The Sprouts of Wrath by Robert Rankin

borough well known to us. We born and raised here.”
    “All right,” said the Inspectre. “Then, to be succinct, it is this. In one thousand years of recorded history Brentford has never known a race riot. Not until today, when you incited one.”
    “We done what?” queried Barry.
    “Incited a race riot.” Inspectre Hovis took a signed statement from his file and glanced it up and down. “Did you or did you not refer to Councillor Clyde Merridew Ffog as ‘Mangy white cur fit only for roasting over a slow fire’?”
    “Well, er,” said Paul.
    “And a Mr Julian Membrane, who is recovering, I am pleased to say, from the tomahawk wound, records in his statement that you made the inflammatory remark, ‘Yellow blood of palefaces belong painted on toilet walls’.”
    “We true victims of racial harassment,” cried Paul Geronimo, rising from his bunk and dragging his brother with him. “Long-nosed white dog twist truth like snake twist…”
    “There you go again,” said Hovis. “This is not going to look very good on my report now, is it? Inflammatory remarks of a racial nature, damage to council property, disturbing the peace, inciting riot, grievous bodily harm, assault with a deadly weapon, resisting arrest, insulting behaviour, need I go on? You’ll get five years for this lot, I shouldn’t wonder.” He gestured towards Paul’s blackly dyed and magnificently braided barnet and made scissor snips with his fingers. “At Her Majesty’s barber shop.”
    Paul fingered his hair; it had taken three years to grow. Brother Barry’s grazed chin sank on to his buckskin chest. “We up shit creek in barbed wire canoe,” he observed.
    “How aptly put,” said Inspectre Hovis. “Now what do you suppose we should do about it?”
    Paul peered dubiously towards the gaunt vulture, hovering upon the opposite bunk. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he asked.
    Hovis folded his mirrored pince-nez into an elegant tortoise-shell case and slid this into his top pocket. He reached forward for another biscuit and fixed Paul Geronimo with a penetrating gaze. The brave wilted visibly. “Well?” said Inspectre Hovis.
    “Er… um,” said Paul Geronimo.
    “Squaw who dance too long round cooking pot praising cook find that meal grown too cold to eat, if you get my meaning.”
    “I do,” said Paul, “I mean I think I do.”
    “Well, what say we smoke pipe of peace and parley just a little?”
    “I can dig it,” said Paul Geronimo.
    Forty-five minutes later, the final cell door having closed upon his departure, Inspectre Hovis strode into the newly painted office that was now his own, placed his bum upon the chair and his heels upon the desk. All in all it had been a most satisfactory day. By skilful manipulation he now had half the town council virtually in his pocket. He had spared the borough the embarrassment their prosecution would have brought upon it and himself the ensuing notoriety for having arrested them in the first place. He had become blood brother to the dual reincarnation of Geronimo and been invited out to dinner by one of the most attractive women it had ever been his privilege to interrogate. All in all it had been a
most
satisfactory first day.
    Reaching for his cane, Hovis flipped open the silver top and withdrew a pinch of ground black Moroccan snuff. He offered this to an eager nostril and drew deeply upon it. But there was little time for self-congratulation. He was here upon a mission, one upon which the fate of his entire career could be said to rest. Like Dick Whittington and the Count of St Germaine, Inspectre Hovis had come to Brentford with only one thought in his mind. The search for gold.

11
    From its eyrie atop the tower, the Memorial Library clock proclaimed the hour of six. Soft breaths of late spring honeysuckle shared the air with other smells of early evening. Smells which mingled to become that special suburban smell which is the sum of its parts. Smells of frying fish, of