The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

17

“Aaaaaagh!” went Professor Slocombe behind him. “You fool, Jim. You craven buffoon.”

“How was I to know? The casket looked empty. You should have told us.”

“Yes.” Professor Slocombe nodded. “I suppose I should. Professional vanity got the better of me again. The watchword of magic is secrecy. The magician never divulges his knowledge.”

“We wouldn’t have cared how you did it,” said John. “Only that you had.”

Professor Slocombe shook his head sadly. “Well, we will now have to see what we can do about recovering the scrolls.”

“There was no one about,” said Jim. “Not a soul.”

“You might well have been followed.”

“I’m sure we weren’t.”

“I could have followed you,” said the Professor. “You wouldn’t have seen me.”

“John said he thought these lads might have magic too. What do you think, Professor?”

“I think it more than likely. These are not just businessmen we’re dealing with. These people kill without pity.”

“It’s the dark side of the force then, is it?” Jim asked.

Professor Slocombe raised an icy eyebrow.

“Sorry,” said Jim. “But what are we going to do?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head sadly. “I wish I knew,” said he. “I really wish I knew.”

Dr Steven Malone had a smile upon his face. It was a big smile, a broad smile, a real self-satisfied smugger of a smile. No normal fellow could have pulled off a smile like that. It takes a real mad bastard to do the job properly.

And now he chuckled. Like they do. And then he laughed. (Joe-Bob wasn’t in there with a chance.) And then he tapped his fingers on the item that lay before him on his dining table.

And that item was, in case you might not have already guessed it, Pooley’s casket.

What a joke. By sheer chance he’d been looking out of the window and seen that Irish lout who had stitched him up for fifty quid go running by with his mate. And his mate had put down the casket. And Dr Steven had crept out and filched it away.

Dr Steven examined the casket. He lifted the lid. Empty, but evidently a thing of great age. An antique and in good condition. There were jewels on this casket. They looked real enough. Dr Steven laughed again.

And then he took the lid in one hand, put his knee upon the casket, applied pressure and ripped the lid right off.

And then he laughed again.

And then he left the room.

And then he came back again, carrying something wrapped in a towel. “Here you go, little one,” he said. “Away in a manger, no crib for his bed.” And he placed the baby in the casket.

A soft and golden glow surrounded the child as it stirred from its sleep. Its eyes flickered open and stared up at the gaunt figure all in black and white.

The eyes were golden, shining as though lit from within.

And the child’s mouth moved. A gurgle and a little cough.

“Dada,” said the baby.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Dr Malone. “I am your dada. Go to sleep now.”

“Good night, dada.”

“Good night, little boy.”

“Good afternoon,” said Fred. “Any progress to report? Teatime looms; I trust you have everything under control.”

“We do,” said anonymous fellow one.

“We don’t,” said his companion. “But we’re getting there.”

“Hm,” said Fred. “I like not the sound of this. Where are the scrolls?”

“Where indeed,” said the first anonymous fellow.

“I have the fire stoked up,” said Fred. “I can add you to it. I’m not at all bothered.”

“We do have the situation under control,” said number two. “Which is to say that we are certain the scrolls are still in Brentford.”

“But you don’t actually have them.”

“Not as such, no.”

“All right,” said Fred. “Tell me all about it.”

“Well,” said number two. “Derek here…”

“Who’s Derek?”

“I’m Derek,” said Derek.

“Oh,” said Fred. “I didn’t know you actually had a name.”

“Oh yes,” said Derek. “I’ve had it since I was christened.”

“Don’t use that language in here. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you have a name too.”

“I just did,” said Derek. “It’s Derek.”

“Not you. Him.”

“Clive,” said Clive.

“Derek and Clive.”

“Live,” said Derek and Clive.

“Go on then,” said Fred. “Tell me it all. And then I’ll decide which of you I throw on the fire.”

“Derek here,” said Clive, “drugged the council chamber. It was a real hoot. I was looking in through the window. A lady in a straw hat got bonked by these stoned councillors. One of them stuck his…”

“What about the scrolls?”

“Couldn’t find them,” said Clive. “Went round to the Professor’s house, donned the old cloak of invisibility the way one does and had a good shufty about. The casket was there but it was empty. Later the two louts took it round to the local pub. Probably to sell it. We jacked it in then and came back here.”

“Didn’t you forget something?”

“No, I don’t think we did.”

“Their heads!” shouted Fred. “What about their frigging heads?”

“Ah now, we thought about that,” said Derek. “And we considered it a bit previous. Better to let the louts lead us to the scrolls, we thought. Then cut off their frigging heads.”

“So what exactly are you doing back here?”

“Dunno,” said Clive. “What are we doing back here?”

“Money,” said Derek. “We want lots of money.”

“For what? You haven’t done anything yet.”

“For bribery and corruption. Set friend against friend. Break the community spirit. They’re thick as pus from a weeping wound, these Brentonians, they all club together. A bung here and a bribe there will set them at each other’s throats.”

Professor Slocombe stoked up the fire. “What I should have done,” said he, “was to cast a spell of return over the scrolls. Then, wherever they were, all I’d have had to do was summon them.”

“Things always seem so simple when you look back at them, don’t they?” said John.

“Urgh!” went Jim. “Urgh! Uuh! Argh!”

“I do so agree,” said John. “An advanced form of Esperanto is this, or what?”

“No, I’ve got it, I’ve got it.”

“Well, don’t get any on me.”

“The old ones aren’t always the best,” said the Professor.

“No, I really have got it,” said Jim. “Things always seem simple when you look back at them. John’s right.”

“Go on.”

“Look back at them,” said Jim. “Don’t you get it?”

“No,” said the Professor. “I don’t.”

Jim sighed. “It’s so simple. I should have thought of it at once. Go back. In time. I can do that. I go back in time and see who pinched the casket.”

“Give that man a big cigar,” said John Omally.

Dr Steven puffed upon a big cigar, the way proud fathers do.

On the dining table lay the casket, in this lay the golden child. Upon the floor lay the lid and in this lay the other one.

Dr Steven stooped and peered. There was something not quite right about the other one. Only two had survived the terrible zinc tanks and they had both been cloned from dried blood from the Turin Shroud. But they were by no means identical.

The golden child exuded warmth and joy.

But this one.

Dr Steven blew cigar smoke into its face.

The features twitched. Dark they were. Swarthy. The hair was black, the eyebrows and the lashes. But there was an all-over blackness about this child. A little shell of darkness seemed to surround it. A palpable thing. Whenever Dr Steven fed it with the bottle he felt his fingers growing cold. There was something far from right about this baby.

The fact that everything about all of this was far from right eluded Dr Steven.

“What exactly are you?” asked the genetic engineer.

The baby’s dark eyes opened and they focused.

“Dada,” it said, in a deep dark tone.

“Does it need to be dark?” asked Professor Slocombe. “Should I switch off the lights?”

“No problem.” Jim settled himself on the chaise longue. “Where did Celia Penn go?” he asked.

“She went home,” said Professor Slocombe. “We had a chat. I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Secrets again.”

“Indeed. Yes.”

“And whoever knocked upon your door? Did they give you any trouble?”

Professor Slocombe winked.

“You did that. To get us off on our way.”

“I’d like to get you off on your way now, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem, Professor.” Jim closed his eyes. “Do the road drill, John.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Brrrrm,” went John.

“In A minor.”

“That was A minor.”

“That was B flat,” said Professor Slocombe. “Like the blues. The blues are always in B flat.”

“Just do it like you do it, John.” And Jim drifted off. “Om,” he went, drifting backwards.

“What is Om?” Omally asked.

“The Universal note,” said Professor Slocombe. “In Hinduism, the sacred syllable that typifies the three gods, Brahma, Vishna and Shiva, who concern themselves with the threefold operation of integration, maintenance, and disintegration. Birth, life and death. Om as a symbol is more powerful than the pentagram or cross. It represents love and love of life, without fear of death. To give and to receive this symbol is an act of love.”

“Why is Jim Omming?” Omally asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Om off to Alabama with a banjo on my knee,” sang Jim Pooley.

A long black car with blacked-out windows drew up outside the Professor’s house. At the wheel sat a chauffeur, whistling.

“Shut up the bloody whistling,” said Clive.

“I can whistle if I want to.”

“And I can rip your fucking heart out,” said Derek (him being the God-damn crazy ape-shit one-man killing machine of the partnership).

The chauffeur stopped whistling.

“So what happens next?” said Clive.

“We wait ’til they come out. Follow them and nab the scrolls.”

“Fair enough,” said Clive.

“Now I’ll tell you what I want,” said Derek.

“What you really, really want?”

“What I really, really want is a Zigger cigar.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But I really, really want one.”

“Actually I had one once,” said Clive. “But it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Hey, hang about. Are they coming out?”

“No,” said Derek. “They’re not.”

“You’re not doing it properly, are you, Jim?”

“I’m sorry, John, I can’t seem to get in the mood.”

“Should I Brrrrm some more?”

“I don’t think it will help.”

“I could put you under hypnotically,” said Professor Slocombe.

“No thank you,” said Jim. “I can manage on my own.”

“I don’t think that’s altogether true.”

“Look, it’s my magic, let me do it on my own.”

“I’m sorry. Go ahead then.”

Jim closed his eyes and drifted back. And then Jim opened his eyes and he screamed very loudly.

“Jim, are you all right?” Omally hastened to his side.

“John, it was terrible. Terrible.”

“Not the murdering of the monk again?”

“Far worse. Bodies all cut to pieces. In tanks. Women’s bodies.”

“Holy God,” said John.

“Tell me exactly what you saw.” Professor Slocombe looked Jim deeply in the eyes.

“In a basement,” said Jim. “The bloke who took the casket. He’s got a basement full of dismembered bodies. Floating in tanks. Pregnant bodies without arms and legs. It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” Jim lurched to his feet, flung himself through the open French windows and threw up all over the garden.

“That won’t please my roses,” said Professor Slocombe.

At length Jim returned, pale-faced, to the study. “Weirdest thing of all,” said Jim. “This bloke. The murderer. He was really strange. There was no colour at all to him. He was all in black and white.”

“Ah,” said John Omally. “Then we have the bastard.”