Read Online The Brentford Chainstore Massacre by Robert Rankin - Free Book Online

what?”
    “Jim, what is going to happen on December the thirty-first 1999?”
    “A very big party.”
    “Correct. The millennial celebrations. The biggest, most expensive, most heavily funded bash in history.”
    “So?”
    Omally threw up his hands. “So the people of Brentford are actually entitled to celebrate the millennium two years earlier than the rest of the world, by special decree of Pope Gregory. He reorientated the calendar and what he decreed goes.”
    Jim opened his mouth to say “So?” once more, but he said “Come again?” instead.
    “You’re catching on, aren’t you, Jim? The Millennium Fund. Millions and millions of pounds, set aside for all kinds of projects and schemes. And the people of Brentford are actually entitled to grab it two years before anybody else.”
    “You have got to be jesting.”
    “All the details are in this book of yours. All we have to do is to quietly check whether the Pope’s decree was ever revoked, which I’m certain it never was. And then we put in our absolutely genuine and pukka claim for millions.”
    “The Millennium Fund blokes will never swallow it.”
    “They’ll have no choice, Jim.” Omally pulled a crumpled piece of foolscap from his pocket. “Now I’ve drawn up a bit of an itinerary here. Obviously as co-directors of the Brentford Millennium Committee we will require salaries suitable to our status. How does this figure seem to you?”
    Pooley perused the figure. “Stingy,” said he. “Stick another nought on the end.”
    “I’ll stick on two, to be on the safe side. So, we’ll want a big parade and a beauty contest…”
    “Belles of Brentford,” said Jim.
    “Belles of Brentford. I like that.” Omally made a note.
    “And a beer festival,” said Jim.
    “Let’s have two,” said John, “again to be on the safe side.”
    “Let’s have two beauty contests. Three, in fact. We’d be on the panel of judges, naturally.”
    “Naturally. And I thought we should build something. How about a new library?”
    “What’s wrong with the old one?”
    “The heating’s pretty poor in the winter.”
    “Right. Tear down the library, build a new one.”
    “OK,” said Omally, making a tick. “That’s the John Omally Millennial Library taken care of.”
    “The what?”
    “Well, it will have to have a new name, won’t it?”
    “I suppose so, but if you’re having a library named after you I want something too.”
    “Have whatever you like, my friend.”
    Pooley thought. “I’ll have the Jim Pooley,” said he.
    “The Jim Pooley what?”
    “No, just the Jim Pooley. It’s a public house.”
    “Nice one. I’ll join you there for a pint. Do you think we should tear all the flatblocks down and build some nice mock-Georgian terraces, or should we…”
    “John?” asked Jim.
    “Jim?” asked John.
    “John, about these Brentford Scrolls. The papal decree that papally decrees all this. Where exactly are the scrolls now?”
    “Ah,” said John.
    “And what exactly does ‘Ah’ mean?”
    “‘Ah’ means that when the monk got murdered, the scrolls disappeared. No one has actually seen them in over four hundred years.”
    Jim Pooley swung his fist once more at John Omally.
    And this time he didn’t miss.

7
    “Twenty of us in a ditch with just a bit of torn tarpaulin to keep the weather out.” Old Pete slumped back in his chair, then, gaining strength from the reaction of his audience, after-office types who had popped into the Swan for a swift half, he gestured meaningfully with the spittle end of his pipe. “That’s what I call hard times. None of this namby-pamby stuff about pyjamas and nightlights.”
    Old Pete had certainly known hard times. For after all, hadn’t he grubbed in the fields for roots to feed his four younger brothers? And didn’t he once live for three months inside a barrel, until his beard was long enough to hide the shame that he could afford no shirt to be married in? And when his uncle died in a freak