Robert Rankin - Brentford 04 - The Sprouts Of Wrath

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The Sprouts of Warth
Book 4 of the now legendary Brentford Trilogy
Robert Rankin
Foreword
Brentford was enjoying another tropical summer.
Although torrents of rain fell unceasingly upon Hounslow, Haling and Chiswick, and the gardeners of Kew
had taken to the wearing of sou'westers and fisherman's waders, the good people of Brentford lazed in their
deckchairs and sipped cooling drinks or strolled the historic thoroughfares in shorts and sunhats. Brentford was
like that.
To commuters passing daily across the flyover, bound for the great metropolis somewhat east of Haling, all
seemed mundane enough. Lines of slate rooftops sheltering late Victorian houses, a gasometer, a watertower, a
row of flatblocks. Nothing unusual here, one might have thought, nothing to inspire wonder, just another West
London suburb. A few more acres of urban sprawl. But no. There was something more to Brentford than that.
And though it was difficult to put a finger on just what that might be, it was definitely there all right. A very very
special something.
Upon a May morning, shortly before the dawn, a long black automobile of advanced design and foreign
extraction turned off the Great West Road, crested the railway bridge beside the Mowlems building and cruised
soundlessly down towards the streets of Brentford.
Upon reaching the London Road, where the Arts Centre thrust its jagged shadow up towards the night sky, the
car halted and a curiously stunted figure, clad in chauffeur's livery, emerged from it map in hand.
Having examined this carefully, by the light of a pen-torch, he tapped with caution upon a blackly tinted rear
window. The panel of glass slid away with a hiss and the
chauffeur momentarily stiffened as an exhalation of stale and stagnant air filled his nostrils. Coughing politely
into a scented handkerchief, he proffered the map to the unseen occupant of the rear compartment and said, The
site lies just beyond the building, sir, upon the island. It is the last of the five. You now possess them all.'
A sigh issued from the rear compartment, a plaintive, yet unearthly sound, followed by an agitated wheezing,
as of lungs far gone in chronic decay.
Then all is as it should be,' hissed a voice, scarcely more than a choked whisper. 'And today the plan will be put
into operation.'
The chauffeur dabbed at the cold sweat which had risen to his brow and accepted the return of his map with a
trembling hand. Even through his white kid driving gloves he could feel that the paper was now cold and damp.
He bowed stiffly, returned to his seat and put the curious vehicle once more in motion.
As the thin line of dawn broadened along the rooftops of Brentford, the car swung away towards Kew Bridge
and was presently lost to view within the shadow of the great gasometer.
1
The dawn choristers completed their rowdy ovation to the new day as the Brentford Mercury's driver tossed his
first Friday bundle in the general direction of a cornershop doorstep. On high Olympus, the Fates, nodding in
agreement across their breakfast ambrosia, declared the day officially begun.
Norman hoisted the bundle of weekly locals on to the worm-eaten countertop, where it struck with an appro-
priately dull thud and raised a glorious cloud of dust. The shopkeeper sighed with pleasure. Since the departure
of his wife with a former editor of the borough's organ he had allowed the business to run magnificently to seed. His
dust was the envy of every married man in the neighbourhood and Norman, revelling in each new pleasure
afforded to him by his unexpected return to bachelorhood, was living, as he considered it, 'life to the full'. Upstairs
last week's underpants lorded it upon the bedside rug; today's sartorial excesses stretched to a pair of odd and
undarned socks and the garish Hawaiian shirt his wife had particularly hated. Norman had also recently cultivated
a pair of ludicrous mutton-chop whiskers which he considered to be rather dashing.
'It's not a bad old life if you don't weaken,' he constantly informed his customers, adding guardedly that this was
of course dependent upon not letting the bastards (whoever they were) grind you down.
Whistling tunelessly, between teeth of his own design and construction, Norman slid the blade of his reproduc-
tion Sword of Boda paperknife through the twine bindings and spread away the pink covering to expose the
FRONT PAGE NEWS. There was always more than the merest hint
of ceremony about this weekly routine. Something vaguely akin to the mystical, although performed sub-
consciously and without the solemnity generally accorded to ritual. But such was often the way of it in Brentford.
Certain customs appeared to have acquired almost magical significance. Professor Slocombe's dawn peram-
bulation of the borough boundaries, for example, or Neville the part-time barman's daily check of the Swan's
beer engines. Such things were part of the Vital stuff of Brentford and a contributing factor towards the town's
separateness from its neighbours. Brentford lacked the cosmopolitanism of Hounslow, the upward mobility of
Haling, the young professionalism of Chiswick and the aloof urbanity of Kew. It should not be surprising
therefore to note that the initials of these surrounding territories spell out the word HECK, the nineteenth-
century euphemism for hell.
Norman flung the length of knotted twine into an overflowing rubbish box beneath the counter, leant upon the
threadbare elbows of his ragged shopcoat and took stock of the week's doings. The headline was not slow to
engage his attention: INVISIBLE MYSTIC IN CHURCH HALL RUMPUS ran the generously inked banner headline
filling a third of the front page. 'Guru Vanishes With The Takings As Fists Fly!'
Norman chuckled to himself as he read the account of how local warlock and self-styled miracle worker
Hugo Rune, having failed to make good his promise to dematerialize before a capacity crowd, had performed
an entirely different variety of vanishing act when the dissatisfied punters turned ugly and demanded the return
of their money. Fearing possible damage to the Jacobean timbers of the newly restored church hall, Father
Moity had telephoned for the police. During the ensuing punch-up there had been twelve arrests and the local
constabulary were currently seeking the whereabouts of the perfect master.
Norman shook his head and turned the page.
10
BIRMINGHAM'S OLYMPIC HOPES GO UP IN SMOKE: 'Stadium Fire Ends Drum's Olympic Dreams'. Of course
Norman had heard all this on the wireless set. The grim catalogue of mismanagement, bungling, inefficiency and
chaos had been daily news for months. As David Coleman had said, The final kiss goodbye has long been on the cards.'
'Shame,' said Norman to no-one but himself, 'I thought I'd have a crack at the javelin.'
On a lower portion of the same page was an item that any other editor might well have considered to be front-page news:
GOLD BULLION ROBBERY: Thieves Net Largest Ever Haul In Crime Of The Century'. Norman whistled once more
through his home-made railings as he read the figure. Even allowing for the exaggeration of the Mercury's cub reporter,
Scoop Molloy, there seemed little doubt that this was, as the Sweeney's now legendary 'Guv' would have put it, 'One big
blag, George.'
Exactly how the robbery had been carried out was still something of a mystery and Norman marvelled at the
ingenuity of the light-fingered gentry who had slipped unseen through the high security cordon to abscond with the
many tons of golden booty. Norman counted up the rows of noughts and tried to reconcile them into hundreds,
thousands and millions. It didn't bear thinking about.
A quick flip through the remaining pages disclosed pretty much what he had come to expect. The same tired old
stuff, although strangely comforting in its tired old sameness. Local fetes and flowershows. A listing of next week's
car boot sales. (Norman never ceased to be amazed by the public's apparent craving for car boots.) A three-page tide
table. Next week's demonstration of the art of Levitation called off due to unforeseen circumstances. The council still
flogging off portions of wasteland in a vain attempt to make the books balance. Old Sandell, the Mercury's oracle,
predicting scandal for the house of Windsor and a one-eyed Puerto Rican to win the Derby. The same old, tired old
stuff.
11
Shaking his head once more - just for the hell of it -Norman dug a biro from his top pocket and began to
number up the papers.
'An invisible guru, a gold bullion robbery and aloha to the Brum Olympics,' muttered Norman. 'Worth a bit of
chit-chat in the Swan come lunchtime, but hardly likely to change the face of civilization hereabouts.'
In the light of future events, however, Norman might have done well in discarding this particular remark in
favour of something completely different.. . possibly one of the less cheerful doom prophecies from the Book of
Revelation, or a simple The end is drawing nigh'.
But precognition had never been one of Norman's stronger points. For indeed had he possessed this rare gift
to even the slightest degree, he would not now have been unnecessarily numbering up papers which he would
shortly be delivering himself. For upon this particular morning, as on several past, Zorro the paperboy had
chosen to remain in his cosy bed rather than face the rigours of bag, bike and bull terrier.
Thus it was that with a Beefheartian air upon his lips and the dust settling thickly upon his 'mutton-chops',
Norman continued with his task, blissfully unaware that he had just glimpsed the beginning of the end. Or if
not that, then something that looked very much like it.
12
2
Not one hundred yards due north of Norman's shop, as fair flies the griffin, there stands a public house which is
the very hub of the Brentonian universe. Solidly constructed of old London stocks and fondly embellished with
all the Victorian twiddly bits, the Flying Swan gallantly withstood the slings and arrows of outrageous brewery
management. Its patrons have never known the horrors of fizzy beer or pub grub that comes 'a-la-basket'.
The Swan had grown old gracefully. The etched glass windows, tinted with nicotine and the exhalations of a
million beery breaths, sustained that quality of light exclusive to elderly pubs. The burnished brass of the beer
engines shone like old gold and the bar top glowed with a deep patina. The heady perfumes of Brasso and beeswax
blended with those of hops and barley, grape and grain to produce an enchanting fragrance all its own. Only a man
born without a soul would not pause a moment upon entering the Swan for the first time, breathe in the air,
savour the atmosphere and say, This is a pub.'
But of course, for all its ambience, redolence and Ridley Scottery, a pub is only as good as the beer it serves. And
here it must be said that those on offer were of such a toothsome relish, so satisfying in body and flavour as
might reasonably elicit bouts of incredulous head-shaking and murmurs of disbelief from the reader.
Nevertheless the eight hand-drawn ales available were of a quality capable of raising eulogies from seasoned
drinkers, their bar-side converse long hag-ridden by cliches of how much better beer tasted in the good old days.
So who then was the paragon, the thinking man's
13
barkeep, this publican amongst publicans, this guru of good alery? The tap-room tenant of this drinking man's
Valhalla?
A carpet-slippered foot flaps upon a stair-tread, the hem of a worn silk dressing-gown brushes the gleaming
mahogany top of a Britannia pub table. A gaunt shadow falls across the row of twinkling pump handles, as a
shaft of sunlight, diamond flecked with floating motes, glistens upon a brilliantined barnet. A slim, almost girlish
hand snakes out towards the whisky optic.
Surely we know those monogrammed carpet slippers, recognize the faded dressing-gown, have seen that
brilliantined head bowed as in reverence as its owner draws off a shot with that slim yet certain hand?
Yes, there can be no mistake, no doubt can remain. Neville the part-time barman, it is he.
Neville yawned, belched, scratched at his stomach and drew off a large measure of breakfast. Flexing his
rounded shoulders and puffing out his pigeon chest he downed the 'gold watch' with a practised wrist-flick and
prepared himself to face the day.
Still a-yawning, a-belching and a-scratching, yet now inwardly fortified, Neville sallied forth in search of his
weekly newspaper. Knowing Norman's paperboy of old, he did not trouble with the doormat. Last week, the
errant rag had gone to earth in one of the hanging geranium baskets, the week before that in the waste-bin.
Neville felt no animosity towards young Zorro, rather a deep sympathy, one which had its foundations in the
part-time barman's current passion: psychoanalysis.
Every successful barman is something of a natural psychologist, and of late Neville had felt his particular talents
leading him into the tortuous labyrinths of the human psyche. And jolly good stuff it all was too.
Young Zorro was a case in point. The rolled newspaper and the open letterbox were quite obviously sexual
symbols. Zorro probably had a father fixation or a subconscious desire to return to the womb. Neville also
14
considered that the root cause might lie in Zorro's mother. Perhaps she had been a victim of Brentford's notorious
fifties-flasher, whose peccadillo was to ring upon a lady's doorbell and poke his willy through the letterbox.
Conversely, his mother might have been frightened by a postman during the moment of his conception.
Anything was possible. In the cosy bedroom of Nine Noahs Ark Lane, Zorro slept on.
He was blissfully unaware of his supposed pathological disorder, simply considering that it was far easier to
chuck Neville's paper towards the door whilst cycling by, than struggle to ram it through the inadequately sized,
although beautifully polished, letterbox.
Neville slipped the bolts upon the saloon bar door and swung it open to the day. As he stood framed
magnificently by the famous portal, drawing great draughts of early morning air through his quivering nostrils
and exercising what he described as extra-nasal perception to gauge the quality of the hour, he pondered upon
where this week's Mercury might be cooling its metaphorically winged heels.
Like the legendary sleuth of old he knew that when one has eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains,
no matter how improbable, must surely be the solution. Such is all well and good of course, but putting theory
into practice is quite another thing. The prospect of rooting in dustbins and shinning up drainpipes to examine
dubious gutters held little charm. Neville sighed deeply and took a silent vow that he would deal the errant
paperboy the thickest of thick ears the next time their paths crossed, fixation or no fixation.
And there perhaps we might have left Neville, scowling and fuming and preparing to make a lone assault upon
the east face of the Flying Swan, had not a small - yet in its own way significant - event now occurred. As he
took a deep preparatory breath, the part-time barman suddenly became the unwilling recipient of a great gust of
unwholesome stench borne to him upon the formerly rose-tinted Brentford breeze.
15
'By the Gods!' squawked Neville somewhat nasally as the evil wang engulfed him. He clutched despairingly at
his nose and gagged into his hand. His tabloid now forgotten, he fanned at the fetid air and stumbled back into
the Swan, slamming the door behind him.
With a brief hiss the tinted rear window of a long black automobile parked outside the Swan sealed itself upon
the outer world. The vehicle eased away from the kerb and gathered speed along the Ealing Road. Norman,
issuing from his corner shop, bulging paperbag upon his shoulder, watched it pass. There wasn't much the wee lad
didn't know about cars, his own revolutionary alternative to the internal combustion engine, the Hartnel Harrier,
lacking but a few essential parts in the lock-up, but this one fair had him foxed. Not only was it utterly silent,
but it also lacked all evidence of exhaust pipes. Norman scratched at his head, raising small clouds of dust. Now
how was that done, he wondered? Antimatter drive? Plasma photon ionizers utilizing a cross-polarization of beta
particles to bombard an inter-rositor through the medium of a sub-atomic converter? It seemed a most logical
probability. Making a hasty note upon the back of a Woodbine packet, Norman hefted his bag and set out upon
his paper-round.
16
3
The elevation of Ms Jennifer Naylor the former local librarian, to the posts, not only of town clerk but also
chairperson of the town planning committee, had been met with howls of dismay and much bitter resentment by
the predominantly male council.
They had always been prepared to find a place for a token female (as long as she .confined herself to the taking
of minutes or the brewing of tea) but now it seemed to them that they were paying a high price for their generous
liberality. Ms Naylor was proving herself to be a force none of them had reckoned with. Loath as they were to
admit that she had gained her positions through intellectual prowess and sheer strength of personality, noses were
tapped, knowing nods exchanged and phallacious conclusions drawn. The talk was that she had 'done a turn' upon
some mythical council casting couch.
Acutely alert to the distinctive rattle of tiny minds, Ms Naylor remained unperturbed. Her sights were set
upon far higher things, which included Parliament and an eventual shot at the premiership amongst them. Con-
founding her opposition here in Brentford was, she considered, good practice for what lay ahead.
As she showered upon this particular morning, Jennifer's thoughts were upon the coming day. She had been
up since dawn making a number of very important phone calls. If the Fates were with her today she would
shortly be issuing the borough a kick up the trouser-seat such as it had never known before, and carving for
herself a place in history, to boot. And then? One small step at a time.
The needles of water became gentle cascades as they
17
struck the contours of a body honed to aerobic perfection. Her shower concluded, she patted herself dry with a
peach-coloured bath towel, sprayed deodorant to the appropriate quarters, attended to the minutiae of feminine
toilette and finally dressed herself in a confection combining sophistication and understated elegance with
provocativeness and heaving sexuality. Just so.
Having examined her image in the cheval glass and found it satisfactory, she strode purposefully back to the
bedroom, delved amidst the pale satin sheets and withdrew by the ear a certain bit of rough, by name John
Omally.
Thank you, John, and time for the off,' she said, smiling sweetly. Omally, who knew upon which side his particular
piece of bread was buttered, dressed hurriedly and without complaint, and made off sans coffee and croissants.
He left as he had entered, with discretion, by the back door, withdrew his bicycle Marchant from Jennifer's
garage, mounted up and pedalled away.
She tossed the bed linen into the laundry basket, set the answerphone, swept up Filofax, executive briefcase and
Porsche keys and made her departure from the front of the house.
Omally free-wheeled down Moby Dick Terrace towards the Half Acre, his old sit-up-and-beg whirring away
beneath him like a good'n. The oil-bathed ball-races of the new Sturmey Archer purred contentedly and the similarly
well-oiled saddle springs afforded John's bum the contentment of all but concussion-free cycling. Bike and rider
moved in harmonious accord and many was the Buddhist monk, who, recognizing this exhibition of dharma, tipped
his head towards this perfect union of man and machine. It was a joy to behold. But it had not always been so.
The bike had been with Omally a good many years and for a good many of those years their relationship had been
strained and at times positively painful to the both of them. And so it would no doubt have remained had not
18
Chance, if such it was, chosen to intervene. Chance in the person of Professor Slocombe, Brentford's patriarch and
resident man of mystery.
Omally had been pedalling with difficulty across the Butts Estate, an elegant Georgian quarter of the borough,
when he had found himself discharged from Marchant's saddle to land in an untidy heap before the elder, who was
standing at his garden door.
Professor Slocombe observed the 'accident' and the subsequent violent attack Omally visited upon the prone
bicycle and chose to intervene. Having calmed the truculent Irishman, he listened with interest to his tale of woe
and requested that the bike be left in his care for twenty-four hours. In order to see 'what might be done'. John,
whose immediate thought was that the ancient was adding the science of bicycle maintenance to his seemingly
endless list of accomplishments, gratefully acceded to his request.
It was therefore much to his surprise when arriving on the morrow he received for his troubles a large piece of
parchment upon which was penned thirteen stanzas of archaic English. These read like the prophecies of
Nostradamus and to John made precisely the same amount of sense. The Professor told him that, should he
follow these requirements to the letter, he would find things very much to his advantage. Omally perused the
parchment, his forehead furrowed with doubt. Whilst he was so doing, the Professor added that regular oiling was
a necessity as was a change of brake blocks, a realignment of the dynamo and a set of new mudguards.
Whenever possible the bicycle was to be left facing west when parked, sunshine being preferable to shade, that
it was never to be left alone at night, but always in the company of another wheeled conveyance (or at the very least
a lawn mower), that it was to be repainted vermilion and referred to at all future times by the name 'Marchant'.
Omally peered furtively at the old man. This was a wind-up surely, in fact the wind-up to end all wind-ups.
19
The Professor, who read not only John's aura but also his thoughts, raised a finger, slim as a twig, and said simply,
Trust me, John.'
Omally left Professor Slocombe's that day leading Marchant thoughtfully by the handlebar. It really didn't
seem worth the candle. It would probably be better simply to dump the old bike and acquire another (Omally being one
of those who considered an unpadlocked bicycle public property). But his trust in the Professor was implicit, so before
he was half-way to the Flying Swan he had resigned himself that he would take up the challenge.
The parchment proved a great attraction to the lunch-time patrons and a distinguished panel of semanticists, Old
Pete, Norman and Omally's closest friend Jim Pooley, set about its translation with relish. As the instructions were
teased into twentieth-century Brentonian, their curious nature became apparent. Stanza nine, lines three and four,
proved of particular interest:
Ne'er Widdershins must Marchant go lest peril and ill luck bestow.
Old Pete, who had recently joined the local coven, picked up on it almost at once. 'It means,' said he, 'that the bike
must never be ridden around left-hand corners, on fear of terrible consequence.'
Omally buried his face in his hands. To plan one's route whilst only ever turning to the right was not only ludi-
crous, it was downright dangerous. Especially upon drunken nights when the gutter led the way home.
But power to the Irishman's elbow, he had persevered, and many a late-night reveller was left to wonder at the
madman upon the vermilion cycle crying, 'Homeward Marchant!' as he drove about in ever-decreasing circles,
eventually to vanish like the Oozalem bird of ancient myth into his own back passage.
They had been difficult times and no mistake, but now as Omally pedalled effortlessly up the steep incline of
Sprite Street, they were no more than memories. He and
20
Marchant were en rapport, as the garlic eaters will have it, and the degree of this was remarkable in the extreme.
For, to the trained observer, skilled in such matters as bicycle propulsion, watching the cyclist's easy motion as
he crested the hill, one thing would have been readily apparent: As man and bike moved in fluid harmony, one
vital something - hitherto considered an essential prerequisite to bicycledom - was missing. The pedals turned,
the wheels spinned, but nothing whatever moved between the chainwheel and the Sturmey Archer cog . . .
Omally's bicycle Marchant did not have a chain.
21
4
Ted McCready blew his whistle, waved his flag and watched with absolutely no interest at all as the early train
pulled out of Brentford Central. He was precisely sixty-six days from his Gold Watch And Retirement Speech and
he no longer gave a monkey's. In fact, like many an old locoman who had gone before him, he had ceased to give
a monkey's with the passing of the age of steam. Ted could recall the young boys who clambered on to the
footplates of the great locos, or lined the bridge parapets to be bathed in steam as one of the mighty King Class
thundered beneath at full throttle, whistle blowing. But that had all gone now. The romance of railways was
behind him and with it had gone the pride. No-one could honestly feel for an electric train. It had no
personality, no being, no glory. It was just another carriage, but with a motor in it.
Half-heartedly, Ted offered a two-fingered Harvey Smith towards the departing train and shuffled away to
his cosy office, his morning cuppa and the next chapter of Farewell My Window (a Lazlo Woodbine thriller).
Upon the platform a solitary figure remained, the only passenger to alight from the morning train. He was
tall, gaunt and angular in appearance, clad in a Boleskine tweed three-piece. From his right hand hung a heavy
pigskin valise, from his left a black Malacca cane with a silver mount. A small white ivory ring pierced the lobe
of his left ear and a pair of mirrored pince-nez clung to the bridge of his long aquiline nose. A pelt of snow-white
hair turfed his narrow skull. Such was the singular appearance of this solitary traveller and such it was that had
put the wind up many a case-hardened veteran of the criminal
22
fraternity. For this was none other than that doyen of detectives, that Nemesis of ne'er-do-wells - Let evil doers
beware, let felons flee and varlets vanish, run the sound, roll the cameras, cue the action - enter Inspectre Hovis
of Scotland Yard.
The man behind the mirrored specs turned his sheltered gaze upon Brentford Central. 'You there!' His voice tore
along the platform, striking Ted McCready, who was turning into his sanctum sanctorium, from behind.
'By the love of St Pancras!' The station master clutched at his palpitations and lurched about.
That's right, I mean you, porter chappy! Up this way at the trot, if you please.' A shaft of sunlight angling down
through the ironwork of the footbridge held the great detective to perfection.
'You talking to me?' choked Ted, squinting towards his tormentor.
That's right, my man, at the double!' Hovis indicated his pigskin valise. 'Let's be having you.'
With bitter words forming between his lips, Ted humped the heavy case down the platform. He'd had a trolley
once, but it had rusted away. He'd had a porter once, but he had been cut back. He'd had a hernia once ... With his
free hand Ted felt at his groin. He still had a hernia.
Ahead of him the spare frame of Hovis bobbed along to an easy stride. A voice called back across an angled
padded shoulder. 'Pacy pacy, Mr Porter,' it called. Tempusfugit.'
Ted McCready stared daggers into the receding back. He was the first man in Brentford to encounter the great
detective and by this token, the first man to really hate him. He would by no means be the last.
23
5
Omally turned right at the traffic lights, right again and finally right into Ganesha Lane. Marchant rattled over the
uneven cobbles and John spread wide his legs as they swept down into the alleyway that led past Cider Island
to the weir, the abandoned boatyards and the venerable Thames.
John dismounted as they reached the weir. Weird and wonderful Marchant might have been, but he did not
include the climbing of steps as part of his metaphysical repertoire. Omally shouldered his bike, skipped up the
steps and continued on his way, whistling brightly.
Suddenly, the bright and breezy, devil-may-care jauntiness of his step vanished, to be replaced by a furtive,
shifty, quite definitely guilt-ridden scuttle. Omally was up to something.
A slowing of pace, a quick shufti over the shoulder, a sudden movement. A section of corrugated iron swings
aside and a boy and his bike vanished from the footpath and were lost to view.
Beyond the iron fencing, the long-abandoned boatyard slumbered. The pointless walls of the derelict buildings
were decked with festoons of convolvulus, the windows swagged with cobwebs. Here and there the tragic
debris of the once proud trade showed as tiny islands amidst a grassy ocean. Here a crane, strung like a fractured
gibbet, there the gears and gubbins, over-ripe with rust. Capstans and winches, pulleys and blocks, blurred with
moss, weatherworn and worthless. At a quayside beyond, the dark hulk of an ancient barge wallowed in oily
water.
Once the glittering island boatyards, strung like a necklet about the borough's throat, had prospered. Here the
24
barques and pleasure boats, the punts and Thames steamers had taken form from the hand-hewn timbers,
fashioned with the care of craftsmen. Now it was no more, here and there a yard survived heavily secured with
barbed wire and night-prowling dogs, knocking out plastic dinghies or casting fibre-glass hulls for Arabian
moguls. Floating gin palaces for camel jockeys. The life had gone, and that particular form of melancholia
which haunts places of bygone commerce washed over the buildings in waves of lavender blue. For blue is the
colour of tears and water, sea and sadness.
Omally left Marchant to rest upon a handlebar, the reflected glory of the early sun cupped in his headlamp.
Hitching up his trousers, he set out to wade through the waist-deep grass towards the ancient barge.
Upon reaching the edge of the wharf he again paused to assure himself that he remained unobserved. When so
assured he dropped down on to the barge and tapped out an elaborate tattoo upon the hull.
A head popped up from the inner depths and a voice, that of Jim Pooley, owner of the head, called out,
'Watch-amate John, you're bloody late!' Omally shinned through the hatchway and down into the bowels of the
wreck.
The interior presented a most surprising and unexpected appearance. Over a period of many months Pooley
and Omally had effected a conversion of a most enterprising nature. The superannuated vessel now housed a
distillery, a series of grandiose fish tanks, wherein lazed river fish of prize-winning proportions, a storehouse
for 're-routed' goods and a comfortable salon for the entertaining of special guests.
A line of portholes below waterline looked out upon a string of elaborate fish traps set above the distillery
cooling tubes. This was the headquarters of what was known to a select few as the 'P and O Line'. There was
much of Captain Nemo's 'Nautilus' to the thing, but there was a good deal more of Fagin's kitchen. Although, in
evidence for the defence, it must be stated that John and
25
Jim drew the line before coining, or the manufacture of hard drugs.
Pooley and Omally took their morning coffee in the forward salon. The style was essentially eclectic. A hint
of Post-Modernism here, a touch of rococo there, several boxes of video cassettes just behind the door. A pair of
blown glass vases, signed by Count Otto Boda himself, adorned a chromium table of the high-tech persuasion. An
antique paisley swathed a gaudy sun-lounger, three china ducks flew nowhere.
Omally stuck his feet up on the Le Corbusier chaise and Pooley leant upon the Memphis-style cocktail cabinet
dunking a breakfast biscuit.
'Well,' said Jim when he finally tired of the sight of his partner's inane grin. 'Good night, was it?'
Omally's smile resembled that of the legendary Gwynplaine. 'Propriety forbids a disclosure of details,' he said as
he dandled his demi-tasse, 'but it was magic.'
'I'm so glad.'
The two drank on in silence, Omally mentally replaying selected highlights and Pooley glowering with evident
envy. When he could stand no more of that Jim said, 'We got four, they must be five-pounders easily.'
Omally raised his eyebrows and smiled his winning smile. 'Well now, Neville will take one for the Saturday
sarnies and another for his freezer, I have no doubt.'
'Wally Woods will take the other two then.'
Omally frowned - briefly, for the effort vexed him. Wally Woods, Brentford's foremost purveyor of wet fish,
was a cold and slippery little customer. 'No,' said John. 'We'll do them off in Baling, at the King's Head or the Fly's
Home.'
'As you please.'
Omally finished his coffee and refilled his cup from the snazzy-looking percolator. 'How are the accounts shaping
up?' he asked, in a tone of casual enquiry.
Jim raised an eyebrow of his own. He was well aware that the Irishman had logged within his curly head the
26
dismal sum of their current assets. 'If this business was legitimate,' he sighed, 'we would be in for a tax rebate.'
Omally shook his head. 'Sometimes I think that we slave away so hard in our attempts to avoid honest toil
that we shall work ourselves into an early grave through the effort.'
'You are not suggesting we . . .' Pooley spoke the dreaded words in a whisper, 'get a jobT
Omally winked. 'Not a bit of it. We are free men, are we not? And is freedom not the most valuable possession a
man can own?'
'Well. . .' said Jim. A sudden image of Jennifer Naylor's Porsche unaccountably filled his mind. 'Well
'Of course it is,' Omally went on. 'We live life to the full and do you know why we do it?' Pooley thought that he
did, but suspected he would not get the opportunity to say so. 'We do it for the crack,' said Omally, confirming Jim's
suspicion.
'Ah!' said that man, 'the crack, that lad.'
That lad indeed and,' said John, who was evidently in loquacious spirits, 'I will tell you something more.'
'I have no doubt of it.'
'At ten o'clock, Jim, you will walk into Bob the bookies.'
'I always do.'
'But today will be different.'
'It always is.'
'Because today you will place a bet which on the face of it will appear so ludicrous that he of the golden gonads will
rock to and fro upon his chair doubled up with laughter.'
'He always does,' said Jim.
'You will ask him what odds he will give you,' John continued, 'and between the tears of mirth he will say
something like ten thousand to one, possibly even more if he is feeling particularly rash,'
Jim scratched at his head. Ten thousand to one?' he queried.
'At the very least, you will bet ten pounds, and pay the tax.'
27
Ten pounds?' Pooley clutched at his heart. 'All at once? Ten pounds?'
Omally nodded, 'I myself will wade in with a oncer.'
'A oncer?'
'Certainly, to show that I have the courage of my convictions. Ex unque leonem, as the French will have it.'
Here he pulled from his pocket the said groat note, which by its appearance was evidently a thing of great senti-
mental value, and presented it to Pooley.
'Gosh!' said Jim. 'All this and money too.'
'No idle braggart, I.'
'Perish the thought. But do tell me, John, exactly what shall I be betting on?'
'You will be betting on a sure thing.'
'Ah,' said Jim, without conviction, 'one of those lads.'
'One of those very lads. Straight from the horse's mouth this very morning. A little bird whispered it into my ear
and I do likewise into yours.'
'You seem to hold considerable sway with the animal kingdom.'
'It is a sure thing.'
'At ten thousand to one?'
'Would you care now that I whisper?'
'What have I to lose, saving the nine pounds?'
Omally leant forwards and poured a stream of whispered words into Pooley's left ear. Jim stood there
unblinking. A piece of chewing gum upon his instep attracted the attentions of an ant.
'Ah,' said Jim at length, when Omally had run dry of words.
'Ah,' said John, nodding enthusiastically.
'No,' said Jim. The word is no.'
The word is yes, Jim, the word is yes.'
'No, no, no!' Pooley shook his head in time to his 'nos'. 'Never, and again no.'
John put his arm about his best friend's shoulders. 'Believe in me,' he said. 'Would I steer you on to a
wrong'n?' Jim chewed upon his lip in hesitation, and as the
28
old saying goes, 'he who hesitates is banjoed'. Then you'll do it, Jim?'
'Why not?' Pooley sighed pathetically. 'I will be the laughing stock of Brentford, the butt of all ribaldry in the
Swan for months to come, a veritable byword for buffoonery, what do I have to lose?'
'But think what we might do with our winnings.' 'You cannot be serious, John, you are telling me that...' Omally
clapped a hand across his partner's mouth. 'Not even here,' he said, pressing a free finger to his lips. 'Walls have
ears.' Jim shrugged and sighed simultaneously. 'Now then,' John continued brightly, 'I suggest you bung a couple
of free-rangers into the old non-stick and have a bit of brekky. We have a busy day ahead and I've a couple of
phone calls to make.'
Shaking his head in dismay, Pooley dug eggs and sausages from the fridge. The bangers were Walls. They
didn't have any ears.
29
6
At shortly after nine: Norman returned from his paper-round whistling a tuneless melody which may or may
not have been 'Dali's car'. Just before he reached his shop, however, he discovered to his chagrin that he still
had a single copy of the Brentford Mercury in his bag. Being uncertain as to whether he had posted one to
Neville when he first set out upon his round he popped it through the Swan's letterbox. Just to be on the safe
side.
The part-time barman, who was still recovering from not only his undeserved nasal larruping but also the
trauma of discovering the first ever copy of the Mercury to arrive on his doormat, looked up in horror at the
arrival of the second and quickly reached for his dog-eared copy of Krafft Ebing's Psychopathia Sexualis.
At shortly after nine-fifteen: Inspectre Hovis strode into Brentford police station. He awoke the snoozing duty
officer with a summary blow to the skull from his silver-topped cane, identified himself and poured forth a
torrent of instructions, demands, directives, exactions, mandates, impositions, requisitions and ultimatums.
Pausing only to draw breath and savour the bewildered sergeant's look of horror, he asked, 'Are you receiving
me?'
'Loud and clear, sir, loud and clear.' Sergeant Gotting's head bobbed up and down between his blue serge
shoulders. He was only the second man in Brentford to encounter the great detective, but he was the second to
really truly hate his guts.
At shortly after nine-thirty: Jennifer Naylor steered her
30
Porsche into the council car park. Binding, the scrofulous attendant, lurched from his sentry box and put up his
hand. 'Pass?' he demanded.
Jennifer generally let him do this several times before winding down the window to enquire what exactly he
wanted. Today, however, she was in a hurry. Regarding him as she might a dollop of poodle-doo on her Gucci
instep, she indicated the pass, affixed as ever to her windscreen.
Binding leant forward, his ghastly hands deep at some nefarious activity within his trouser pockets. He examined
the pass and what he could of Jennifer's cleavage by turn. At length, evidently satisfied that each was in order, he
mumbled, Til guide you in,' and turned to view the all but empty car park with a thoughtful gaze. There's one over
there in the corner by the bottle bank.' But his words were lost amidst a squeal of expensive rubber as Jennifer spun
摘要：

TheSproutsofWarthBook4ofthenowlegendaryBrentfordTrilogyRobertRankinForewordBrentfordwasenjoyinganothertropicalsummer.AlthoughtorrentsofrainfellunceasinglyuponHounslow,HalingandChiswick,andthegardenersofKewhadtakentothewearingofsou'westersandfisherman'swaders,thegoodpeopleofBrentfordlazedintheirdeckc...

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