“Get a move on, John,” shouted Jim. “He’s gone. We’ve lost him.” John, Jim and the professor were squeezed into the front seat of Norman’s van. John was frantically attempting to hot-wire this van.
“It won’t start,” cried John. “I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Bloody van!”
Norman’s van burst into life and did its brrrm, brrrm, bmmming.
Unnoticed by John, Jim or the professor, a mysterious figure with a large carrier bag scuttled across the car park, opened a rear door of Norman’s van and slipped inside, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
John Omally put his foot down. “Go on, you beauty,” he cried.
The engine of Norman’s van spluttered and died.
“Bastard!” cried Omally.
Norman’s van burst into action once again.
“I recall Norman telling me about this,” said Jim. “You have to shout at the van. It works on road rage, or something.”
“Move on, you *****,” and John Omally’s language took a turn for the deepest blue.
And Norman’s van got a hurry up and hurtled in hot pursuit of William Starling’s limousine.
William Starling was on his mobile phone. “Building compromised?” he was saying. “Intruders now on level ten? Speak up, damn you. I can’t hear your voice above the alarms.”
Alarm bells were ringing in the Brentford Nick. Lights were flashing also upon a sort of hi-tech emergency board that had been installed there by a sort of hi-tech emergency technician who worked for the Consortium.
“Turn that damn thing off,” Constable Meek told Constable Mild. “I’m trying to watch the FA Cup Final here.”
“I’m trying to watch it, too,” replied Constable Mild. “You go and turn it off.”
Chief Inspectre Sherringford Hovis looked up from his viewing of the match. “Which lights are flashing?” he asked.
Constable Mild said, “Emergency ones – it’s the Consortium building in Chiswick High Road. There’s a pink light flashing, too. It has the words ‘TERRORIST ATTACK’ printed beneath it.”
Inspectre Hovis yawned. “Tricky,” said he.
“So what should we do, sir?” asked Constable Mild. “Press the panic button? Alert the lads from Scotland Yard?”
“Well …” Inspectre Hovis suddenly leapt from his seat. “Goal!” he cried.
Jim Pooley fiddled with Norman’s car radio. “Did you hear the word ‘goal’?” he asked. Static fizzings dissolved into the voice of Mr Merkin, live on Five Live.
“Four-three,” he bawled. “Incredible.”
“Four-three to who?” Jim asked. The radio fizzed into static once again.
“Bloody useless radio!” swore Jim.
Norman’s van leapt forward with renewed vigour.
There was a great deal of vigorous gunwork going on at the Consortium building. Black and ugly shapes bulged from black marble walls, minigun barrels rotated and spat bullets by the bucketload. The Campbell hacked down incoming darksters, the going was hideous and fire was beginning to take hold of the building.
Inspectre Hovis took hold of the telephone receiver. “Scotland Yard?” he said. “Sherringford Hovis, Brentford Constabulary, here. We have a Code One at the Consortium building in Chiswick High Road.”
“A code ten?” said the telephonist at Scotland Yard. “That would be a price request, would it?”[52]
“Terrorist attack!” bawled Hovis. “Cross it to Lane, don’t hog the ball.”
“What?” asked the receptionist.
“Don’t let him do that. Foul, referee. That was a foul. What is the matter with you?” said Inspectre Hovis.
“I’m going to put the receiver down now,” said the telephonist.
“No,” said Hovis, “terrorist attack, Consortium building, Chiswick High Road. Send everything you have. Send ZZ9. My God, ref, are you blind?”
“Who is this, again?” asked the receptionist.
“Where is he?” asked the professor.
“Up ahead,” replied John. “I can see him heading on the road to Brentford.”
Now, The Road to Brentford, Bob and Bing never made that one. Which is a shame, because—
“Catch up and run him off the road,” said the professor.
“Professor,” said John, “this is a weedy A40 van. They have a limousine. It’s probably bulletproof.”
Jim Pooley tinkered further with the radio, then took to thumping it. “Stupid piece of rubbish!” he shouted.
Norman’s van accelerated.
“Oh and this is fast!” Mr Merkin was out of his seat once more and straining his voice into the mask-mic. “Landru to Lane and back to Landru again. Intercepted by Ricardo, no, it’s Rivaleno. Oh no, it was Ricardo. But to no good.
“Landru back to Lane. And Lane is on course, but no, Lane is down, brought down by Beckham. The crowd are on their feet. The ref is showing Beckham the yellow card. It’s a free kick for Brentford just outside Manchester’s penalty area.”
“Nice area,” observed Jim. “Is this Penge again?”
“It’s Southall,” said John, “but there are many similarities. Hold on tight, everyone. And get a move on, you useless piece of ****!”
The A40 van drew level with the limo. On the wrong side of the road, though, to the great consternation of oncoming traffic. Cars swerved and mounted the pavements, ploughing into kerbside displays of exotic fruit and electrical goods and saris and socks and Blu-Tack.
John slammed the van into the side of the limo.
A blackly tinted window swished down. The chauffeur’s hand appeared and offered John a finger gesture that in America is known as “flipping the bird”.
“Bastard!” shouted John.
Norman’s van gained speed.
“Have at you!” roared John, swerving in front of the limo and applying the brakes. The rear of the van struck home, upending its mysterious hidden occupant. Headlights shattered on the limo, but it accelerated, thrusting Norman’s van forward at alarming speed.
Ahead were red lights. Van and limo rushed through them. Vehicles with the right of way swerved and applied their brakes and mashed into one another.
“Exciting this, isn’t it?” said Professor Slocombe.
Jim Pooley cowered and ducked his head, still twiddling the radio’s dials as he did so.
John clung on to the steering wheel. “He’s going to have us off the road.”
They were approaching a junction, one of those T-junctions where you can turn either left or right, but there is nowhere to go straight ahead. Except directly into a building. A Gas Showroom, upon this occasion.
One of those junctions.
“Turn left here, I think,” said the professor.
“I can’t,” shouted Omally. “We’re going too fast. We’re going to crash.”
Behind them and grinding into the van’s rear bumper, the limo pressed onward, gathering speed. The driver’s eyes shone that blackest of blacks. His teeth ground together, teeth that were blacker than the blackest of blacks. His foot (in a green driving shoe, because he had verrucae) pressed further down upon the accelerator pedal.
“Left, please,” said the professor. “Left, please – now, I think.”
52
The telephonist had recently worked in Budgens.
A Code 10 is a price check at the checkout.
A Code 14 is a man exposing himself in the customer car park.