The Brentford Chainstore Massacre
toilet, the lid was down. And for another, unlike Mr Compton-Cummings, Jack Bryant had died with his trousers up.
    “How very strange,” said John.
    Mrs Bryant sniffed and sipped her water. “According to the duty physician it’s quite common, just not the kind of thing people like to talk about. They always say ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’.”
    “Yes, I suppose they would. Now is there anything I can do to help?”
    “No, thank you. My brother’s coming down from Orton Goldhay. He’ll sort out the funeral arrangements. I may move back up there.”
    “I’ll miss you,” said John.
    “And I shall worry about you. Get yourself a good woman, John. Sort your life out.”
    “I’ll try.” John Omally kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Oh, just one thing,” he said. “Can I have that history book back? I left it here on the table.”
    “History book?” Mrs Bryant stiffened. “It’s hardly a history book, is it? What is sacofricosis anyway?”
    “You really wouldn’t want to know.”
    “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
    “So, can I have it back?”
    “Well, you could,” said Mrs Bryant, “but I’m afraid I don’t have it any more.”
    “What?”
    “I must have left it in the waiting room at the Cottage Hospital.”
    When John left Mrs Bryant’s he caught the 8.15 bus. Bill got thrown off again for fondling a schoolgirl and a lady in a straw hat told John all about her husband, who had once sprayed deodorant on his beard and gone to a fancy dress party as an armpit.
    Omally got off at the Cottage Hospital. More bad thoughts were now being sucked into the black vortex in his head.
    A very pretty nurse stood at the reception desk.
    “Good morning, ms,” said John. “I wonder if you might help me?”
    “Are you ill?”
    “No. My name is,” John paused, “John Bryant.”
    “Oh yes? How’s Fergie doing?”
    “Sorry, I don’t quite understand.”
    “Sorry, it just slipped out.” The nurse gave a Sid James chuckle.
    John made a mental note to return at a later date and ask her out. “My brother was brought here last night,” he said. “Jack Bryant. He died.”
    “Oh yes, Mr Bryant. Tragic way to go.”
    “But just like the King.”
    “I thought the king said ‘bugger Bognor’ and died in his bed.”
    “I wonder if I might have a word with the doctor who was on duty at the time.”
    “I’m afraid not,” said the nurse. “He’s not here at the moment, and I can’t give out any information at all.”
    “I see. It was Dr Pooley, wasn’t it?”
    “Dr Malone.”
    “Ah yes, old Jim Malone.”
    “Dr Steven Malone.”
    “Of course. Does he still live in Hanwell?”
    “No, he lives in Brentford now.”
    “That’s right, in Mafeking Avenue.”
    “In Kether House on the Butts Estate.”
    “Won’t be the same chap, then. I’m sorry you couldn’t help me. Oh, just one other thing: my sister-in-law left a book of mine in the waiting room. Brentford: A Study of its People and History.”
    “Oh, that book,” said the nurse, giving out with another Sid James.
    Oh dear, thought John. “Might I have it back?”
    “The doctor on duty took it home with him.”
    Dr Steven Malone was enjoying his breakfast. He was also enjoying Jim’s book. “Well, well, well,” he went, as he munched on kedgeree and swallowed orange juice. “Whoever would have thought it? Whoever would have thought that a Brentford corner shopkeeper would be the first man to wade across the Channel?” He turned another page and glanced at a photograph. “And whoever would have thought that?”
    KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock-knock-knocking.
    Dr Malone got up and answered the door. Upon the step stood John Omally, notebook and biro in hand.
    “Dr Malone?” he asked. “Dr Steven Malone?”
    “I am he.”
    Omally viewed the monochrome medic. “Has anyone ever told you that you bear an uncanny resemblance to…”
    “Many times,” said Dr Steven. “And although it has never been a curse, it’s

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