Read Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls Online
Authors: Robert Rankin
Tags: #sf_humor, #Fiction, #General, #Humorous, #Rock groups, #Brentford (London; England)
Soap stared in horror.
No, the glint of sunlight on a telescopic sight.
“I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to do something.” Soap took to flapping his hands. He turned to the technician and shook him all about. “Can I get on the speaker system? Warn her in some way? How?”
“There isn’t a mic in here. We’ve only the tape deck for playing music”
“Then stick something loud on. We can distract her.”
The technician shrugged as Soap shook him all about some more. “I don’t have any tapes,” said he, well shaken.
“No tapes! Aaaaaaagh!” Soap let the technician drop. “No, wait. Wait.” He fumbled in his pocket and dragged out Ricky’s silence tape. “Stick this on,” Soap told the technician. “Stick this on and turn it up full blast.”
The technician slotted the tape into the deck and Soap ran from the control room.
The front runner in that other race, the eight o’clock from Brentford, galloped through the gates into the park.
“Whoah!” went Dave, pulling in at the reins. “Whoah there, boy, and hold it.”
Norman gaped at the mighty congregation staring as one at the stage. And then the voice of Litany reached him and Norman sighed. “It’s her.”
“It’s who?” Small Dave gave a shiver. “I say,” he said, “that voice. It makes me feel all—”
Scream went the scream of police car sirens.
“Head for the hills,” said Norman.
“I can’t see any hills,” said Dave, “so I’ll head for the house instead.”
In the house Dr Trillby was going through changes, none of which seemed very nice.
“Ooooooooch!” he went, and “Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuurgh!”
“Just leave the watch alone,” said Leviathan. “Then I’ll stop twisting your arm.”
“Get off me, you—”
“Time’s up, Lev,” said Gressil. “Time for my go now.”
“It’s never your go,” said Balberith. “You had the last go, it’s my turn.”
“I’m dealing with this.” Leviathan heaved Dr Trillby about, lifting him from his feet.
“You’ll damage him like that.” Gressil grabbed Dr Trillby’s legs and dragged him down to the floor. “Get out and let me do it. You’re not working him properly.”
“I work him the best,” said Balberith. “I can make him do really gross things.”
Leviathan took control of Dr Trillby’s right leg and kneed Balberith in the balls. “See,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Right, you bastard. I’ll have you for that.”
Balberith took a swipe at Leviathan and tore off Dr Trillby’s left ear.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Dr Trillby.
“Now look what you’ve done,” said Gressil. “He’s all lop-sided.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Balberith. “Let me tear off the other one.”
“No!” wailed Dr Trillby.
Leviathan moved his left leg and kneed Gressil in the balls.
Gressil doubled over in pain and bit off Dr Trillby’s—
“ !” went Dr Trillby, as Gunnersbury House and Gunnersbury Park went suddenly suddenly—
SILENT
Silence boomed out of the speakers. Stereo silence, at that. It drowned out every sound in the park, down to a grasshopper’s fart.
Litany stood upon the stage. Her mouth sang nothing but silence. TV sound crews plucked at their headphones, as thousands of men in black T-shirts rooted about in their ears.
Through them pushed Soap Distant, struggling up to the stage.
On the roof of the red and white limousine Porkie shook at Wingarde’s head. There was nothing but absolute silence, within it and without. Porkie focused Wingarde’s eye. The cross-hairs of the telescopic sight focused on Litany’s forehead.
Porkie tightened Wingarde’s finger on the trigger.
Pulled it back slowly and—
Everything happened at once.
Four plain-clothed policemen brought Soap Distant down.
Three warring demons in Gunnersbury House tore Dr Trillby to shreds.
Two police cars, suddenly silent, swerved out of control and crashed.
And one unicorn, with two men clinging to it, leapt over a red and white limousine that was parked in the way on the drive. They were yelling, the two wild horsemen were. Yelling “Get out of the way!” But they couldn’t be heard. The silence was deafening. And the man on the roof had his back turned to them and couldn’t hear their warnings.
Had his back turned and was leaning slightly forward. Sort of half-crouched, with his bottom sticking out. Just in the act of firing a gun was what he seemed to be.
And as the unicorn leapt its horn drove deep. Drove deep and up and through.
Click
went the silence tape, running out.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” went Porkie.
It was horrible.
Truly horrible.
All who saw it agreed as to just how horrible it was.
The thousands of fanboys who turned at the terrible sound all agreed. And most were instantly sick.
The two men on the unicorn who saw it at such close quarters agreed. The one at the back was sick.
And the dazed Irishman, climbing from the limo, only wounded in the beard, agreed. But he wasn’t sick at all.
Omally stared up at the horrible sight. The dead body skewered on the unicorn’s horn, the gory tip protruding through his mouth.
Omally stared and Omally nodded and then Omally spoke.
“Do you want me to get him down?” he said. “Do you want me to pull off The Pooley?”
Dog Called Nero
(Another Goddamn hero)
I once had a dog called Nero,
Said Varicose-Billy Knid.
And he was a Goddamn hero
With all the things he did.
Like rescuing children out of streams,
Doing the pools, interpreting dreams
Solving riddles and playing chess,
Teaching the gentry how to dress.
Swimming the Channel,
Strumming the uke.
Taking tea
With the Queen and Duke.
Coughing for doctors,
Guessing the chart,
Sizing up seamen,
Pulling a cart.
Giving the dead-leg and getting it back,
Walking the pavement avoiding the crack.
Sniffing out dope for the excise men,
Holding his own in a chat about Zen.
I once had a dog called Nero,
Said Varicose-Billy Knid.
But Varicose-Bill is a queero,
And I don’t believe he did.
So, did it have a happy ending?
Did Geraldo manage to undo the knots and tie up all the loose ends?
Could anyone?
Well, yes, given time.
And Geraldo had plenty of that.
And so it came to pass that upon a beautiful warm spring Tuesday evening, of a kind that we just don’t see any more, there came a ringing on the bell of number seven Mafeking Avenue, Brentford.
The occupier of the residence, a Mr John Omally, skipped up the hall and opened the door and greeted the man on the step.
“Watchamate, Jim,” said John.
“Watchamate, John,” said Jim.
The man on the step was Jim Pooley. John Omally’s bestest friend.
“Come on in,” said John Omally.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jim.
“No, hold on,” said John. “I was coming out.”
The two friends strolled up Mafeking Avenue and turned right into Moby Dick Terrace.
“So,” said Jim. “What do you fancy doing tonight?”
“Well,” said John. “I have heard that there’s this band called Gandhi’s Hairdryer and that they have this really amazing lead guitarist and they’re playing at the Shrunken Head tonight and I thought we could go.”
Pooley shook his head.
“No?” said John. “Not keen?”
“I hate that pub,” said Jim. “I would rather have my genitalia pierced with fish hooks than spend an evening there.”
“Oh well,” said John. “As you please. Let’s go to the Swan instead.”
The two friends walked on up Moby Dick Terrace. And as they turned another corner into another of the elegant Victorian terraces of Brentford, John Omally raised a thumb behind his back.
From a nearby alleyway another John Omally raised a thumb in return. This was a slightly older version, heavily bearded and somewhat battered about. He stood in the shadows, in the company of a gent dressed all in black. This gent sported a Tipp-Ex complexion and a see-through hooter and this gent raised a thumb also.
“Well,” said Soap. “I think that went rather well. Your former self obviously believed everything his future self, which is to say yourself, spent the afternoon telling him. So to speak.”
Omally nodded his beard up and down. “I’ll tell you what though, Soap,” said he. “There are still a good many unanswered questions.”
“Really?” Soap scratched at his fibre-optic top-knot. “Well, I’m sure that I can’t think of any.”
“No, but I’m sure there’d be people who could.”
“Then they would be right miserable buggers, wouldn’t they?” said Soap.
To which John nodded. “Yes, they would. And so,” he continued, “we still have plenty of time on our hands, or should I say on our wrists. So how about taking a little jaunt or two to see what we might see?”
“Oh no,” said Soap, with much shaking of the head. “We promised Geraldo that we would just come back here, to this time, so that you could talk yourself out of seeing the Gandhis and save Jim Pooley’s life. Now that’s done, we should give these watches back.”
“Agreed,” said John. “And we will, but, do you know what, Soap? I’ve always wondered just what it would have been like to have seen Hendrix play at Woodstock.”
“Hey, John,” said Jim as they strolled towards the Swan. “You like a bit of music, don’t you?”
“You know that I do, Jim, yes.”
“Only, last night I was watching the Woodstock video, and you’ll never guess what. There was a bloke in the audience right at the front and he looked just like you.”
Omally shrugged. “Let’s go to the Swan,” said he.
“OK,” said Jim, “although, I’m thinking, why don’t we give the Swan a miss tonight and go to the pictures instead?”
“Fair enough,” said John. “What’s on?”
“Well, there’s one I’d like to see at the new Virgin Mega-centre in Ealing Broadway. Charles Manson starring as
The Terminator
.”
High above the Atlantic Ocean and many miles from God knows where, a hot-air balloon drifted. In the basket stood a chap with a toothy grin and a lovable beard.
The chap’s name was Prince Charles. And he was lost.
“Help,” went the Prince. “Is there anybody there? May Day. May Day. May Day.”
It was a case of either Multiple Personality Disorder or Demonic Possession, depending on your particular belief system. However, given events which are soon to occur, it is safe to assume the latter.
2Actually, Stevie Ray Vaughan got an even bigger sound out of his Strat by fitting it with heavier strings. Some even up to .013 gauge. (These things matter.)
This of course being John's heated swimming pool and John's Rolls Royce. For managers get twenty-five per cent.
He was never confused with the other Norman Hartnell, because no one could remember who the other Norman Hartnell was.
As a matter of interest, it would be one of Zorro's descendants who, as a paper boy himself, would one day punch Tripper number one upon the nose.
For those few who might be unaware of the fact, the borough of Brentford is enclosed within the boundaries of a triangle, formed by the Great West Road, the Grand Union Canal and the River Thames. Things do go on outside this triangle, but not things of very much interest.
Lest the discerning reader think to spy a monstrous plothole looming, yes, Soap did run into Pooley earlier in the evening. Just after he'd made his escape from the police station. Which was just before Jim reached John's house. Which was when he told Jim about Branson being on the poundnotes.
And also, evidently, a master of disguise. For he bore no resemblance at all to the John Omally positively identified from the surveillance video footage of him leaving the Flying Swan with Soap Distant.
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