The Sprouts of Wrath by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online Page B

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