The Brentford Chainstore Massacre by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online

precious cargoes from one place to another. The UFO part meant United Freight Operations, but the significance of the SURFIN’ bit was lost on Jack.
    For company, he also worked on the night shift at the windscreen wiper works.
    Jack was the manager of the actual despatching department. He was, in fact, the only employee in this department. There had been some cutbacks. Once there had been lads with hair and tattoos, cavorting about on fork-lift trucks. Lads who read the Sun and smelled of cigarettes and the morning after. But now there was only Jack. And Jack didn’t smoke or read the Sun. His office was a little glass partitioned-off corner of a vast warehouse. A vast and empty warehouse.
    Jack hung up his hat and coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. And then he sat down at his desk. It was an all-but-empty desk. Empty but for a telephone, a single package and a single piece of paper.
    Jack perused this.
     
    DESPATCH NOTE – DATE: 23.5.97
    SURFIN’ UFO 1462 UNIT 4+2
    OLD DOCK BUSINESS PARK
    HORSEFERRY LANE,
    BRENTFORD
    VAT REG: 435 9424
    TO:
    NAME: DR STEVEN MALONE
    ADDRESS: KETHER HOUSE
    BUTTS ESTATE
    BRENTFORD
    FROM:
    NAME: PROF. GUSTAV BOINEY
    ADDRESS: INC TECH
    LOS ALAMOS
    NEVADA, USA
    CONTENTS: ISOTOPES. HERMETICALLY SEALED.
    DO NOT OPEN
    FRAGILE FRAGILE FRAGILE
    Jack picked up the package and rattled it against his ear. Dr Steven Malone was SURFIN’ UFO’s only client nowadays. Stuff came to him from all over the world. From Turin, from Vienna, from Los Alamos and Latvia. Always by the most unlikely route and always under the tightest security.
    Jack’s job today would be to call up the local road haulage firm, impress upon them the highly important nature of the package and the need for its speedy and secure delivery, and then await the arrival of the van, sign numerous documents, hand over the package and return to his desk.
    Jack picked up the telephone and tapped out numbers. Somewhere not too far away a phone began to ring.
    And then a voice said, “Yo, Leo Felix, who’s dis?”
    “Hello-skiddly-bo,” said Jack.
    “Yo, Jack, my man. How’s it ’anging?”
    “The bus was late today,” said Jack.
    “What? De ol’ 8.15? That is truly dredd.” A Rastafarian chuckle gurgled in Jack’s ear.
    A Veritable Cliff-hanger
    “Can you pick up a package for immediate delivery to Dr Steven Malone?” asked Jack.
    “Not ’ceptin’ yo’ pay yo’ damn bill, Babylon.”
    “Oh,” said Jack, replacing the receiver.
    Action All the Way
    “Mr Felix says he won’t pick up the package unless his bill is paid,” said Jack to his boss Leslie, who had just returned from the toilet.
    “Leo Felix is a thieving nigger,” said Leslie.
    “Surely that is a racist remark,” said Jack.
    “Not when it’s said by a black woman. Which I am, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
    “I thought you said you were Jewish.”
    “I did.”
    And Now Things Really Start to Happen
    “You will just have to deliver the package yourself,” said the boss of Jack. “Do you think you can manage that?”
    “On foot?” asked Jack. “And without an armed guard?”
    “It’s only two streets away.”
    “But Mr Felix led me to believe it was in another Brentford, somewhere in Ethiopia.”
    Leslie arched her eyebrows and bridged her nose.
    “The thieving nigger,” said Jack.
    “Enough of your racist jive, white boy.”
    A Roller-coaster Ride to Hell
    Jack trudged along Horseferry Lane, past the Shrunken Head and up to the High Street. He looked both ways before crossing and reached the other side in safety. There he sat down upon the bench outside Budgens and studied his A-Z. A lady in a straw hat sat down beside him. “Are you lost?” she asked Jack.
    Jack clutched his package to his chest. “Certainly not,” he told her.
    “Only I get lost sometimes. I have who’ja vu.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s the opposite of déja vu. I can be in the middle of the supermarket and suddenly I get this feeling, I’ve