The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

  ‘Fetch a glass for yourself, Gammon,’ said the Professor. ‘We should all celebrate this together.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, sir,’ said the retainer, taking a swig from the bottle. ‘Oh, do excuse me. I had a bit of trouble getting back from Budgens, what with the army having closed off most of the streets and declaring martial law––’

  ‘And everything,’ said Jim.

  And Everything

  The champagne glasses clinked together, toasts were called and soon the bottle emptied.

  Professor Slocombe sat down at his desk and placed his hands upon the casket. ‘Before I open this,’ he said. ‘I am going to ask you to close your eyes for a moment of silent prayer.’

  Jim looked at John. And John looked at Jim.

  ‘Something serious is coming, isn’t it?’ said Jim.

  ‘Something very serious. Just humour me.’

  Sunlight streamed in through the French windows. And outside in the magical garden the birds ceased their singing. As the four men closed their eyes and held their breath, the air within the study seemed to offer up a sigh. And just for a second, or two, or was it ten, or was it a lifetime of seconds and minutes and hours and days, there was absolute peace and tranquility.

  Absolute.

  And then the moment passed. Each man exhaled and somehow felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. As if they had lain themselves utterly bare. And had experienced something so special and so moving that it physically hurt.

  ‘Something happened,’ said Jim, clutching at his heart. ‘Something wonderful happened. What was it?’

  Professor Slocombe smiled. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Something wonderful is just beginning.’ He put his hands to the casket’s lid and lifted it. And then the study air filled with the scent of lilacs.

  John Omally crossed himself. ‘The odour of sanctity,’ he whispered.

  ‘Correct, John, the perfume that issues from the incorruptible bodies of the saints.’

  Professor Slocombe spoke the Latin benediction, reached into the casket and took out something wrapped in a red velvet cloth. And this he laid upon his desk. Gently turning back the covering he exposed the scrolls. Latin-penned, embossed with the papal seal.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Oh yes indeed.’

  ‘It is them, isn’t it?’

  The snow-capped scholar looked up at the man with the electric hair-do, the two black eyes and the bloody nose. “You have been through quite a lot for these, haven’t you, Jim?’ he said. ‘But do you really know just what you’ve found?’

  ‘The Brentford Scrolls,’ said Jim, proudly.

  ‘The Days of God,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Jim, you may very well have altered the entire course of human history through your discovery.’

  ‘Sandra’s––’

  ‘No,’ said John. ‘No, don’t say that.’

  Professor Slocombe spoke. ‘When Pope Gregory changed the calendar from the Julian to the Gregorian, he did it for purely practical reasons. There was nothing mystical involved. But, you see, the precise date of Christ’s birth had never been known for certain. The coming millennium, the year 2000, is only an approximation. The Pope wasn’t aware that when he signed the papal bull authorizing the Days of God, he would be creating the wherewithal for someone in a future time to ensure that the millennium was celebrated on the correct day of the correct year.

  ‘But does that really matter?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Oh, absolutely, Jim. If you had studied the science of magic for as long as I have, and practised it with, dare I say, some moderate degree of success, you would understand that precision is everything. For a working to be successful, each magical building block must be precisely aligned. If one is missing or out of place, the entire metaphysical edifice collapses. But if all are precisely fitted together, the seemingly impossible becomes possible. “Natural” laws are transcended, higher truths imparted, wisdoms revealed. If the exact day of the exact year on which the millennium should be celebrated passes by without the appropriate ceremonies, its magic will not become manifest.’

  ‘But what magic is this? You’re not talking about Armageddon or the end of the world, or dismal stuff like that, are you?’

  ‘On the contrary. If the ceremonies are performed on the correct day of the correct year something marvellous will occur. Something unparalleled. Something that will change the world for ever.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jim. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘What did you feel just now, when you closed your eyes in prayer?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly.’ Jim shook his head. ‘But it was something wonderful.’

  ‘Imagine feeling like that all the time. Imagine a state of heightened awareness and understanding. Of inner peace, of tranquillity, of love, if you like. Yes, love would be the word.’

  ‘And you’re saying that if the millennium is celebrated on the correct day of the correct year, everyone will experience that?’

  ‘It is the next step,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘The next evolutionary step. The next rung up the ladder. Or, more rightly, a further turning of the wheel. The holy mandala that takes us nearer to godhead by returning us to it. All was born from THE BIG IDEA, all will ultimately return to it.’

  Jim opened his mouth. ‘I’m speechless,’ he said.

  ‘Just one thing, Professor.’ John put up his hand. ‘I have been listening carefully to all you have said. And you said that the precise date of Christ’s birth had never been known for certain.’

  ‘That is precisely what I said, John, yes.’

  ‘Does that mean it is known now?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And you know it?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Then tell us,’ said Jim.

  Professor Slocombe smiled that smile of his, and spoke some more. ‘When you came to me the night before last, asked me about the scrolls and told me of your plan to have Brentford celebrate the millennium two years before the rest of the world, you will recall that I laughed. I did not laugh because the idea was preposterous, I laughed because, whether through luck (perhaps) or judgement (perhaps not) or fate, you had it right. Right upon the nose and the button. The correct date is December the thirty-first. The correct year, this very one.’

  It was teatime, or thereabouts, when John and Jim left the Professor’s house. Martial law had been lifted and but for the occasional burned-out car or shattered shop window there was nothing to suggest that things were not as they always had been in Brentford.

  But they were not.

  And John and Jim knew that they were not.

  John and Jim knew that something very big was about to happen, something very big indeed. And it scared them not a little, though it thrilled them also.

  They spoke few words as they strolled along, hands in pockets, heads down, kicking the shell of a CS gas canister, whistling discordantly. Outside the Flying Swan they stood a while in silence.

  And then John took a breath. ‘And so,’ said he. ‘We have heard all that the Professor had to say. We have dwelt upon it. We are mystified, we are bewildered, we are fearful, we are rapt in wonder. But, are we not men?’

  ‘We are Devo,’ said Jim.

  ‘We are John and Jim,’ said John. ‘Occasionally daunted but never done for.’

  ‘I assume all this bravado is leading somewhere.’

  ‘It is leading to this. The Professor may be correct in all that he said. On the other hand, it might turn out to be a load of old blarney. But whatever the case, we found the scrolls. And the scrolls are authentic. And in celebration of this, I suggest we up our salaries as directors of the Brentford Millennium Committee.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Jim.

  ‘Let’s double the blighters.’

  ‘Let’s do that very thing.’

  And so they did.

  ‘What did St Patrick say when he drove all the snakes out of Ireland?’ asked Old Pete.

  The patrons at the bar
shook their heads.

  Corner-shopkeeper Norman Hartnell said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He said, “Are you all all right in the back there?” ’ Old Pete awaited the hilarity.

  None, however, came.

  ‘Surely,’ said Norman, ‘that’s a somewhat surrealist joke.’

  ‘The elephant’s cloakroom ticket,’ said Old Pete.

  ‘Two pints of Large please, Neville,’ said John Omally. ‘Jim’s paying.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘The least you can do. Considering your inflated salary.’

  ‘And two whisky chasers, Neville,’ said Jim.

  ‘What’s all this?’ asked Old Pete. ‘Got yourself a job, Pooley? I thought you were registered at the Job Centre as a snow-shifter’s mate.’

  ‘Such days are behind me, Pete. John and I are to be men of substance. There are great times ahead for Brentford, and we are the men you will be thanking for them.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Old Pete. ‘Very kind of you.’

  Neville did the business. ‘So, John,’ said he, with a grin upon his face. ‘I assume this means you found the Brentford Scrolls.’

  The patrons erupted into laughter. Norman Hartnell slapped his knees and croaked and coughed.

  ‘Easy, Norman,’ said Old Pete.

  Norman straightened up. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But “Are you all all right in the back there?” Brilliant.’

  Neville wiped a tear of mirth from his good eye. ‘Come on, John,’ he said. ‘Only joking.’

  Omally shrugged. ‘No problem at all. But I have not found the Brentford Scrolls.’

  ‘Tough luck,’ said Neville.

  ‘Jim has found them.’

  Further hilarity.

  ‘Very good,’ said Neville. ‘Very droll.’

  ‘They’re with Professor Slocombe,’ said John.

  ‘Well, they would be, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘No,’ said John. ‘They really are with Professor Slocombe. Jim did find them.’

  ‘Were they lost, then?’ asked Norman. ‘Only when you said about me getting a directorship on the Brentford Millennium Committee, you led me to understand––’

  Omally whispered figures into Norman’s ear.

  Norman whistled. ‘That’s a most substantial salary. I will be able to buy that particle accelerator I wanted now.’

  ‘Hold on. Hold on.’ Neville put up his hands. ‘A joke is a joke, John. But Jim has not found the Brentford Scrolls.’

  ‘Have too,’ said Jim.

  ‘Has too,’ said John.

  ‘As if,’ said Neville, sauntering off to polish glasses.

  ‘What do you want a particle accelerator for?’ Jim asked Norman.

  ‘To accelerate particles, of course. What did you think?’

  Jim shrugged. ‘Are you currently in inventor mode, then?’

  ‘I am building a de-entropizer.’

  ‘Ah,’ said John. ‘One of those lads, eh?’

  ‘It’s for the sweeties,’ said Norman informatively.

  ‘I give up,’ said Jim. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  ‘Well.’ Norman sipped ale. ‘You know what entropy is, don’t you?’

  Jim made a thoughtful face and then he unmade it.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Norman. ‘Well mimed. Entropy is how everything falls apart into chaos rather than order. Eventually culminating in the heat death of the universe when everything that can be burned up will have been burned up and there’s nothing left. I am working on a device to de-entropize. Reverse the process. It’s for the sweeties, as I said. My shop is full of jars of old sweeties. They’re quite inedible but I can’t bring myself to part with them. Old folks come in and wistfully look at them and remember the good times.’

  Old Pete made a wistful face that was quite out of character. Then, in keeping with the law of entropy, he said, ‘Knackers.’

  ‘My device’, Norman continued, ‘will de-entropize my sweeties. Reconstitute them. Break them down to their atomic substructure then rebuild from the nucleus up. I hope to have it on-line by the end of the week. Then I shall produce sweeties the way sweeties used to taste, because they will be those very sweeties.’

  John Omally grinned. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Ideal for the millennium. Sweeties the way sweeties used to be.’

  ‘Any chance of doing it with beer?’ Jim asked.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Neville.

  ‘No offence meant,’ said Jim.

  ‘Once the process has been perfected, then I suppose I could do it with anything.’ Norman sipped further ale. ‘Beer, wines, spirits.’

  John Omally took out a little notebook and wrote the words The John Omally Millennial Brewery at the top of an empty page.

  Scoop Molloy, cub reporter for the Brentford Mercury, now entered the bar. His head was bandaged and his left arm in a sling. John and Jim turned away. As no mention had been made so far of the riots and mayhem, especially by Old Pete, who now had a nice library bench in his back garden, low profiles were the order of the day.

  Scoop limped up to the bar and ordered a half of shandy.

  Neville, who abhorred such abominations, and cared not for members of the Press, topped it up from the drip tray. Scoop downed it in one. ‘Same again,’ he said.

  ‘Been in an accident, Scoop?’ asked Old Pete, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘A spot of bother, yes.’

  ‘You do have an exciting time of it. Nothing ever happens to folk like us.’

  ‘There was a riot,’ said Scoop. ‘Stone-throwing mobs, baton charges, special forces helicopters.’

  ‘Really?’ Old Pete stroked his grizzled chin. ‘My pension day. I must have missed it.’

  ‘And I missed it too.’

  ‘Then what happened to you?’

  ‘Bloody mad doctor.’ Scoop swallowed further drippings as Neville looked on appreciatively. ‘I got word that something weird had happened at the Cottage Hospital the night before last. And I go around to see the duty physician, Dr Steven Malone. And I say, “Hello, my name is Scoop Molloy from the Brentford Mercury.” And he puts me in an armlock and throws me down his front steps.’

  ‘Occupational hazard,’ said Old Pete.

  ‘Yeah, well, I accept that. But I missed the bloody riots and now I don’t have a story for tomorrow’s paper.’

  John Omally turned. And so did Jim.

  ‘Oh yes you do,’ they said.

  14

  Now we’ve all heard about the Corridors of Power. But their exact location is not altogether certain. Are they in Westminster, or in Whitehall? Or are they perhaps underground corridors, where the real rulers of our country, those beloved of conspiracy theorists, edge and sidle in a low light? And why Corridors of Power anyway? What goes on in corridors, for pity’s sake? Don’t these people, whoever they are, who do whatever they do in these corridors, have rooms to do whatever it is in? Chambers of Power, that’s what they should have.

  But maybe they do. And all this talk of corridors is just to throw us off the scent.

  This corridor was big and broad and high of ceiling. One wall was dressed with enormous canvases, framed in heavy gilt. Biblical scenes most seemed to be. All very Judgement Day. John Martin’s Fallen Angels Entering Pandemonium was there, which was odd, because it should have been in the Tate. And Goya’s terrifying Saturno, which should have been in the Prado, Madrid. And La Chute des Anges by Frans Floris definitely should have been in the Koninklijk Museum, Antwerp. And so on and so forth. Evidently whoever had clothed the walls of this particular corridor with the robes of fine art had ACCESS. And they also had sense enough to keep the curtains drawn on all the windows in the wall opposite. The light was low in this corridor. And it was gentle and the temperature was regulated. This had to be a Corridor of Power!

  And so it was.

  Two figures appeared through a doorway at the end of this corridor. They were a good way off. A very long corridor was this. The two figures marched fo
rward. In step. Determined. They wore identical grey suits and, given the preponderance of art here, it might have come as no surprise to find they were none other than Gilbert and George.

  But they were not. They were just two anonymous-looking blighters you wouldn’t have thought to look at twice.

  They stopped before a mighty door. Straightened clothes that didn’t need straightening. Then one or other of them knocked.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, went this knocking as had knockings previous. Although these KNOCKS really echoed. K-N-O-C-K they went.

  ‘Come,’ called a voice from within.

  And those without pushed upon the mighty door and entered.

  The room within revealed itself to be nothing less than a Chamber of Power. There could be no mistake. The furniture, the fixtures, the fittings. The Faberge, the famille, the Fantin-Latours. The ferns, the fiddle-backs, the finery. This was one effing Chamber of Power.

  And furthermore.

  With his feet up on the fender and a flat cap on his head sat a fleabag of a fellow by the name of Fred.

  Fred was filing his filthy fingernails with a flake of flattened flint.

  ‘Friends,’ said Fred.

  ‘Fred,’ said the friends, fondling their forelocks.

  ‘Forget the forelock-fondling,’ said Fred. ‘Fetch over that form and fill me in the facts.’

  One of the anonymous duo fetched over the form and both of them sat down upon it (which must have meant that it was a bench, rather than a piece of paper).

  ‘There’s been a flipping foul-up,’ said the form-fetcher.

  ‘Foul-up?’ said Fred.

  ‘Foul-up,’ said the fellow who hadn’t fetched the form.

  ‘Foul-up?’ said Fred.

  ‘Foul-up,’ said the first fellow. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Fred. ‘What are you feckless furtlers on about?’

  The form-fetcher unfolded a newspaper and displayed its front page.

  BRENTFORD TO HOST MILLENNIAL

  CELEBRATIONS TWO YEARS EARLY

  and it’s official

  ‘Frig me over a firkin!’ said Fred, and fell off the fender.