassin of the assassin tries it on with the Pope and the Pope gets another assassin to assassinate him. And then this assassin…”

“Does this go on for very long?”

“For years.”

“So who fetched up with the scrolls in the end?”

“One of my blokes.”

“And did he destroy them?”

“No, he buried them.”

“Where, Jim? Did you see where?”

“I saw exactly where.”

“So do you know where they are now?”

“I know exactly where they are now.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s so weird,” said Pooley. “I mean, the thing must have been locked into my genes. Part of some ancestral memory, perhaps. Passed down from father to son from generation to generation.”

“Go on.”

“I must have known all along. It’s the place I always go to, you see. My kind of spiritual haven. I’m drawn to it whenever I want to be at peace and think. I never knew why, but something inside always told me to go there.”

“So where is it, Jim?”

“The bench outside the library. The scrolls are buried in a casket underneath.”