The Brentford Chainstore Massacre by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

from the true cross scattered in cathedrals across Europe, even an item claimed to be the holy prepuce. I have cross-matched two and I am certain that they come from the same being.”
    “Jesus Christ!” said Jack.
    “The very same. It is now my intention, using a reagent of my own formulation, to liquefy this blood and extract the DNA. With this I intend to clone…”
    “Jesus Christ!”
    “Exactly. And not just the one. I am going to clone at least six.”
    “Like in that film,” said Jack. “The Boys from Brazil. Where they cloned Hitler.”
    “Exactly. Mine will be The Boys from Bethlehem.”
    “But surely,” said Jack, “you are tampering with forces that no man should dare to tamper with.”
    “Oh, absolutely, yes. But then – do you mind if I stand up while I do this bit?”
    “Not at all.”
    Dr Steven Malone stood up, flung his pale arms in the air and began to stalk about the room. “They thought me mad, you see!” he cried out in a ranting sort of a tone. “Mad? I who have discovered the very secrets of Life itself?” He sat down again. “What do you think?”
    “Very impressive. But you could also add, ‘One day the whole world will know my name.’”
    “Thanks very much. I’ll remember that in future. Now, about your blood.”
    “How much do you want?”
    “About eight pints.”
    Close Your Eyes and Cover Your Ears
    “Well, I’d like to,” said Jack. “But I really should be getting back to work.”
    “Another time, then. I’ll show you out.”
    “Thanks very much. Goodbye.”
    Eh?
    “Well, I’d like to,” said Jack. “But I really should be getting back to work.”
    Dr Steven Malone produced a small automatic pistol from a trouser pocket and pointed it at Jack. “Regrettably no,” said he. “I cannot allow you to leave. I require your blood and I require it now. It’s nothing personal, you understand. I would have used the blood of whoever had delivered the package. The isotopes are all I require to complete my procedures.”
    Jack began to worry. “Aw, come on,” he whined. “You don’t want my blood. My blood’s just ordinary stuff. I could telephone my wife, she’s got terrific blood.”
    “Is your surname Bryant, by any chance?”
    “That’s right. Perhaps you know my wife. Wears a very short dress. Has this lurcher that’s also a Dane, and…”
    “Likes to make love with her head in the fridge?”
    “She hasn’t mentioned that to me,” said Jack.
    “Move,” said Dr Steven. “Along the corridor and down the steps.”
    “Oh no-diddly-oh-no-no.”
    This had undoubtedly been the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life. Sadly it would also be the last.
    Dr Steven stood in profile, pointing with his pistol to the basement off the page.

6
    The dreaming mind of Pooley went on its walkabout, wading through a stream of semi-consciousness.
    A cracked mug of darkened foliage by swollen ashtrays on limp carpets of faded heraldry where smells of stale cinemas and locked cars and fridges and magnets and bottom drawers in old boarding houses giving up their dying breaths and period paper ads for tennis shoes and foundation garments and Cadbury’s twopenny bars of Bournville that give an athlete energy to run while underneath and undisturbed the rough drawer bottoms offer scents of camphor and sassafras and amber and Empire and then across the polished lino turning tiny rubber wheels The Speed of the Wind his favourite Dinky push and flip with the thumb to send it flying forwards past the potty deep into the dark beneath the bed where lying and looking up the silver shining spirals of springs ranked one beyond the next in crazy perspective out of focus from the fluff and fuzz of folk who pay by the day and the day you leave you must clear the room by ten and wipe the sink before you go downstairs to put your luggage in the sitting room we call the lounge and take a last walk along the promenade to watch the sea make fractious moves along the beach