The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

29

And the band played “Believe It If You Like”.

A big brass band it was, of big beer-bellied men. They had such smart uniforms, scarlet with golden sashes, the borough’s emblem of the Griffin Rampant resplendent upon them. And big black shiny boots and trumpets and cornets and big bass bassoons.

And they marched through the Butts Estate and they played “Believe It If You Like”.

And children cheered and waved their Union Jacks.

And old biddies cheered and fluttered their lace handkerchiefs.

And old men nodded their heads to the beat.

And a lady in a straw hat said, “They’re playing in the key of C.”

And a medical student named Paul said, “Oh no they’re not.”

And the weather forecast said “no rain”. And the winter sun shone brightly and today was a special day indeed.

Today was New Year’s Eve.

John Omally glanced at his gold Piaget wristwatch. (Well, he had been able to wangle one or two expenses.) “Nearly four,” said he. “Where is Jim?”

Norman Hartnell hurried up.

“Any word of him?” John asked.

“No,” said Norman. “It’s the same all over. You were the last person to see him, John. The night before last.”

“What about his girlfriend? He said he was going there.”

“She’s not home. I’ve rung loads of times, but I don’t get any answer. And I don’t have the time to keep doing this for you. Do you think the two of them have…”

“What?” Omally stiffened. “Run off together? Eloped or something?”

“It’s more than possible. He’s well smitten, that Jim.”

“No.” Omally made fierce head-shakings. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without telling me.”

“Perhaps he was afraid you might talk him out of it.”

“Oh no.” Omally glanced once more at his wrist-watch. If he himself had been able to hive off enough expenses to purchase this, Jim might well have been salting away sufficient cash to do a runner. His need was the greater of the two.

John suddenly felt quite empty inside. Somehow the thought that he and Jim would not remain best friends for ever had never really entered his mind.

They were a team. They were the lads.

They were individuals.

“I have to get back to the brewery,” said Norman. “I’ve got crates of ale coming out of the old de-entropizer and I have to get them over to the Swan. I’ll see you later at the fireworks, eh?”

But John did not reply.

In that house in Moby Dick Terrace, where the old folk died from most unnatural causes, Dr Steven Malone paced up and down. In the sparsely furnished sitting room, with its curtains drawn and a single low-watt ceiling bulb creating gloom, the floorboards creaked beneath his feet and the two tall men sat in armchairs regarding him in silence.

“Tonight,” said Dr Steven, “we return to Kether House. I have made all the preparations. Tonight you will learn my purpose and I will learn all…”

Cain opened his mouth to speak.

“No, Cain, only listen. I brought you into being just for this. Do you know who you really are?”

“I am Cain,” said Cain. “And you are my father.”

“And you, Abel? What of you?”

“I am part of Cain,” said Abel. “He is part of me. The two of us are one.”

“This is so. And tonight you shall be joined. The two made truly one and at the moment of this joining…”

“We shall die,” said Cain.

“For we belong dead,” Abel said. “Is that not so, father?”

But Dr Steven did not reply.

Professor Slocombe’s study had been cleared of every antique book, every glass-cased creature, every precious artefact, each table, chair and couch. The sconces from the walls had gone, the curtain rails. The carpets, rugs and dhurries. And the walls and the ceiling and the floor and all the woodwork and the very panes of glass in the French windows had been painted black. And on the blackened floor, wrought in white, the sacred circles had been drawn enclosing the hexagram, that six-pointed Star of Solomon, the great seal of the mysteries. And the names of power had been inscribed between the outer circle and the inner. ADONAI and MALKUTH and AUM and TETRAGRAMMATON.

And at the very centre of the hexagram, wrought in red, the sacred symbol Om.

There were no candles in this room, no lamps of any kind, but an astral light illuminated all.

Gammon knelt in silent prayer as Professor Slocombe, in the seamless floor-length robe of white, the robe of the Ipsissimus, intoned the words to cleanse the temple, and begin the operation.

The Lesser Ritual of the Pentagram

And touched his forehead, saying Ateh (Unto Thee) And touched his breast while saying Malkuth (The Kingdom) And touched his right shoulder, saying ve-Gaburah (And the Power) And touched the left, saying ve-Gedulah (And the Glory) And clasping hands upon the breast, he said le-Olahm, Amen. (To the Ages, Amen).

Gammon rose and, bowing to the East, the South, the West and then the North, he said, “I will leave you now, sir. Blessed be.”

Professor Slocombe did not reply.

Fred sat in his office with his feet up on the desk. The dust sheets had gone and the scaffolding was down. The paintings were up again and so were Fred’s spirits.

Derek and Clive stood to either side of Fred. Derek had a nice new gun. A small but useful-looking weapon. An Uzi nine-millimetre. Clive held a little black bag. Something wriggled uncomfortably within it.

Before Fred’s desk stood Jim Pooley.

And Jim didn’t look very well.

“You’ve got a bloody nose again, Jim,” said Fred.

Derek giggled. “He got a bit boisterous. I had to give him a little slap.”

Jim trembled and knotted his fists. “Where is she?” he spat through gritted teeth. “What have you done with her?”

“She’s safe enough for now,” said Fred. “Although I know that Derek is just dying to get to know her a little better.”

“I’ve filled up my fridge,” said Derek. “I’ve got some real prize-winning fruit and veg.”

Jim turned on Derek. Derek just held up his gun.

“You’ll do exactly what we want you to do, won’t you, Jim?” Fred smiled a smile of such pure wickedness that even Dr Steven Malone would have been hard pressed to match it.

“What do you want me to do?”

“A small act of sabotage, nothing more.”

“Where is Suzy?”

“Nearby. Safe for now.”

“I want to see her.”

“Well, you can’t. Now what was I saying? Ah yes, a small act of sabotage. Clive here has a little bag. Did you notice Clive’s little bag?”

Jim said nothing.

“You wouldn’t want to look inside. There’s something deeply unpleasant in there. Something unworldly.”

“Go on, show him,” said Derek. “It frightens the shit out of me.”

“Derek did a shit in the Suzy woman’s bed,” said Clive. “And he didn’t wipe his bum afterwards.”

Pooley’s knuckles clicked.

“What you are going to do, Jim, is to take Clive’s little bag to the house of Professor Slocombe and at the stroke of midnight, as he is bringing his ritual to its climax, you are to open the little bag and release what is inside.”

“Never,” said Jim.

“Jim, you will do this, or the next time you see Suzy there will only be certain pieces you recognize. Now, in case you are thinking of pulling any strokes on us, let me introduce you to this.” Fred opened a drawer and took out a small black electronic item. He extended its aerial and pressed a tiny red button.

Pain exploded in Jim’s head. He sank to his knees and screamed.

Fred touched the button again. Pooley looked up, fear and hatred in his eyes.

“Have a little feel of your right temple, Jim.”

Pooley felt with a shaking hand.

“Feel that little lump?”

Pooley nodded.

“An implant, a tracking transmitter. We put it in you during your stay at the Cottage Hospital. We know exactly where you are at any time. And if you’re not where you’re supposed to be at midnight, we will be terribly upset. Derek and Clive will be waiting outside in the car with your girlfriend. Be a good boy and you can have her back unharmed. Play me false and I’ll know.” Fred touched the button and Jim collapsed once more.

Fred touched the button again and Pooley looked up.

“You are going to be a good boy, aren’t you, Jim?”

But Pooley did not reply.

Old Pete sat at the bar counter of the Road to Calvary, a most miserable look upon his face.

“What troubles you, Old Pete?” asked Neville the part-time barman. “This is a day for celebration, half-priced beer until midnight.”

Old Pete sniffed. “Take a look at this,” he said, and reaching down he brought up a carrier bag and placed it on the counter.

“What’s in there?” asked Neville.

Old Pete rooted in, lifted out what looked to be a toy piano and a toy piano stool. Rooting again he lifted out what appeared to be a tiny man in a dress suit.

Old Pete placed the tiny man upon the bar top. The tiny man bowed, clicked his fingers, sat down upon the stool and rattled out “Believe It If You Like” on the piano.

Neville stared, his good eye wide.

When the tiny man had finished, Old Pete snatched him up and thrust him, the piano and the stool back into the carrier bag.

“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” said Neville.

“Huh!” said Old Pete, in a depressed tone.

“What do you mean, ‘Huh’?”

“Well, let me tell you what happened. I was walking down by the canal earlier and I saw this woman drowning. I pulled her out and she said to me, ‘Thank you, sir, for saving my life.’ I said, ‘No problem,’ and then she said, ‘I am a witch and to thank you properly I will grant you a single wish.’…”

“She never did?” said Neville.

“She did,” said Old Pete. “But she was either a bit deaf or had water in her ears, because I now possess this ten-inch pianist.”

“I’ve heard it before,” said Neville.

“Everyone’s heard it before,” said Old Pete. “But it’s a blinder of a joke, isn’t it?”

“A classic. Same again?”

“Cheers,” said Old Pete.

“But surely…” said Norman. “I mean, you have… I mean…”

“What?”

Norman Hartnell shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll figure that out, given time.”

“Amber bottle tops,” said Neville.

“Sorry?” said Norman.

“Amber bottle tops this week, red last week, green the week before.”

“Oh yes,” said Norman. “Amber this week. Don’t serve anything else, will you?”

“I am a professional,” said Neville. “Do I have to keep on telling you? And what would happen if I did make a mistake? It would hardly be the end of the world, would it?”

Norman did not reply.

The big brass band played the theme tune from Blue Peter. The world-famous Brentford Girls’ School Drum Majorettes high-stepped and baton-twirled; carnival floats manned and womanned by Brentfordians who had actually spent their Millennium grant money on what they said they would followed behind.

These fine-looking floats were constructed to display tableaux from Brentford’s glorious past.

Here was a great and garish Julius Caesar, fashioned from papier mache, dipping his toe in the Thames, prior to crossing it down by Horseferry Lane. Here were the king’s men, ready to hammer the parliamentarians at the historic Battle of Brentford. Here too the Bards of Brentford, the poets and playwrights, the literary greats, born to the borough and now beloved the world over.

And there was, well, there was – er…

Moving right along, here come the all-ladies over-eighties synchronized paragliding team.

And the band played “Believe It If You Like”.