Free The Brentford Chainstore Massacre by Robert Rankin Page A

impressive. Big and burly. Two more such big and burly men lurked in Jim’s passage.
    “Police?” said Jim in a timorous tone. “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
    “We have come to search the premises.”
    “Ah,” said Jim. “Ah. I don’t suppose you have a warrant.”
    “I don’t suppose we do.”
    “No problem,” said Jim. “Only might I just ask one favour?”
    “You might ask it, yes.”
    “Well, you see, mistakes can happen. No one wants them to, but sometimes they just do. Sometimes, by mistake, a policeman will have in his pocket some piece of incriminating evidence. A cache of illegal drugs, say, or even a weapon of some kind. And whilst searching the premises of an innocent party, who has been mistakenly earmarked as a suspect, this piece of incriminating evidence might fall out of the policeman’s pocket and land, say, under a mattress, or behind a water pipe, and the policeman, in all innocence, picks it up and exclaims, ‘Well, well, well, so what do we have here?’ and the next thing you know, the innocent party is being charged with…”
    WHACK! went that sound again.
    But this time it was not the front door slamming.
    WHACK! went the celery. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
    “Would you like some chocolate powder sprinkled over it?” asked Mrs Bryant.
    “Yes please,” said John.
    Mrs Bryant brought over John’s cappuccino and sat down beside him at the reproduction olde worlde kitchen table.
    WHACK! went the celery one more time into the bowl of salt.
    “It’s always a pleasure to see you, John,” said Mrs Bryant. “Are you enjoying your salad?”
    “Very much indeed, thank you.”
    “Need any more ice cubes in your Perrier water?”
    “No thanks, it’s perfect. Very kind of you to make me a meal.”
    “You need a woman in your life. To look after you, John.”
    “What a man needs and what a man wants rarely coincide,” said the Irish philosopher.
    “Does that explain the bulge in your trousers?”
    “Oh, this.” Omally fished out Pooley’s book. “Nothing of consequence, only a history book.”
    “Just hand over the book,” said the policeman with the face, hauling Pooley to his feet and hitting him again. “We can break the place up if you want and we can break you up too. Why not spare yourself the pain? Where is it?”
    “I don’t have it.” Pooley flinched as another fist went in. “I don’t, honest I don’t.”
    “We found this, sarge,” said the second policeman.
    “It’s not mine,” wailed Jim, “whatever it is.”
    “It’s got your name and address on it,” said the face. “It looks to be the packaging of a book.”
    “I haven’t got it, honestly I haven’t.”
    “You had it earlier when you turned up at the office of the late Mr Compton-Cummings.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Never mind how. Are you going to tell us where it is, or do we have to”
    “Where’s your teapot?” asked the third policeman.
    “Aaaaaaagh!” went Pooley.
    “Mmmm,” went Omally, releasing the lower buttons of his waistcoat. “That was a splendid repast.”
    Mrs Bryant was leafing through the pages of Pooley’s book. “What is auto-pederasty?” she asked.
    “You really wouldn’t want to know.”
    “I really would.”
    John whispered.
    “That’s not possible, is it?”
    “I understand that it has its own special page on the Internet. Although I don’t exactly understand what an Internet is.”
    “I think it’s a type of stocking worn by female employees on British Railways.”
    “Well, you live and learn,” said John. “So, what shall we do next?”
    Mrs Bryant thought for a moment. “Why don’t we have a shag?” she suggested.
    “Why don’t we all just relax?” said the face. “Mr Pooley is going to tell us exactly what we want to know, aren’t you, Mr Pooley?”
    “I don’t have a teapot,” moaned Jim from the kitchen floor.
    “This looks like one,” said the third policeman, holding up a chipped enamel job that had served the