Free The Brentford Chainstore Massacre by Robert Rankin Page B

Pooley dynasty for several generations.
    “I think that’s a watering can.” Jim gagged for breath as a boot went in.
    “A pathological fear of teapots by the sound of it,” said the second policeman. “Inspired by what, I wonder.”
    “A pathological fear of death,” mumbled Pooley. “Please don’t kick me again.”
    “The book,” said the face.
    “I threw it away.”
    “Not good enough.”
    “I gave it away, then.”
    “To who?”
    “It’s to whom, sarge.”
    “It’s too late for that, lad.”
    “Sorry, sarge?”
    “If there was going to be a running gag about grammar, it should have been introduced right at the beginning of the scene.”
    “Oh, yeah, you’re right, sarge, sorry.”
    “That’s all right, lad. Now, where was I?”
    “I think you were going to kick Mr Pooley again.”
    “Ah yes.”
    “Oh no,” wailed Jim. “I did give it away, honest.”
    “To whom?”
    “To…” Jim shook his trembling head. “I don’t remember. A bloke in the pub.”
    “Not good enough.” And the boot went in again.
    John Omally went in, stayed there for quite a while, and finally came out.
    Mrs Bryant looked up from the bed. “You’ve been a very long time washing your hands,” said she. “I was about to start without you.”
    John made a strange croaking noise. His face was as white as an albino kipper.
    “Are you all right, John? You look a bit…”
    “Call the police,” croaked Omally. “Call the police.”
    “Oh, it’s role playing, is it? What do you want me to be, a nurse?”
    “It’s not role playing and it’s not a joke. There’s something in your bathroom. Someone. All shrivelled up and dead. It’s horrible. I think it might be your husband.”
    Mrs Bryant fainted.
    “He’s out cold, sarge,” said the second policeman, lifting Pooley’s head, then letting it fall back with a dreadful clunk onto the kitchen floor.
    “Stubborn fellow, isn’t he?” said the face. “Now why do you think he would be that stubborn?”
    Policemen two and three stood and shrugged. Policeman two was still holding the teapot. “I suppose he won’t be wanting the cup of tea now,” he said.
    “Just answer the question, lad.”
    “We don’t know, sarge.”
    “Because he’s protecting someone, isn’t he? Someone he cares about. Someone he does not want to get a similar hammering.”
    “Oh yeah.” The second and the third policemen nodded.
    “So what do we have on known associates?”
    Policeman two rooted out his regulation police notebook and flicked through the pages. “Just the one,” he said. “John Vincent Omally of number seven Mafeking Avenue.”
    “Well then, I suggest we all go off to the pub for a drink.”
    “Why, sarge?”
    “Because Omally is an Irish name, isn’t it? And Irishmen are all drunken bastards, aren’t they? So we won’t expect Mr Omally to get home until after the pubs close, will we?”
    “Surely that is a somewhat racist remark, isn’t it, sarge?”
    “Not if it’s said by an Irishman.”
    “But you’re not Irish, sarge.”
    “No, lad. I’m a policeman.”
    Several police cars slewed to a halt before Mrs Bryant’s front door. Sirens a-screaming, blue lights a-flash. In the kitchen Mrs Bryant pushed Omally towards the door.
    “Just go,” she told him. “Leave all this to me.”
    “I can’t leave you like this.”
    “You must, John.”
    “Then call me. No, I’ll call you, I’m not on the phone. Look, I’m so sorry about this. I don’t know what to say.”
    “Don’t say anything, just go.”
    Mrs Bryant kissed him and John Omally went.
    He managed to leap onto a 65 bus at the traffic lights and dropped down onto one of the big back seats. He closed his eyes for a moment but a terrible image filled his inner vision. A twisted, shrivelled thing that had once been a man, slouched over the bathroom toilet. John caught his breath and opened his eyes.
    “Ah,” said the bus conductor. “I remember you, you got off this morning without