The Sprouts of Wrath (5 page)

The brothers Paul and Barry Geronimo sat in the police cell, handcuffed together. A more disconsolate pair of renegade redmen it was hard to imagine. With his unmanacled hand Paul nursed the Victoria plum which had ripened upon his left temple. Barry made dismal groaning sounds as he tested his many tender spots for signs of fracture. At great length it was he who was the first to speak. “Mum is not going to like this,” he said simply.

Paul made as to affect a surly frown which caused him considerable pain. “This mean warpath for certain,” he muttered. “Many scalps decorate lodge before teatime.”

Barry glanced sidelong at his bandaged brother. “Paul,” he said, “Paul, you really are quite certain about us being the dual reincarnation of Geronimo, aren’t you? I mean, there couldn’t be any mistake now, could there? I mean, I reckon we’re on a hiding to nowhere here… I mean…” For his outspokenness, brother Barry received a blow much favoured by the now legendary Billy Two Rivers and known as the Tomahawk Chop. “You bastard, I’m telling Mum.”

“Break it up in there,” a Metropolitan Police voice called through the peephole, “and get on your feet, you’ve got a visitor.”

A heavy key turned in the lock, making all those really good noises that jail door locks make in prison movies. The door swung in to reveal a grinning Constable Meek, bearing three teacups and a plate of digestives on a regulation enamel tray. “Here you go, Tonto,” he smirked. “Sorry, we’re out of firewater.”

“Half hour on red ant’s nest with honey pot up back passage wipe smile off your face,” said Paul Geronimo, making an obscene North American gesture.

Barry rubbed at the new bruise on his head. There had to be something to this reincarnation business, civil engineers just did not come out with off the cuff remarks like that. “Two sugars, please,” he said.

“You’ve got a visitor,” said the still smirking constable, placing the tray upon the bunk. “Great white chief come smoke pipe of peace.”

“That will be enough of that, thank you, Constable.” The voice belonged to Inspectre Hovis, who now followed it into the cell. He carried beneath his arm a buff-coloured folder. “Kindly relock the door behind you, Constable, and await my call.” Constable Meek slunk away, slamming the door dramatically behind him. “Now,” said the Inspectre, taking a digestive from the plate and seating himself. “Would you like to tell me all about it?”

Paul Geronimo looked Hovis up and down. “Under articles of Geneva Convention, we tell you nothing but name, rank and telephone number,” he said. “So go suck.”

“I see,” said Hovis. “Then let me tell you something. This is my first day in Brentford.”

“Careful it not your last,” said Barry.

“My first day,” Hovis continued. He delved into his pocket and drew out a small brightly coloured book. “Do you see this?”

Paul nodded. “It famous
Guide to Brentford
, written by esteemed local author P.P. Penrose.”

“Author of the Lazlo Woodbine thrillers,” Barry added.

“Quite so,” said Hovis. “I purchased it this very morning.”

Paul studied the ceiling and made war-drum sounds beneath his breath.

“It is my belief,” said Hovis, “that a guidebook tells you as much about a town by what it does
not
say as by what it
does
.”

“Esoteric dichotomy alone insufficient basis for theoretical reasoning,” said Paul. “Brave who always search skyline for enemy smoke ofttimes walk in buffalo shit.”

“Be that as it may,” said Hovis. “Then I shall confine my observations to what the guide book does say.” He thumbed it open and, between munchings of his biscuit, read aloud. “The historic Borough of Brentford is notable for, amongst other things, the beauty of its womenfolk, the glories of its architectural heritage and the quality of its fine hand-drawn ales. In the year 49 AD Julius Caeser…”

“Beg to interject,” said Paul, “but noble history of borough well known to us. We born and raised here.”

“All right,” said the Inspectre. “Then, to be succinct, it is this. In one thousand years of recorded history Brentford has never known a race riot. Not until today, when you incited one.”

“We done what?” queried Barry.

“Incited a race riot.” Inspectre Hovis took a signed statement from his file and glanced it up and down. “Did you or did you not refer to Councillor Clyde Merridew Ffog as ‘Mangy white cur fit only for roasting over a slow fire’?”

“Well, er,” said Paul.

“And a Mr Julian Membrane, who is recovering, I am pleased to say, from the tomahawk wound, records in his statement that you made the inflammatory remark, ‘Yellow blood of palefaces belong painted on toilet walls’.”

“We true victims of racial harassment,” cried Paul Geronimo, rising from his bunk and dragging his brother with him. “Long-nosed white dog twist truth like snake twist…”

“There you go again,” said Hovis. “This is not going to look very good on my report now, is it? Inflammatory remarks of a racial nature, damage to council property, disturbing the peace, inciting riot, grievous bodily harm, assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, insulting behaviour, need I go on? You’ll get five years for this lot, I shouldn’t wonder.” He gestured towards Paul’s blackly dyed and magnificently braided barnet and made scissor snips with his fingers. “At Her Majesty’s barber shop.”

Paul fingered his hair; it had taken three years to grow. Brother Barry’s grazed chin sank on to his buckskin chest. “We up shit creek in barbed wire canoe,” he observed.

“How aptly put,” said Inspectre Hovis. “Now what do you suppose we should do about it?”

Paul peered dubiously towards the gaunt vulture, hovering upon the opposite bunk. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he asked.

Hovis folded his mirrored pince-nez into an elegant tortoise-shell case and slid this into his top pocket. He reached forward for another biscuit and fixed Paul Geronimo with a penetrating gaze. The brave wilted visibly. “Well?” said Inspectre Hovis.

“Er… um,” said Paul Geronimo.

“Squaw who dance too long round cooking pot praising cook find that meal grown too cold to eat, if you get my meaning.”

“I do,” said Paul, “I mean I think I do.”

“Well, what say we smoke pipe of peace and parley just a little?”

“I can dig it,” said Paul Geronimo.

Forty-five minutes later, the final cell door having closed upon his departure, Inspectre Hovis strode into the newly painted office that was now his own, placed his bum upon the chair and his heels upon the desk. All in all it had been a most satisfactory day. By skilful manipulation he now had half the town council virtually in his pocket. He had spared the borough the embarrassment their prosecution would have brought upon it and himself the ensuing notoriety for having arrested them in the first place. He had become blood brother to the dual reincarnation of Geronimo and been invited out to dinner by one of the most attractive women it had ever been his privilege to interrogate. All in all it had been a
most
satisfactory first day.

Reaching for his cane, Hovis flipped open the silver top and withdrew a pinch of ground black Moroccan snuff. He offered this to an eager nostril and drew deeply upon it. But there was little time for self-congratulation. He was here upon a mission, one upon which the fate of his entire career could be said to rest. Like Dick Whittington and the Count of St Germaine, Inspectre Hovis had come to Brentford with only one thought in his mind. The search for gold.

From its eyrie atop the tower, the Memorial Library clock proclaimed the hour of six. Soft breaths of late spring honeysuckle shared the air with other smells of early evening. Smells which mingled to become that special suburban smell which is the sum of its parts. Smells of frying fish, of Scotch whisky, of cheap cigar smoke, of exclusive perfume and of other smells, strange and haunting and unfathomable.

Of frying fish. Old Pete turned the large salmon steak (an unexpected gift from Neville) in his cankerous frying pan and whistled “When the Boat Comes In”. Young Chips barked an off-key counterpoint. It hadn’t been a bad old day all in all and there was still the evening to come.

Of Scotch whisky. In the allotment shed John Omally poured two large glasses of ten-year-old malt and handed one to Scoop Molloy.

“Cheers,” said the star reporter, passing John a brown envelope containing several bank-notes of high denomination. “And thanks for the tip-off.”

“My pleasure,” said himself. “I suggest that we drink to further scoops of an exclusive nature.”

“Your health.”

“And yours.”

Of cheap cigar smoke. The editor of the
Brentford Mercury
paced the floor of the print room, enveloped in a thick blue haze. Through this, Williams, the languid typesetter, peered up at intervals from the vast cryptic crossword he was composing to catch the latest philippic directed towards a certain newly arrived police inspectre.

Beneath the editor’s pacing feet and torn asunder lay the trampled remnants which were some of the greatest headlines never to see the light of day: BRAVES PASTE POOF IN BRIBERY SCANDAL SENSATION. This and no less than twenty-seven permutations of equal literary worth had been done to death that very afternoon when Hovis had unexpectedly arrived at the office, slapped a D-notice on the whole thing, declared it
sub judice
and paraphrased the famous Fleet Street axiom with the words, “Publish and be nicked.”

The editor puffed and paced, effed and blinded and did such other things as ruing the day and damning the eye of. Williams squinted through the blue fug towards his wristlet watch. He’d soon be on double time. He would wait until that time before he suggested that they could always use BRENTFORD TO HOST NEXT OLYMPICS! which was probably the greatest headline the
Mercury
was ever likely to get — without fear of prosecution. In the meantime, he was having a problem finding a word to fit forty-seven across. He had something “A”, something something “A”, something “D”.

“Bastard!” shouted the now invisible editor.

“Ideal,” said Williams. “BA-STAR-D, astronomical graduate likes a cuppa, or something like that.”

Of exclusive perfume. Jennifer Naylor arrayed herself upon a chromium bar-stool before the faux-marble counter of Punter’s Wine Bar, sipping a cocktail and considering the doings of her day. A wry smile played about her delicate lips and her equally delicate fingers played about a ludicrous miniature sunshade which shish-kebabbed a Morello cherry and a slice of canned pineapple.

To the sounds of a drum-roll and stupendous applause (heard only to himself), the establishment’s proprietor, one Robert Tucker, known and hated locally as Bob the Bookie, swaggered through the reproduction art deco doorway.

Tonight he was a vision in white. A Japanese silk jacket hung upon his shoulders at “Full Zorro”. Sleeves dangling like those of a double amputee. The inevitable Raybans were strung about his neck and the two-inch Cuban heels raised everything except his credibility. This was amply catered for by the Rolls-Royce key-ring which swung from a belt loop above his padded crotch, and a wallet containing a secret contrivance, designed for him by Norman, which could project his American Express Gold Card into the lap of a likely-looking female at the touch of a secret button.

Feigning nonchalance at the singular lack of “punters” this Happy Hour, he flexed his shoulders, stooped to retrieve his jacket and sauntered over to his single patroness.

“Hi, Jen baby,” he crooned, clambering on to the next bar stool. “What’s happening?”

“Simply enjoying the tranquillity of your wine bar,” Jennifer explained. “All the others get so crowded around this time.”

Bob leant forward to bring Jennifer within the killing range of his aftershave. “Punter’s is … er … somewhat exclusive. Say, is that your new Porsche outside?”

Jennifer nodded. “Like it?”

“Not half. Got one on order myself. The new reg. of course. Electric blue, drinks tray on the back, holophonic sound system, the lot.”

“Electric blue?” Jennifer sighed wearily, took up the minuscule umbrella and bit purposefully through the shining cherry. Bob crossed his legs and winced painfully. “I like my cars as I like my men,” said Jennifer Naylor, “big and black.” Bob sank from his stool and made his way behind the counter. Here, as if by magic, he became some four inches taller. “Mind you don’t fall,” said Jennifer, who had seen the platform installed.

“Where’s Eric?”

“Picking his nose over the quiche the last time I saw him.”

“Eric!”

“Watchawant?” The voice drifted from the kitchen where the cocktail barman stood combing his dandruff into a bowl of green salad.

“There’s customers out here want serving.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.” Eric slouched into view adjusting his bow-tie and stroking stray flecks from his waistcoat shoulders. “Same again, dear?” he asked Jennifer.

“Same again for the lady,” said Bob, settling himself in behind the bar, “And I’ll have a Raging Stonker.” He winked lewdly towards Jennifer. He’d come up with all the suggestive names for the cocktails himself, after a holiday in Benidorm. It seemed to go down a bundle over there and Bob was at a loss to understand why the Brentford glitterati had not taken to it.

“How would you like your Raging Stonker?” Eric asked. “Shaken or stirred?”

Bob stared some daggers at the barman and smiled one of those you-can’t-get-the-staff-nowadays kinds of smiles towards Jennifer.

“Stirred,” he said from between gritted teeth. Eric went off about his business worrying at his scalp with a cocktail stirrer.

“What do you think of this?” Bob bared his left wrist towards Jennifer, exposing something that resembled a broad gold band and swiftly changing the subject.

“A bracelet, how sweet.”

“Not a bracelet,” said Bob. “It’s the very latest innovation in wrist-watches from Piaget. The dial encircles the wrist, see, and this little light inside travels round once every twenty-four hours, telling you the time. Clever, eh? Press this button-” Bob did so, “and all the digits shift, so you can tell the time anywhere in the world. Waterproof and shockproof and very exclusive.”

“Paid for by the punters, no doubt.”

“You’re not kidding.” Bob leant forward smirking. “If you knew just how eager some of them are to give their money away.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ll never guess what one of them came in to place a bet on today.”

“Won’t I?”

Bob shook his head and guffawed. “Jim Pooley only came into my shop and bet ten pounds that the next Olympic games would be held in Brentford.” Bob collapsed in paroxysms of laughter, tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks, streaking his sun tan. “Can you imagine?” he croaked between spasms. “Can you imagine?”

“And you took the bet?”

“Oh yes, I gave him a million to one on it.”

Eric returned with a Split Beaver and a Raging Stonker.

“Did you say your watch was shockproof, Bob?” Jennifer asked.

“Why yes, I think so.” Bob dabbed a tear from his eye. “Why do you ask?”

“Let me whisper, just to be on the safe side,” said Jennifer Naylor, drawing the likely lad into the aura of her exclusive perfume.

The sun, slanting away beyond Royal Kew, laid its trail of shadows and turned the gasometer, the flatblocks, the Arts Centre and the ancient island oaks into frail theatrical props.

From the black shadow of the gasometer, a car of still deeper black emerged, as if drawn from a dark wall of water. A small quizzical face was scarcely visible, peering through the steering wheel. A chauffeur’s cap perched upon the dwarfish head and tiny gloved hands guided the silent vehicle towards the Ealing Road. At intervals the car shuddered violently and the chauffeur flinched. Within the rear compartment something fearful was occurring.

Blows rained upon the dividing glass screen and a series of great thumps, as of something heavy being tossed to and fro, sent shivers through the weird black automobile. The chauffeur pressed his foot to the floor.

“Be still,” he whispered. “Please be still.” A sharp little tooth penetrated his lower lip and a slim line of blood divided his up-turned chin. A strangled, death-rattle cry arose from the crippled throat of the unseen occupant and a curious smell penetrated the driver’s cab. A smell, strange and haunting and unfathomable.