The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

20

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock, knock, knocking at the Professor’s door.

Well, no, actually it didn’t.

I mean, don’t you just hate all that “What else could possibly happen?” stuff. It’s like those dreadful TV sitcoms, where the lead character says, “No way! There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do that!” and the scene fades out and then fades in again to reveal that he is doing just that. And then the canned laughter machine goes into overdrive. Oh, ha ha ha, very funny indeed!

So there wasn’t any KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKing and nothing horrendous whatsoever befell Jim and John for the balance of the night.

All right, so it could be argued that it would have been a lot more fun if something had. But these chaps are only human, you know. And they’d had a very rough day. How much more could they take?

At a little after ten of the morning clock, nearly fifty people stood, sat or generally lounged about in Professor Slocombe’s study. Gammon moved amongst them, dispensing drinks and those Ferrero Rocher wrapped-up chocolate things that are dead posh.

There were Professors a-plenty here. Professors of linguistics, Professors of theology, Professors of history, Professors of this thing, that thing and the other. Learned men were these, who held seats. Seats of this thing, that thing and the other. Media men were much in evidence, Scoop Molloy holding court amongst them. And the Mayor of Brentford had been invited too. He was accompanied by several members of his gang, dubious Latino types with names such as Emilio and Pedro, who favoured sleeveless denim jackets, brightly coloured headbands and impressive tattooing.

And most of the town council were there, and Celia Penn was there, and a lady in a straw hat who had been passing by was there. She was there with her friend called Doris, who had also been passing by. They were chatting with a couple of cabinet ministers, one of whom used to play the blues with John Coltrane. And of course Pooley and Omally were there, and so too was Norman Hartnell.

Fred was not there and neither were Derek and Clive.

Professor Slocombe called the meeting to order, made a brief speech regarding the history of the scrolls and the Days of God, and then invited each Professor in turn to view the documents and make their informed pronouncements regarding authenticity.

One after another these scholarly fellows leaned low over the Brentford Scrolls, cocked their heads from one side to the other, smacked their lips and tickled their noses. Then they withdrew into a little cabal in the corner, whispered amongst themselves, turned as one and gave Professor Slocombe the old thumbs-up.

“Gammon, the champagne,” said the Professor.

By two of the afternoon ticker, the champagne bottles were shells of glass and all the dead posh chocolates eaten, farewells had been belched out, hands had been shaken. Professor Slocombe sat down at his desk. John and Jim stood with their hands in their pockets and quite foolish looks on their faces.

“You did it, Professor,” said Jim. “You did it.”

“You did it, Jim,” the ancient replied.

“Well, we all did it,” said John. “But it’s done. We’ve cracked it. Brentford will host the millennial celebrations two years ahead of the rest of the world. And it’s official.”

“Yes.” Professor Slocombe rolled up the scrolls. “These will now go, under heavy security, to the Bank of England. And I will prepare myself to perform the ceremonies. We shall triumph, gentlemen. We shall triumph.”

“We certainly shall.” John took out his little notebook. “Now where exactly should we start, I wonder?”

“With the Jim Pooley,” said Jim. “Definitely the Jim Pooley.”

Omally nodded thoughtfully. “Or possibly the John Omally Millennial Massage Parlour.”

“Are we knocking down the flatblocks for Pooley Plaza straight away, do you think?”

“We’ll have to give that a lot of thought. I’m not quite certain where the best place to build Omally’s will be.”

“Omally’s?” Jim asked. “I don’t think you mentioned Omally’s.”

“It’s a casino. Very exclusive.”

“I bet it’s not as exclusive as my one’s going to be.”

“How much do you want to bet?”

“Gentlemen?” Professor Slocombe raised a pale thin hand. “Gentlemen, what exactly do you think you’re talking about?”

“How best to spend all the millions from the Millennium Fund,” said John. “Great care must be taken to do the job properly. You can rely on us.”

“I’m sure that I can. But hate as I do to rain on your parade, what makes you think that the Millennium Fund will contribute one single penny to your schemes?”

“Well, they’ll have to now, won’t they? What with the scrolls and everything.”

“You really think so, do you?”

“Yes I do,” said John.

“And so you’ll be asking Fred personally, will you?”

“Won’t Fred have to cough up?” Jim’s face took on a look of alarm. “Won’t he be made to?”

Professor Slocombe shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so for one moment. He will not draw attention to himself by actively refusing outright. On the contrary, when interviewed by the media, I expect he will be all smiles and generosity. But, but, when it comes to actually handing over any money, he will prevaricate, tie you up in paperwork more tightly than a Blue Peter presenter in a cling film codpiece.”

“You mean…” John’s jaw dropped.

“Not a penny,” said the Professor. “Not a bean, not a farthing, not an old bent nickel. Zero, zilch. I’m sorry.”

“But…” John’s jaw hovered in the dropped position.

A small sigh escaped from the lips of Jim Pooley. Though small, it was so plaintive, and evocative of such heart-rending pathos, that had there been a King Edward potato present this sigh would have brought a tear to its eye.

“Don’t do that,” said John. “You’ve made all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.”

“But, John, but, oh oh oh.”

“Look at him,” John told the Professor. “You’ve made him cry now.”

“I’m not crying. I’m just, oh oh oh.”

“Jim,” said the Professor. “You mustn’t be downhearted. What you have done by finding the scrolls is something so wonderful that mere money could never reward you. You will go down in the annals of history as the man who changed the world.”

“Will I get a pension?” Jim asked.

“Probably not. But certainly a round of applause. Would you care for one now?”

“Not really.”

“Well, that’s that then. So it only remains for me to thank you on behalf of the people of the world. Wish you well in whatever field of endeavour you choose next for yourself. And bid you a fond farewell. I’d offer you a late lunch, but I have much to do and you must be pretty stuffed with all those chocolates you’ve eaten.”

“Not particularly,” said Jim in a grumpy tone.

“Well, eat all the other ones I saw you sticking in your pockets.”

“So is that it?” John shrugged hopelessly.

“That’s it. I must prepare myself for the ceremonies. I have a great deal to do over the coming months.”

“So we’ll say goodbye, shall we?”

“Yes. Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye then, Professor.”

“And goodbye to you, Jim, and thank you very much indeed.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, Jim. Just one thing before you go.”

“What is that?” asked the sorrowful one.

“Only this.” Professor Slocombe rose from his desk and strode over to Pooley. He stared him deeply in the eyes and nodded thoughtfully. “One clouted ear, a pair of black eyes, a bloodied nose, a grazed chin and a dented forehead.”

“And a few cracked ribs,” said Jim. “Not that I’m one to complain.”

“Well, you deserve better than that.”

“On this we’re both agreed.”

“Kindly close your eyes.”

Jim closed his eyes.

Professor Slocombe whispered certain words and passed his hands over Jim’s face. “You can open them now,” he said.

Jim opened his eyes. Professor Slocombe held up a small hand mirror. Jim gazed into it.

“I’m cured,” whispered Jim. “All my bumps and bruises gone.”

“The very least I could do. Farewell to you now, Jim, and may God go with you.”

“Give us another chocolate,” said John.

Jim rooted in his pockets. “Here you go,” he said. “And that’s the last one.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It’s the last one you’re getting.”

“Oh, I see.”

As the library bench was now in Old Pete’s back garden, John and Jim sat on the rim of the hole, their feet dangling down.

“I don’t even have a bench to sit on any more,” sighed Jim.

“The scrolls are yours,” said John. “By the Finders Keepers law, or whatever. You could sell them. They must be worth a few bob.”

“I don’t think the Professor would be very happy about that.”

“It’s outrageous.” John made fists and shook them in the air. “After all we’ve been through, we come out of it with absolutely nothing.”

“So no change there, then.”

“We’re not beaten yet.”

“I think I am.”

“Oh no you’re not.”

“Oh yes I am.”

“You’re not,” said John. “And neither am I. There must be some way for us to get our hands on all that money. If it wasn’t for Fred…”

“We could kill Fred,” said Jim.

“Kill Fred?” Omally shook his head.

“Well, it’s not as if we wouldn’t be doing the world a favour. He is in league with the Devil, after all.”

“So we should kill him?”

Jim shook his head, then lowered it dismally. “No, of course not. But if he wasn’t in charge of all the Millennium money, maybe then we could get a share of it.”

“There’s wisdom in your words, Jim Pooley. Perhaps there might be some way to oust Fred and get someone favourable to our cause into his position. Me, for instance.”

“Or perhaps we should just forget the whole damn thing. Put it down to experience, go off about our business.”

“And what business would that be?”

Jim made grumbling sounds. “I shall continue with my time travelling. I’ll get forward eventually. And when I do…”

Omally now sighed, something he rarely did. “There’s a fortune to be made in this millennial celebrating and we are the ones who should be making it.”

“No.” Jim shook his head once more. “I’ve had enough, John. We nearly got killed yesterday. And we nearly got killed the day before. And we nearly got killed the day before that. Today no one has tried to kill us. Tomorrow, I hope, will be even better. I’m quitting, John. I’ve had it. Honestly.”

“Come on, man.”

“No, John, I quit. No more mad schemes. No more risks to life and limb and sanity. I’m going home to bed. I may well remain there for a number of days. If not for ever.”

“Jim, this is a temporary setback, nothing more.”

“I’m sorry, John.” Jim climbed wearily to his feet. “Enough is enough. Goodbye.”

“No, Jim. You can’t go like this, you can’t.”

“Look, John, if I call it quits now, at least I can survive this day unscathed. I mean, what else could possibly happen?”

And so saying, Jim turned dismally away, slipped upon the loose soil and fell heavily into the hole.