Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls bs-6

  Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

  ( Brentford Series - 6 )

  Robert Rankin

  This is the anarchic comedy of one man who realizes his secret ambition to get into the music industry - managing a band called Gandhi's Hairdryer, but he's soon to find out something very odd about the band - something other-worldly.

  Sex and Drugs and Sausage Rolls

  Robert Rankin

  For my very good friend Jonathan Crawford,

  whose postcards are always from

  The Edge and sometimes even beyond.

  In the Future There Will Be Nothing

  But the Past

  There’s a Chef and His Name Is Dave

  There’s a frog in the Kenwood blender.

  There’s a cat in the microwave.

  There’s a mouse in the waste disposal.

  There’s a chef and his name is Dave.

  There’s a cockroach that lives in the pâté,

  And the salt is an earwig’s grave.

  There are droppings all over the butter.

  There’s a chef and his name is Dave.

  There’s a nasty fungus under the stove,

  Where the creepy crawlies wave.

  And squeezing his spot in the beef hot-pot

  There’s a chef and his name is Dave.

  There’s a man from the Health Department

  And he’s just been sick in the sink,

  And the Watermans Arts Centre kitchen

  Will be closed for a while, I think.

  1

  “She does what?” John Omally looked up from his pint and down at Small Dave.

  “Reads your knob,” said the wee man. “It’s a bit like Palmistry, where they read the lines on your hand. Except this is called Penistry and they can tell your fortune by looking at your knob.”

  It was spring and it was Tuesday. It was lunchtime. They were in the Flying Swan.

  “I don’t believe it,” said John. “Someone’s been winding you up, Dave.”

  “They have not. I overheard two policemen talking about it while I was locked in the suitcase.”

  “Excuse me, Dave,” said Soap Distant, newly returned from a journey to the centre of the Earth. “But why were you locked in a suitcase?”

  “There was some unpleasantness. I don’t wish to discuss it.”

  “Small Dave was sacked from his job as chef at the Arts Centre,” said Omally.

  “What Arts Centre?”

  “The one they built on the site of the old gasworks.”

  “Oh,” said Soap. “So why did they sack you, Dave?”

  “I was unfairly dismissed.”

  “The manager gave Dave his cards and Dave bit the end off the manager’s knob.”

  “It was an accident. I slipped on some mouse poo, and anyway he hit me with a frying pan.”

  “I thought that was in self-defence, because you came at him with the meat cleaver.”

  “I just happened to be holding the cleaver at the time.”

  “You bit off the end of his knob,” said Soap. “That is disgusting.”

  “It was an accident. I slipped, he hit me on the back of the head, I fell forward and my teeth kind of clenched.”

  Soap’s teeth kind of clenched and so did Omally’s.

  “So what happened to the manager?” Soap asked.

  “He’s recovering in Brentford Cottage Hospital. The surgeon sewed the end back on. It’s no big deal. Mind you” – Small Dave smirked wickedly – “from what I heard he’s going to sue the surgeon.”

  “I know I’m going to hate myself for asking,” said Soap, “but why is he going to sue the surgeon?”

  “Well,” said Dave. “What with all the blood and it being an emergency operation and everything, it was the kind of mistake anyone could make. Especially if you’re Mr Fowler.”

  “What, fumble-fingers Fowler? He’s not still in practice, is he? I thought he was struck off years ago.”

  “He probably will be this time. He sewed the manager’s knob end on upside down.”

  “I think I’ll go for a walk,” said Soap. “I feel a little queasy.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Dave.

  “I’ll stay here,” said Soap.

  “Just one thing, Dave,” said Omally. “Why exactly were you locked in a suitcase?”

  “Because I escaped from the police cell. I squeezed through the bars. They caught me again and locked me in a suitcase and that’s when I overheard them talking about the Penistry. The policemen were having a good old laugh about the manager’s future prospects being cut short.”

  “I still think it’s a wind-up,” said John, applying himself to his pint.

  “You should sue the police, Dave,” said Soap. “Locking you in a suitcase must be against the Geneva Convention, or something.”

  “I think I’ll pass on that. There was some further unpleasantness after I made my escape from the suitcase. I put a bit more work Fowler’s way. But the Penist said that I’d have happy times ahead.”

  “Hold on,” said Omally. “You mean to say that you actually went to see this woman?”

  “I had a consultation, yes.”

  “And she gave you a—”

  “Reading. She gave me a reading. She was a very nice woman. Warm hands, she had. She said she saw a long and happy future stretching out in front of me.”

  “It is a wind-up,” said Soap. “It’s just an excuse for a lot of cheap knob gags.”

  “It is not a wind-up.” Small Dave gnashed his teeth.

  Soap and John took a step back apiece.

  “It is not a wind-up. She said she saw me galloping to glory and I’m sure she would have told me a lot more if she’d been able to make herself heard above all the noise.”

  “You ask him, John,” said Soap. “I don’t like to.”

  Omally shrugged. “What noise, Dave?” he asked.

  “The noise the policemen were making, shouting through the loudhailers. All that ‘Come out with your hands up’ stuff. And the helicopter circling overhead.”

  “The helicopter,” said Soap.

  “The helicopter. I had to take my leave at the hurry-up and it’s hard to run with your trousers round your ankles.”

  “So you ended up back in the suitcase?”

  “I did not. I shinned over her back wall and holed up on the allotments. I’ve spent the last week in John’s hut.”

  “My hut?”

  “Living on nothing but John’s spuds.”

  “My spuds?”

  “And his spud gin.”

  “My spud gin?”

  “And his nudie books.”

  “I don’t have any nudie books.”

  “You don’t now. I used them for kindling. It gets bloody cold on that allotment at night.”

  “My hut, my spuds, my gin—”

  “And your nudie books.”

  “I do not read nudie books!”

  “Nobody reads nudie books,” said Small Dave.

  “I’ve had enough,” said Soap. “I’m off.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Dave.

  “You bloody won’t. No offence, Dave, but I find all this kind of talk most upsetting. Penistry and nudie books and knob ends getting bitten off. It leaves a very bad taste in the mouth.”

  Small Dave looked at John.

  And John looked at Small Dave.

  Soap looked at the two of them looking, so to speak.

  “What?” said Soap.

  “Nothing,” said Small Dave. “But if you’re leaving do you mind if I use you for cover? You could smuggle me out under that big black coat of yours.”

  “Use me for cover? I don’t understand.”

  “I think the police probably followed me here. They’ll have the place surrounded. Probably.”

  Soap let out a plaintive groan. Omally slipped over to the front window and took a peep out. “He’s right,” he said, “there’s police cars everywhere and a couple of marksmen on top of the nearest flatblock. I think it might be better if you just went out with your hands up, Dave.”

  “No way,” said Small Dave. “They’re not taking me alive. Top of the world, ma.” And with that he drew from his trouser pocket—

  —a pistol.

  Now, it had been a quiet Tuesday lunchtime in the Swan. Very quiet. There had just been the three of them. And Neville, of course. Neville the part-time barman. But Neville hadn’t been listening to the conversation. He had been quietly polishing glasses up at the public bar end of the counter.

  Quiet, that’s how it had been.

  But with the arrival of that pistol …

  It got very quiet indeed.

  Dead hushed. Like.

  “Dave,” said John, when he had done with quietness. “Dave, where did you get that gun?”

  “I dug it up,” said Small Dave. “From under your hut. It’s your gun.”

  “Dave, it’s not my gun.”

  “Like they weren’t your nudie books?”

  “All right. They might have been my nudie books. But that isn’t my gun.”

  “So whose gun is it?”

  “It was my grand-daddy’s gun. Michael Collins gave him that gun.”

  “It’s mine now,” said Small Dave. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

  “Be afraid,” said John. “Be very afraid.”

  “Oh yes, and why?”

  “Because it doesn’t have a firing pin.”

&nbsp
; “Yeah, well they won’t know that, will they?”

  “No,” said John. “Which is why they will shoot you dead.”

  “He has a point there,” said Soap. “One that might be worth considering.”

  “I’ll hold you hostage, then,” said the small fellow. “I’ll demand a helicopter and one hundred thousand pounds in cash and a takeaway Chinese with all the trimmings and a cat named Lofty and a pair of pink pyjamas and some chocolate cake and—”

  “Have to stop you there,” said Omally.

  “Why?” asked Small Dave. “I was just getting into my stride.”

  “Out of your tree, more like,” said Soap.

  “What did you say?” Small Dave brandished the gun.

  “Nothing,” said Soap. “I just sneezed. Out-a-ya-tree. Like that, see?”

  “Yeah, well you be careful. Or I’ll shoot you.”

  “Eh?” said Soap.

  “We know you’re in there” came that old loudhailer voice. “Come out with your hands held high.”

  Neville looked up from his polishing. “Did someone order a minicab?” he asked.

  “It’s the police,” said John. “They’ve come for Dave.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, then.” Neville buffed a pint pot on his apron. “Does he want another drink before they cart him off?”

  “Same again?” asked Omally.

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Small Dave. “Let me get these, though. Here, hold the gun while I find my purse.”

  Omally took the gun. “If this could only speak,” he said, turning it upon his palm.

  “What do you think it would say?” asked Soap.

  “I think it would say, ‘I’m sorry I had to do that. But you’ll thank me for it later.’”

  “Why would it say that?”

  Omally raised the gun and brought it down upon the head of Small Dave. The midget collapsed unconscious on the floor.

  “Ah, right,” said Soap. “I got you now.”

  Neville gave Omally a hand. Together they managed to stuff Small Dave up the back of Soap’s big black coat. Soap wasn’t keen and he put up a lot of protest. But he did agree with Omally that Dave was a very bad man to cross. What with him being such a vindictive, grudge-bearing wee bastard and everything and how it would probably be in everyone’s best interests simply to smuggle him out of the Swan and set him free on the allotments.

  Because he would thank them for it later.

  And everything.

  Which he didn’t. Of course.

  Small Dave seemed anything but grateful. He awoke all spluttering and demanded to be told why he was being ducked in a water butt. He fussed and he bothered and he cursed and he swore and then he asked about the trowels.

  “Trowels?” said Omally. “What trowels?”

  “Those trowels.” Small Dave pointed. “Those trowels you’re both wearing, strung round your waists and hanging down your fronts like sporrans.”

  “Oh, these trowels, they’re just—”

  “A wise precaution,” said Soap. “In case—”

  “A fashion thing,” said Omally. “They’re all the rage up West. The Kensington Set are rarely to be seen nowadays without a trowel about their persons.”

  “Especially at the Chelsea Flower Show,” said Soap.

  “Especially there,” said Omally.

  “You’re bloody mad, the pair of you,” said Small Dave. “And what happened to my gun?”

  “Got lost,” said Omally.

  “The fairies took it,” said Soap.

  “The fairies?”

  “No, not the fairies. Did I say fairies? What I must have meant was—”

  “I’m leaving now,” said Small Dave.

  “Oh, must you?” said Soap.

  “Yes, I must.”

  The sound of police car sirens swelled in the distance.

  “Yes, I definitely must.”

  And with that said, he definitely did. Without a by-your-leave, or kiss-my-elbow. No thank yous, no fond farewells.

  Just off.

  As fast as his little legs could carry him.

  The two men watched him until he was gone. Then Soap raised a cup of Omally’s spud gin.

  “Do you think he’s galloping to glory?” Soap asked.

  “No,” said Omally. “I don’t.”

  “Do you know what I like about Brentford?” Soap asked.

  “No,” said Omally. “I don’t.”

  “What I like about Brentford,” said Soap. “Is that nothing ever changes here. I’ve been away on my travels beneath for nearly ten years and now I’m back and it’s just as if I’d never been away.”

  “Cheers to that,” said Omally.

  “Cheers to that,” said Soap.

  The Lord of the Old Button Hole

  It was plain he’d come out for a stroll,

  The Lord of the Old Button Hole.

  The fêted celebrity dead in the wreck.

  The keys to the boathouse at rest in his neck.

  The vandals who did it are far off by now,

  And I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin.

  Some kind of a chump in the goal,

  Said the Lord of the Old Button Hole.

  Hunting the hedgerows for samples and stuff.

  The house is deserted, the ball’s in the rough.

  The vandals are rattling locks at the back,

  And I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin.

  A little more cheese in the roll,

  Cried the Lord of the Old Button Hole.

  Since I came back from Burma, I’ll frankly admit,

  I’ve had scorpions crawling all over my kit,

  And if that’s in the contract, then I’m bowing out,

  Cos I’m blessed I’ll be had for a bumpkin.

  2

  Soap Distant strode up Brentford High Street.

  There was the vaguest hint of stagger to his stride, but this was the inevitable consequence of two hours spent in Omally’s company. Not that Soap was unacquainted with the grape and grain. Like most of Brentford’s manly men he took his sup, but rarely to excess.

  However, on this particular occasion Soap had felt the need for a drop of that courage which hails from the Low Countries. And why not? For hadn’t Soap lately returned from some very low countries himself? Had he not planted the nation’s flag at the Earth’s core and claimed the realm for England? And was he not, even now, on his way to keep a three o’clock appointment with the editor of the Brentford Mercury to negotiate the serialization rights for the account of his epic adventure?

  In short, he had, and he had, and he was.

  Soap paused before the window of Mr Beefheart the butcher to peruse his reflection. He wanted to look his very bestest. Create a favourable and lasting impression. Exude a certain air. Make a presence. Be the business. And things of that nature, generally.

  Soap adjusted the filters on his solar goggles. His eyes, still sensitive to sunlight, would sort themselves out in time. But what about the rest of him? He removed his broad-brimmed black hat and reviewed his facial featurings.

  A gaunt and deathly face peered back at him. It was a white’n and that was a fact. Turning his head a little to the right, Soap noticed that the sunlight shone clear through his hooter. His hair had become similarly transparent, lending the crown of his head the appearance of a fibre-optic lamp.

  Soap nodded in approval. He looked mighty fine.

  Within Mr Beefheart’s, a lady in a straw hat caught sight of the ghostly visage staring in at the window, took it to be the shade of the husband she had done to death and buried in the sprout patch and fainted dead away.

  The way you would.

  Soap replaced his hat and continued up the High Street.

  The offices of the Brentford Mercury were just as Soap remembered them. Worn at heel and down upon the uppers. At ground level the Electric Alhambra, Brentford’s only cinema, its doors long closed to an indifferent public, slept in the sunlight. Peely paint and crumbling brickwork, rubbish strewn upon its mosaic entrance. And above, behind the unwashed windowpanes, the borough’s organ.

  Soap squared his shoulders and made up the cast-iron fire escape. The door at the top lacked a sign, but Soap gave it a knock.

  The door swung in and so did Soap.

  The place was a bit of a mess. Packing crates and cardboard boxes filled the outer office. Soap did the old “Cooee” and “Shop?”