The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

26

“Who is he?” Suzy asked, over her bowl of Dilli ka sang ghosht.

“I don’t know.” Jim pushed nan bread into his mouth. “But he can read minds and he said to me exactly what you said to me when we were on the canal bridge.”

“You’re going to see this through now, aren’t you?”

“Well, I have to, don’t I? I’m part of it.”

“You’re a very big part of it. But what changed your mind?”

“Just that. That I am a big part of it. That one of my ancestors murdered the monk. That I found the scrolls. All of it. I can’t walk away. I have to do it. I know that I do. But when it’s done – if it gets done, and I get out of it in one piece I am going to ask you that question.”

“I’ll be waiting for you when you do. And the answer will probably be yes.”

“Probably?”

“You have to ask it first. Do you want to come back to my flat after we’ve finished our meal?”

“For a cup of coffee?”

“Perhaps for more.”

“Perhaps?”

“Probably for more.”

“How could I refuse? But you remember what I told you.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“You matter, Jim.”

“I do?”

“You know you do.”

“Suzy.” Jim wiped crumbs from his chin.

“Yes, Jim?”

Jim took a very deep breath. “I’m in love with you,” he said.

Suzy smiled. That fascinating mouth, those marvellous, wonderful, beautiful eyes. “I love you too,” she said.

“No,” said John. “Oh, no Jim, no Jim, no Jim, no.”

They were in the Swan now.

Lunchtime of the next day.

“I couldn’t help it,” said Jim. “The time seemed right and it just came out. And she said she loved me too. She said, ‘I love you too,’ just like that. I got all knotted up in my throat then, and I knocked a bowl of Punjabi rajma right into her lap.”

“Very romantic.”

“Do you think so? She didn’t seem to think so.”

“And you went back to her flat?”

“We did, yes.”

“And what happened?”

“We had a cup of coffee. Two cups in fact.”

“And?”

“Biscuits,” said Jim.

“And?”

“Just biscuits.”

“Then you didn’t, you know…?”

“No, John, we didn’t.”

“Jim, you have got to pull yourself together. All this soppy stuff is all right in its place. But if you don’t do the business, you’ll lose the woman.”

“Do the business?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“There’s more to a relationship than that.”

“Yes, you’re right, there’s much more. But, in my opinion, doing the business is the best part.”

Jim sighed. “I’m gagging to do the business,” he said. “But the time has to be right. I want everything to be special.”

“Believe me, Jim, whenever you do the business, it’s special.”

“Like it was for you at my PARTY, do you mean?”

Omally finished his pint. “Same again?” he asked.

“So,” said Old Pete, “there’s this, er, this…”

“Irishman?” asked a lady in a straw hat.

“Welshman?” asked Paul the medical student.

“Dwarf?” asked Small Dave.

“Er…” said Old Pete.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said John Omally.

“Bloke,” said Old Pete. “And he goes into this bar, or was it a…”

“Library?” asked the lady.

“Church?” asked Paul.

“Wendy House?” asked Small Dave.

“Some place,” said Old Pete. “And he’s with this other bloke or was it a…”

“Woman?” asked the lady.

“Gorilla?” asked Paul.

“What’s going on?” asked John Omally.

Neville did the business. This was the other business. The business that most men do much more often than the other other business.

“He’s run out,” said Neville.

“Of what?” asked John.

“Jokes,” said Neville. “He’s dried. Look at him.”

“Has this operation,” said Old Pete, “or did he go into a monastery?”

“Perhaps it was a bank,” said the lady.

“An Irishman went into a bank once,” said Paul. “He said, ‘Stick ’em up’ and the bloke behind the counter said, ‘You’re Irish, aren’t you?’ and the bank robber said, ‘How do you know that?’ and the bloke behind the counter said, ‘You’ve sawn the wrong end off your shotgun.’…”

The lady in the straw hat laughed uproariously.

“I don’t get it,” said Old Pete.

“Young Master Robert came in here earlier,” said Neville, presenting John with his pints.

“Oh,” said John. “Did he?”

“He was looking for you. I asked him about the decor.”

“Oh yes?” said John.

“He said they’d be coming in to change it all back tomorrow.”

“Oh good,” said John.

“And I gave him your home address.”

“Oh bliss,” said John. “Are these on the house, by the way?”

“No,” said Neville. “They’re not.”

“Chimpanzee,” said Old Pete. “No, nun, no chimney sweep…”

“I wonder when we’ll hear from the wee boy,” said John, returning to Jim’s pew.

“Cain? That was wrong, you know, letting him go off with the disc.”

“He seemed to know what he was up to. He seemed to know every damn thing.”

“It will all go guggy,” said Jim. “It was all too fast.”

“No it won’t, it will be fine. There was something about him, wasn’t there? Something almost inspirational. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Nor me, but I know what you mean. Very strange.”

“Very strange indeed.”

“The Midwich Cuckoo, you called him.”

“He’s a pretty weird lad.”

“Not that weird,” said Cain.

“Aaaaagh!” went Jim.

“I’ll join you in one of those,” said John. “Aaaaagh!”

“I’m sorry,” said Cain. “Did I startle you?”

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” whispered Jim. “You’re under age.”

“But this is a church, isn’t it?” Cain glanced around.

“No,” said Jim, “it’s not a church. It’s a pub.”

“Den of Vice,” said Cain. “D is for Den of Vice. Also depravity, debauchery, dereliction, dipsomania, delirium tremens…”

“Delight and dominoes,” said John.

“Dominoes?” said Jim.

“Discussion,” said John. “A place of discussion.”

“Drink not only water,” said Cain, “but take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.”

“My sentiments entirely. How did it go with the disc? Did you…”

“All wrong,” said Jim. “This is so wrong.”

“I put it into the computer,” said Cain. “In Penge, which is a very nice place, I might add.”

“You did it?” Jim shook his head. “And nobody saw you do it?”

“I don’t have to be seen if I don’t want to be.”

“Buy the child a lemonade,” said Jim. “And a packet of crisps.”

“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Cain.

“Cup of tea?” asked Clive.

“I’d prefer a gin and tonic,” said Derek.

“That’s hardly a macho drink, Derek.”

“James Bond used to drink Martini. And he was pretty macho.”

“Martini is a tart’s drink.”

“Babycham is a tart’s drink.”

“No, a Bacardi and coke is a tart’s drink.”

“Posh tart’s drink.”

“I’ve never met a posh tart.”

“Is a tart the same as a slapper?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

“It wasn’t an unreasonable question.”

“It wasn’t me going ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!’…”

“Who was it then?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!”

“Fred,” said Derek. “It was Fred.”

Clive and Derek raced along the Corridor of Power. They reached the Chamber of Power. Derek won by a short head. Clive pushed open the mighty door.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Fred again. He was standing behind his desk. The desk was still covered by the dust sheet. Not too much more had been done to the ceiling. Fred held a computer print-out in his hand. It was one of those financial jobbies. A bank statement affair. Fred went “Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!” once again.