The Brentford Chainstore Massacre by Robert Rankin

hand, the French windows opened of their own accord and the Professor swung round in his chair. “Welcome, my friends,” said he.
    John waggled the fingers of his free hand. Jim managed a lopsided smile.
    The Professor’s face took on a look of concern. Blue twinkling eyes narrowed, the nostrils of the slender nose flared, the merry mouth turned down at the corners. “Set him into the chair beside the fire, John,” said the ancient. “I will ring for assistance.”
    His mottled hand took up a small brass Burmese temple bell and jingled it. John helped Jim onto the chair and then himself onto a Persian pouffe.
    Firelight danced in the grate. The Professor’s study, with its tall shelves crammed with leathern tomes, its lifeless creatures under high glass domes, its noble furniture and priceless rugs, was silent and was safe.
    Presently the Professor’s aged retainer, Gammon, appeared, clad in antique livery and bearing a silver tray. On this reposed a ship’s decanter containing brandy, three glasses and a small medicine chest.
    “Please see to our wounded friend, Gammon,” said the Professor.
    “Certainly, sir,” the other replied.
    Jim squawked and moaned as Gammon tested limbs, felt ribs, cleaned wounds and applied Band Aid dressings. “Superficial, sir,” said Gammon as he left the room.
    “What does he know?” grumbled Jim.
    “A very great deal,” said the Professor, pouring brandy.
    “Thanks very much,” said John, accepting his.
    “And thank you too,” said Jim. “And say thank you to Gammon for me. I really appreciate this.”
    The Professor settled himself back behind his desk and viewed his visitors through his brandy glass. “I feel you have a tale to tell,” said he.
    “And then some,” said John.
    “A bit of a bar fight, nothing more,” said Jim.
    John looked aghast.
    “Difference of opinion,” said Pooley. “You should see the other bloke.”
    Professor Slocombe shook his head, his mane of silky hair white as an albino bloater. “Come, come, Jim,” he said. “That is not what your aura says.”
    “My aura is probably drunk. I certainly wish I was.”
    “Jim got beaten up by the Garda,” said John. “And all on account of a book.”
    “A book?”
    “Brentford: A Study of its People and History.”
    “By Mr Compton-Cummings.”
    “You know of it?”
    “Indeed, I did a small amount of research for it. And I had him suppress certain passages.”
    “Not nearly enough,” said Jim, holding out his empty glass.
    “You mean he left in that bit about you and the great wind from the East? I told him to delete it.”
    “Oh,” said Jim, as the old man gave him a refill. “Well, thank you very much.”
    “It was another passage entirely,” said John. “One about…” He looked furtively around before whispering words into the Professor’s ear.
    “Idrophrodisia?”
    “You don’t want to know what it means.”
    “I know exactly what it means.”
    “I don’t,” said Jim.
    “The publishers called in all the copies of the book and pulped them,” said John. “Except Jim got one in the post. The police were very anxious to get it back.”
    “Exactly how anxious?” the Professor asked.
    “They were prepared to kill us,” said John.
    “They killed John’s bike,” said Jim.
    “Somewhat over-zealous. But I suppose, considering the nature of the allegations…”
    “There’re photos as well.”
    “Oh dear, oh dear. But you got off lightly.” The Professor pointed towards John’s shiner.
    Omally fingered his eye. “That was Jim. We had a slight contretemps over a theological matter.”
    “I see.”
    “Actually,” said John, “while I’m here, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”
    “Ask away.” Professor Slocombe refilled John’s glass, then his own.
    “Mine too,” said Jim, as his was somehow empty again.
    “The Brentford Scrolls,” said John. Jim groaned.
    “The Brentford Scrolls?” Professor Slocombe laughed. “I have spent nearly two