Rankin, Robert - Brentford 02 - The Brentford Triangle

VIP免费

2024-12-20 0 0 765.35KB 93 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

The Brentford Triangle

Robert Rankin

Prologue

The solitary figure in the saffron robes shielded his eyes from the glare and squinted down the glacier to

where the enormous black vessel lay, one-third submerged, in the floor of the valley. Allowing for the portion

lost below the icy surface of the frozen lake it was easily some three hundred cubits long, at least fifty wide and

another thirty high. It had, overall, the appearance of some fantastic barge with a kind of gabled house

mounted upon its deck. Its gopherwood timbers were blackened by a heavy coating of pitch and hardened by the

petrification of the glacier which had kept it virtually intact throughout the countless centuries. A great opening

yawned in one side; several hundred yards away lay the door which had once filled it, resting upon two huge

rocks like some kind of altarpiece.

The solitary figure dropped the butt of his Wild Woodbine, ground it into the snow with the heel of his naked

left foot and raised his field glasses. His guides had long since deserted him, fearing in their superstition to set

foot upon the ice pastures of the sacred mountain. Now he stood alone, the first man to breast the glacier and view a

spectacle which many would gladly have given all to witness.

He whistled shrilly between closed teeth and a faint smile played about his lips. He slapped his hands

together, and with his orange robes swirling about him in the bitter winds of the mountain peak, he girded up

his loins and strode down the frozen escarpment to survey the ancient wreck at closer quarters.

Neville the part-time barman drew back the polished brass bolts and swung open the saloon-bar door of

the Flying Swan. Framed in the famous portal, he stood yawning and scratching, a gaunt figure clad in

Japanese silk dressing-gown, polka-dot cravat and soiled carpet-slippers. The sun was rising behind the

gasometers, and in the distance, along the Baling Road, the part-time barman could make out the

diminutive form of Small Dave the postman beginning his morning rounds. No mail as usual for the Four

Horsemen, more bills for Bob the bookie, a small brown parcel for Norman's corner shop, something

suspicious in a large plain envelope for Uncle Ted at the greengrocer's, and, could it be—? Neville

strained his good eye as Small Dave approached - tunelessly whistling the air to 'Orange Claw Hammer' -

a postcard?

The wee postman trod nearer, grinning broadly. As he drew level with the part-time barman he winked lewdly

and said, 'Another!' Neville extended a sum white hand to receive the card, but Small Dave held it below his reach.

'It's from Archroy,' announced the malicious postman, who greatly delighted in reading people's mail, 'and

bears an Ararat postmark. It says that our lad has discovered ..." Neville leant hurriedly forward and tore the

card from his hand' . . . has discovered the remains of Noah's Ark upon the mountain's peak and is arranging to

have it dismantled and brought back to England.'

Neville fixed the little postman with a bitter eye. 'And you could tell all that simply by reading the address?'

he snarled.

Small Dave tapped at his nose and winked anew. 'I took the liberty of giving it the once-over,' he explained, 'in

case it was bad news. One can never be too careful.'

'One certainly can't!' The part-time barman took a step backwards and slammed the Swan's door with

deafening finality upon the dwarfish scrutineer of the Queen's mail. Neville took a deep breath to steady his nerves

and turned away from the door. His long strides took him with haste across the threadbare carpet of the saloon-

bar.

His first drew him past the pitted dartboard, the chalked scores of the previous night's play faintly aglow in

the early light. His second brought him level with the aged shove-halfpenny table, and a third took him past

the first of the Swan's eight polished Britannia pub tables. Two more soundless strides and Neville halted

involuntarily in his tracks. Before him stood an object so detestable, so loathsome and so mind-stunningly vile

that the postman's irritating habits paled into insignificance.

The Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine!

Its lights blinked eternally and a low and sinister hum arose from it, setting the part-time barman's ill-

treated teeth on edge. Installed by one of the brewery's cringing catspaws the thing stood, occupying valuable

drinking space, and as hated by the Swan's patrons as it was possible for any piece of microchipped circuitry

to be hated.

Neville caught sight of his face reflected in the screen and surprised even himself with the ferocity of his

expression. He addressed the machine with his regular morning curse, but the monster hummed on regardless,

indifferent to the barman's invocation of the dark forces. Neville turned away in disgust and slouched off up

the stairs to his

rooms. Here in privacy he poured milk upon his cornflakes and perused Archroy's postcard, propped against

the marmalade pot.

A rooftop view of Brentford.

It was a great pity that Archroy, in the interests of economy, as he put it, had chosen to take a bundle of

local postcards with him when he set off upon his globetrotting. Rooftop views of Brentford were all very pleasant

of course, but they did tend to become a little samey. After all, when one received a card postmarked 'The

Potala, Lhasa', or 'The East Pier, Sri Lanka', it wouldn't hurt to see a bit of pictorial representation on the

front once in a while. It did tend to take the edge off, having read the exotic details of a Singhalese temple

dance, to turn over the card and view the splendours of two gasometers and a water tower.

Neville sighed deeply as he squinted over to the row of identical postcards which now lined his

mantelpiece. Certainly, the one view was so commonplace as to be practically invisible, but each of these

little cards had been despatched from some far-flung portion of the great globe. Each had travelled through

strange lands, across foreign borders, over continents, finally to return, like little pictorial homing pigeons,

to the town of their birth. Certainly there was romance here.

Neville plucked up the card and turned it between his fingers. 'Noah's Ark, eh?' That one took a bit of

believing. Each of the postcards had boasted some fabulous deed or another, but this outdid them all.

Noah's Ark? To the pagan Neville it did seem a trifle unlikely. Even if it had existed at all, which Neville

considered a matter of grave doubt, the chances of it surviving, even partially intact, down through the long

centuries on the peak of Mount Ararat did seem pretty slight. Such things were just silly-season space-fillers

for the popular

press. The barman recalled reading about that chap up north who claimed to have discovered the bottomless

pit in his back garden. He would probably have come clean that it was all a hoax had he not stepped backwards

down it while posing for the press photographer.

Noah's Ark indeed! Neville took the card and placed it with its eight identical brothers upon the

mantelshelf. Noah's Ark indeed! It couldn't be true. Could it?

That same sun, having now risen from behind the gasometers, stretched down a tentative ray towards a rarely

washed bedroom window at Number Six Abaddon Street. Passing with some difficulty through the murky pane,

it displayed itself upon an inner wall as a pale lozenge of light surrounding a noseless statuette of Our Lady.

This mantelpiece beatification of the blessed Virgin was as usual lost upon the room's tenant. John Vincent

Omally was what the textbooks are wont to describe as 'a late riser'. Usually the lozenge of light would move

noiselessly across the mantelpiece wall until it reached the cracked mirror, and then reflect itself on to the face

of the sleeper, thus awakening him from his restful slumbers. But today, as for some days past, it was to be

denied its ritual.

Today it would find but an empty pillow, showing naught of a recumbent head but a slight indentation and

a Brylcreem stain. The coverlet was tossed aside and a pak of ragged pyjama strides lay in an athletic splits posture

upon the linoleum. A timeworn tweed jacket was missing from its appointed hook behind the door. It was not yet

eight of the clock and John Omally was no longer at home to callers. For John Omally had important business

elsewhere.

John Omally was gone a-golfing.

'Fore!' The cry echoed across the allotment, struck the wall of the Seamen's Mission and passed back over

the head of a curly-headed son of Eire, clad in soiled Fair

Isle slipover and rolled-up tweeds. 'Fore and have a care!' Omally swung the aged club, the relic of a former

and more refined age, with a vengeance and struck the little white pill a mighty blow. The ball soared some

four feet into the clear morning air and fell to earth in the midst of Jim Pooley's radish patch.

Jim stifled a titter and read from a dog-eared exercise book entitled The Now Official Handbook of Allotment

Golf: 'Unless rendered totally inextricable, by nature of being unreachable, i.e. under more than four feet of

water or beyond climbing capability, the player will play the stroke. Should the player, however, endanger the

growth of his opponent's radishes he will forfeit the hole.'

Omally scratched his head with a wooden tee and eyed Pooley with some suspicion. 'I don't recall that bit at

the end, Jim,' said he. 'May I venture to ask whether the rule applies to runner beans, possibly of the variety

which you uprooted from my plot yesterday whilst attempting that trick shot of yours on to the fourth?'

Pooley made a thoughtful face. 'Beans are not specifically mentioned,' he said, carefully examining the note he

had so hastily scribbled. 'But if you are making an official request to have them included in the handbook then I

think we might stretch a point and pencil them in.'

At this moment the two golfers suddenly threw themselves down commando-fashion into a clump of long grass.

An explanation for this extraordinary behaviour was almost immediately forthcoming as the distinctive tuneless whis-

tling of Small Dave signalled the approach of that midget as he took his regular morning short cut through to

the Butts Estate.

Allotment Golf had not yet caught the eye either of the allotment holders or the general public, and both

Pooley and Omally wished to keep it that way. They would have greatly preferred to golf upon one of the

municipal courses but circumstances had decreed that their photographs now appeared upon every persona-non-

grata board throughout the county.

It had all appeared so trivial at the time, the small disagreements, the occasional bout of fisticuffs; hardly police

matters one would have thought. Golfers, however, are a clannish bunch with rather a conservative attitude

towards sport. The two Brentonians' extraordinary conception of the game had not been appreciated. Their

constant rule-bending and wild club-swinging, their numerous bogus claims to the course record, achieved

for the most part by omitting to play the more difficult holes, their total disregard for other players' safety,

refusing to shout 'Fore', before what Omally described as 'heavy putting', had been too much to bear. The secretary

of one course had shown moments of rare tolerance: he had respected Pooley's request to play the holes in

reverse order, he had suffered Omally playing in cycling cape and fisherman's waders one particularly wet day, but

when Pooley relocated all the tee markers (in order to make the game more interesting) and Omally had dug a

second hole upon the third green in order to sink a birdy four, stern measures had been taken. The two potential

Ryder Cup winners had been given what the French refer to as 'La Rush de la Bum'.

Thus in a moment of rare inspiration, necessity being, like Frank Zappa, the mother of invention and Jim

Pooley being a man of infinite resource when cornered, Allotment Golf had been born.

It had much to recommend it. There was no queuing up to be done, no green fees to pay, no teeing off in

front of cynical observers to be suffered; above all, they could invent their own rules as the fancy took them.

As originator, Jim took sole charge of the exercise book until every detail was clarified. This, he told

Omally, was what is called 'a divine right'. A certain amount of

subterfuge was called for, of course; they had no wish to alert any of the other allotment holders to the sport for

fear that it might catch on. It had been a moment of rare inspiration indeed on Pooley's part, but one which was

to play its part in changing the face of Brentford as we know it for good and all.

'Fore!' Small Dave had departed upon his round and John Omally set to it once more to shift his ball from

Pooley's radish patch and belt it heartily towards the fourth hole, which lay cunningly concealed between Old

Pete's wheelbarrow and his battered watering-can.

Norman was one of those early birds which catch the proverbial worm. Running the down-at-heel corner-tobacconist's

at anything remotely resembling a profit was pretty much a full-time occupation. Norman went about it, as he did

with everything else, with a will. 'One must remain constantly in the field if one wishes to ladle off the cream

which is one's bread and butter,' he constantly explained to his customers. This remark generally met with enough

thoughtful head-nodding to offer the shopkeeper the encouragement he needed.

Norman had been up since six, sorting through and numbering up the day's papers. It was Wednesday

and the first crop of specialist journals had arrived. There was the Psychic News for Lily at the Plume Cafe. This

Norman numbered in large red figures as the new paperboy had the irritating habit of confusing it with Cycling

News and delivering it to Father Moity at St Joan's. There was the regular welter of sporting mags for Bob the

bookie, and a selection of Danish glossies for Uncle Ted the greengrocer. Norman folded a copy of Muscle

Boys into the widow Cartwright's Daily Telegraph and hummed softly to himself. There was a busy day ahead

and he intended to take advantage of its each and every minute.

Nick, the big-nosed paperboy, sidled into the shop, chewing gum and smoking what the lads at the Yard

refer to as the certain substances. 'Kudos, Norm,' he said.

Norman looked up from his doings and eyed the youth

with evident distaste. 'Good morning, Nicholas,' he said, giving his watch minute scrutiny and rattling it

against his ear. 'Can that be the time already, or is the old Vacheron Constantine running fast again?'

The paperboy flicked idly through a copy of Bra-Busting Beauties. 'Look at those charlies,' he said,

salivating about the gums, 'you'd think you'd gone deaf, eh?'

Norman thrust the bundle of folded papers into the worn canvas bag and pushed it across the worm-eaten

counter. 'Away on your toes, lad,' he grunted. 'Time heals all wounds and absence makes the heart grow

fonder.'

'Oh, it do,' the lad replied, sweeping up the bag in an eczema-coated fist and bearing it away through

the door like the standard of a captured enemy. 'It do that!'

Norman watched him depart in sorrow. There was something decidedly shifty about that boy, but he

couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what. The shopkeeper crossed the mottled linoleum floor and turned

the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Soon they would arrive, he thought, as he peered through the grimy door-glass:

the office girls for their cigarettes and chocolate bars, the revellers of the previous night for their aspirins,

the school lads for their comics and penny toffees, the old dears for the pints of milk Reg the Milkman

had neglected to leave upon their steps, Old Pete for his half-ounce of tobacco, Pooley and Ornally for

five Woodbines on their weekly accounts. The same old regular morning faces.

Norman shook his head thoughtfully. It wasn't a bad old life if you didn't weaken, was it? And a trouble

shared was definitely a trouble halved, and you had to laugh didn't you?

Retracing his steps to the counter he selected one of the newer brands of bubblegum that the local rep

had persuaded him into stocking. Stripping away the wrapper from the stick of Captain Laser Astrogum

he thrust the

gaudy piece of synthetic sweetmeat into his mouth.

Chewing distractedly he drifted about his shop, flicking without conviction at the dust-filled corners and

blowing the falling residue from the faded coverings of the out-of-date chocolate boxes which lined his

shelves. Here was the Queen smiling sweetly, if somewhat faintly, at her Coronation. Here two stuffed-looking

Scotties peered through the rust from a shortbread biscuit tin, and here was the Pickwickian character still

grinning idiotically at that uneatable coughsweet.

Norman drew a bespittled finger across the old tin's surface in an attempt to bring up the brand-name. Did people

still eat sweeties like this? he wondered. Or had they ever? He couldn't recall ever having sold any. Out of

sudden interest he picked up the old tin and gave it a shake. It was empty, of course. Probably evaporated, he

thought.

Norman shrugged once more; he really ought to sling them all out, they served little purpose and could hardly

be described as decorative. But he knew he would never part with them. They gave his shop character and were

always good for inspiring conversation from the lonely pensioners who happened by, upon some pretext or

another, only really wanting a bit of a chat.

Norman thrust his one-feather duster back into its appointed niche and flexed his shoulders as if in

an attempt to free himself from the strange melancholia which rilled him this morning. Things were

going to change in Brentford and there was little good in crying over spilt milk or whistling down the wind.

Upon the counter lay the small brown package which Small Dave had delivered. Norman knew exactly what

it contained; the American stamps and spidery Gothic lettering told him well enough. This was the last component

he required, the final tiny missing piece of the jigsaw.

This was the make or break. Several years of planning

and many many months of hard and exacting work had gone into this, not to mention the small fortune

spent upon research, preparation and final construction. This experiment was indeed 'The Big One'. It was

a Nobel Prize job this time, and no mistake. Norman had named it 'The Ultimate Quest', and it was indeed a

goody.

Certainly, in the past, Norman's little scientific diversions had not been altogether successful. In fact he had

become something of a figure of fun because of them. But this time he was sure he had cracked it. The

people of Brentford would certainly sit up and take notice of this one. If his calculations, combined with those of

a certain Germanic physicist not altogether unknown for his theory of relativity, proved to be correct, then things

were going to be very different indeed hereabouts.

Norman patted the tiny brown package. If all was present and correct he would begin the first practical working

tests this very early-closing day, then we would see what we would see.

The shop bell rang in a customer. It was Old Pete with his half-terrier Chips as ever upon his heels.

'Morning, Norman,' said the ancient, cheerily, 'a half-ounce of Ships if you will.'

'Grmmph mmmph,' the shopkeeper replied, for the first time becoming aware that the Captain Laser Astrogum

had suddenly set hard in his mouth, welding his upper plate to his lower set.

'Grmmph mmmph?' queried Old Pete, scratching at his snowy head. 'Now what would it be this time?

Let me guess? Experimenting with some advanced form of Esperanto is it? Or having a try at ventriloquism?'

Norman clutched at his jaw and grew red about the jowls, his eyes began to roll.

'Ah,' said Old Pete, tapping at his nose. 'I think I am beginning to get the measure of it. Something in

mime,

isn't it? Now let's have a go, I'm quite good at this, give me a clue now, how many words hi the title?'

Norman tore at his welded teeth and bashed at the counter-top with a clenched fist.

'Five words,' said Old Pete. 'No, six, seven? Is it a film or a book?'

Norman lurched from the counter in a most grotesque fashion, grunting and snorting. Old Pete stepped

nimbly aside as he blundered past, while Young Chips sought a safe hideyhole.

'It's a poser,' said the Old One, as Norman threw himself about the shop, toppling the magazine stand and

spilling out its contents. 'I have it, I have it!' he cried suddenly. 'It is the now legendary Charles Laughton in

his famous portrayal of Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame.'

In hearty congratulations for Norman's excellent impersonation the old man, who still retained a considerable

amount of strength in his right arm despite his advancing years, slapped Norman upon the back. The blow

loosened the cemented teeth, which flew from the shopkeeper's mouth, tumbled noisily across the linoleum,

and finally came to rest in an impenetrable place beneath the counter, where they lay in the darkness grinning

ruefully.

'Sanks yous,' spluttered Norman, 'sanks yous, Petes.'

'Credit where credit is due,' the elder replied. 'My tobacco now, if you please.'

Norman staggered to the counter and tore out a one-ounce packet from the tin. 'Ons a houses,' he

whistled through his naked gums. 'Ons a houses.'

Old Pete, who was never a man to look a gift impersonator in the mouth, accepted his reward with a hasty display

of gratitude and departed the shop at speed. Halfway up the Ealing Road Young Chips unearthed a pristine copy

of Bra-Busting Beauties from its secret hiding place beneath a beer crate outside the Swan.

This has all the makings of being a most profitable day,' said the ancient to his furry companion. Young

Chips woofed noncommittally. Being naturally clairvoyant he sensed something rather to the contrary and

therefore wished to reserve judgement for the present.

The allotment golfers had come to something of a critical stage in their game. They had by now reached the

eighteenth 'green' and Omally had but to sink a nine-foot putt across Reg Watling's furrowed spinach patch to

take the match. Betting had been growing steadily during the morning's play and with each increase in financial

risk the two men had grown ever more tight-lipped, eagle-eyed, and alert to the slightest infringement of the

rules.

Omally spat on his palms and rubbed them together. He stalked slowly about his ball and viewed it from

a multiplicity of angles. He scrutinized the lie of the land, tossed a few straws into the air and nodded

thoughtfully as they drifted to earth. He licked his finger and held it skyward, he threw himself to the

ground and squinted along his putter sniper fashion. 'Right then,' said the broth of a boy. 'It looks like child's

play.'

Pooley, who was employing what he referred to as 'the psychology', shook his head slowly. 'That would be at

least a three to the sinking I would believe.'

Omally gestured over his shoulder to the water-butt wherein lay Pooley's ball. 'You would be phoning

for Jacques Cousteau and his lads, I shouldn't wonder.'

Pooley shrugged. 'That is an easy shot compared to this.'

Omally sniggered. 'Keep your eye on the ball, Jim,' he advised.

Omally's putting technique bore an uncanny resemblance to that practised by seasoned Yorkshire batsmen

at the Oval. The putter had a tendency to dig well in on such occasions, sometimes to a depth of some three

inches or more, and once beyond digging range. There was generally a fair amount of lift on the ball, although

the Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf suggested that any balls putted above shoulder height should be

considered as drives and the player penalized accordingly.

Omally squared up his ball whilst Pooley continued to employ 'the psychology'. He coughed repeatedly,

rustled sweet papers in his pocket and scuffed his blakey'd heels in the dust. 'Is that a Lurcher or a Dane?' he asked,

pointing towards some canine of his own creation.

Omally ignored him. There was big beer money on this shot. John suddenly swung the putter in a blurry arc

and struck deeply behind his ball, raising a great clod of earth, which is referred to in golfing circles as a

divot. The ball cannonaded across the allotment, with a whine like a doctored torn struck a section of

corrugated iron fencing, bowled along Old Pete's herbaceous border, and skidded to a halt a mere inch from the

eighteenth hole.

Omally swore briefly, but to the point, flung down his putter and turned his back upon the wanton pill.

'Bad luck,' said Pooley, amid an ill-concealed snigger. By way of consolation, he added, 'It was a brave try.

But would you prefer that I pause a moment before sinking my ball, on the off chance that an earth tremor might

secure you the match?'

Omally kicked his golf bag over.

'Steady on,' said Pooley.

John turned upon him bitterly, 'Go on then, Jimmy boy,' he sneered, 'let us see you take your shot.'

'You won't like it.'

'Won't I, though?'

Pooley tapped at his nose. 'Care to up the betting a trice?'

Omally stroked his chin. 'From the water-butt in one, that is what you are telling me?' Pooley nodded.

'Unless you, like the Dalai Lama, have mastered the techniques of levitation and telekinesis, which I do not

believe, I do not rate your chances.'

'You will kick yourself afterwards.'

Omally spat on to his palm and slapped it into that of his companion. 'All bets are doubled, will that serve you?'

'Adequately.' Pooley strolled over to the water-butt. With the lie of the land, it certainly was in a perfect

line for the hole. Just down a slight slope and into the depression where lay the eighteenth.

'I shall play it from here,' said Jim, turning his back upon the target.

Omally stuck his hands into his pockets. 'As you please,' said he.

'I will play it with a mashie if you have no objections.'

'None whatever.' Omally selected the club and handed it to his companion. Pooley leant forward and chalked

a small cross at the base of the water-butt. Drawing back, he grasped the club hammerlike in his right fist and

with a lewd wink struck the ancient zinc tank a murderous blow.

It was a sizeable hole and the water burst through it with great enthusiasm. Bearing down with the sudden

torrent, and evidently much pleased to be free of its watery grave, Pooley's ball bobbed along prettily. It danced

down the slight incline, pirouetted about the eighteenth hole, as if taking a final bow, then plunged into it

with a sarcastic gurgle.

'My game,' said Pooley rubbing his hands together. 'Best we settle up now, I think.'

Omally struck his companion a devastating blow to the skull. Jim collapsed into a forest of bean poles but

rose almost immediately with a great war cry. He leapt upon

Omally, catching him around the waist and bearing him towards the now muddy ground. 'Poor loser!' he

shouted, grinding his thumb into Omally's right eye.

'Bloody damn cheat,' the other replied, going as ever for the groin.

The two men were more than equally matched, although Omally was by far the dirtier fighter. They bowled

over and over in the mud, bringing into play a most extraordinary diversity of unsportsmanlike punches, low

kicks and back elbows. They had been tumbling away in like fashion for some ten minutes, doing each other

the very minimum amount of damage, yet expending a great deal of energy, when each man suddenly became

aware that his antics were being observed.

Some twenty yards or so away, a solitary figure in a grey coverall suit stood silently watching. At the

distance it was difficult to make out his features clearly, but they seemed wide and flat and had more than

the suggestion of the Orient about them.

The two men rose from the ground, patting away at their clothes. The fight was over, the ref s decision

being a draw. They beat a hasty retreat to the doubtful safety of Pooley's allotment shed. Through a knot-

hole in the slatted side they squinted at the grey figure. He was as immobile as a shop-window dummy, and

stared towards them unblinkingly in a manner which the sensitive Jim found quite upsetting. He was of average

height with high cheek-bones and a slightly tanned complexion and bore a striking resemblance to a young Jack

Palance.

Pooley sought about for his tobacco tin. 'I don't like the look of this,' he said.

Omally, who had liberated Pooley's tin from his pocket during the fight, was rolling a cigarette behind his

back. 'He is probably some workman chappy,' he suggested, 'or possibly a bus conductor or site engineer

from the

gas works.' The hollow tone in Omally's voice was not lost upon his companion.

'He has more of the look of a municipal worker to me,' said Jim, shaking his head dismally. 'A park-keeper

perhaps, or . . . '

'Don't say it,' said John. 'Some spy from the Council come to inspect the allotment?'

Pooley clenched his fists. 'This is all too much. Discriminated against and ostracized from the Council courses,

now tracked down here for further discrimination and ostracization, hounded down because of our love of

the game. It is all too much to bear. Let us kill him now and bury his body.'

Omally agreed that it was all too much to bear but thought Pooley's solution a little drastic. 'All may not be

lost,' he said. 'He may have only just arrived and may only have witnessed our slight disagreement regarding the

excellence of your trick shot. He may not suspect the cause.'

Pooley gestured through a broken window-pane to where his golf caddy, a converted supermarket trolley,

stood bristling with its assortment of unmatched clubs.

Omally hung his head. 'The game is up,' said he in a leaden tone.

Pooley put his eye once more to the knot-hole. 'He is still there. Perhaps we could reason with him, or

better still offer a bribe.'

Omally thought this sound enough, every man having his price. 'How much have you in your pockets?' he

asked.

Pooley smiled grimly. 'We have not yet settled up over the game. I think that it is for you to approach him,

John. Employ your silken tongue and feel free to invest a portion of my winnings if needs be. You can always owe

me the difference. I consider you to be a man of honour.'

Omally licked the end of his captured roll-up. 'All right,'

he said nobly, 'I shall go. We shall consider your winnings to be an investment to secure a further season of

uninterrupted play. During this period I have not the least doubt that if your game continues at its present standard

you will have the opportunity to lighten my pockets continually.'

Pooley opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. In such matters Omally generally held the verbal

edge. 'Go then with my blessings,' he said, 'but kindly leave me my tobacco tin.'

Omally straightened up his regimental necktie, squared his broad and padded shoulders, threw open the hut

door, and stepped out into the sunlight. The figure lurking amongst the bean poles watched the Irishman

with an inscrutable expression. Omally thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and gazed about the allotment

with extreme nonchalance. He yawned, stretched, and then, as if seeing the figure for the first time, flicked at

his mop of curly black hair and bid the stranger a hearty 'Good morning there.'

The figure uttered not a word but merely stared on regardless.

'There'll be rain before the evening I shouldn't wonder,' said Omally, who was rarely rattled. 'Won't do the

ground any harm though.' As he spoke he slowly strolled in the stranger's direction, covering his approach

with the occasional sidestep to scrutinize some flowering bloom. But soon there was less than fifteen yards

between them. 'Should get a rare old crop of beans up this year,' said John, stepping nimbly over Old Pete's

watering can.

In order that he might reach the Council spy, for by this time Omally felt one hundred per cent certain that

this was in fact the lurker's despicable calling, it was necessary for him to pass behind Soap Distant's heavily-

bolted corrugated iron shed. Soap himself had vanished away from Brentford under most extraordinary

circumstances,

but his rental upon the shed was paid up until the turn of the following century and his hut remained

untouched and inviolate.

Omally sneaked away behind it. He lost sight of the spy for but a moment, but when he emerged at the

spot where the malcontent should have been standing, to John's amazement, not a soul was to be seen.

Pooley came ambling up. 'Where did he go?' he asked. 'I took my eyes off him for a moment and he was

gone.'

Omally shook his head. 'There is something not altogether kosher about this, I am thinking.'

'He must have legged it, had it away on his toes.'

Omally scratched at the stubble of his chin. 'Perhaps,' said he, 'perhaps. There is a terrible smell of

creosote hereabouts, has anybody been pasting his paintwork?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

Omally shrugged, 'Shall we play another round then?'

Pooley scrutinized his Piaget wristwatch. 'I feel a little unsettled,' he said. 'Perhaps we should adjourn now

to the Swan for a cooling pint of Large to ease our fractured nerves.'

'That,' said Omally, smacking his hands together, 'is not a bad idea by any reckoning.'

Bitow . . . Bitow . . . Bitow . . . Bitow . . . Whap . . . 'What?' The ungodly sounds echoed across the library-silent

saloon-bar of the Flying Swan, rattling the optics and jarring the patrons from their contemplation of the racing

dailies. Neville the part-time barman clapped his hands about his ears and swore from between freshly clenched

teeth.

Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone, currently serving his time as local paperlad, stood before the Captain

Laser Alien Attack Machine, his feet at three of the clock and his shoulders painfully hunched in his bid to

defend planet Earth from its never-ending stream of cosmic cousins ever bent upon conquest, doom, and

destruction.

Bitow . . . Bitow . . . Bitow . . . Bitow . . . His right forefinger rattled away at the neutron bomb release button

and a bead of perspiration formed upon his ample brow. 'Go on my son, go on.' Little streamers of coloured

light, like some residue from a third-rate firework box, flew up the bluely-tinted video screen to where the

horde of approaching spacecraft, appearing for all the world like so many stuffed olives, dipped and weaved.

Bitow . . . Whap . . . 'What?' Young Nick levelled his cherry-red boot at the machine, damaging several of

his favourite toes.

Neville watched the performance with a face of despair. He too had made that gesture of defiance with an

equal lack of success.

The boy Nick dug deeply into his denim pockets for

more small change, but found only a pound note, whose serial number corresponded exactly with one which

had lain not long before in Norman's secret cashbox beneath his counter. He turned his back momentarily

upon his humming adversary and bounced over to the bar counter. 'Give us change of a quid then, Nev.'

Neville viewed the diminutive figure with the lime-green coiffure. 'I cannot give out change,' he said

maliciously. 'You will have to buy a drink.'

'OK then, a half of shandy and plenty of two-bobs in the change, the Captain awaits.'

Neville drew off a mere trickle of ale into the glass and topped it up from the drips tray. 'We've no lemonade,'

he sneered.

'No sweat,' said Nick.

Neville noticed, as he passed the flat half-pint across the gleaming bar top, that the boy's right forefinger

drummed out a continual tattoo upon an imaginary neutron bomb release button. Accepting the pound note, he

rang up 'No Sale' and scooped out a fistful of pennies and halfpennies and a ten-bob piece. 'Sorry I can't let you

have more than a couple of florins,' he told the bouncing boy, 'we are a little down on silver this morning.'

The boy shrugged. 'No sweat.' He was well acquainted with the old adage about a prophet being without

honour in his own land, and he made a mental note that he would always in future take his perks in silver

before settling in for a lunchtime's cosmic warfare. Without further ado he pocketed his ten-bob piece, swept

up his pennies, pushed his half-pint pointedly aside and jogged back to the humming machine.

Pooley and Omally entered the Flying Swan. 'God save all here,' said the Irishman, as more bitowing rent

the air, 'and a pox upon the Nipponese and all their hellish works.'

Raffles Rathbone heard not a word of this; he was hunched low, aiding the Captain in his bid to defeat

Earth's attackers. His face was contorted into the kind of expression which made Joseph Carey Merrick

such a big attraction in the Victorian side-shows. His right forefinger twitched in a localized St Vitus' Dance

and his body quivered as if charged with static electricity.

Neville ground his teeth, loosening yet another expensive filling, and tore his eyes away from the loathsome

spectacle and towards his approaching patrons. 'What is your pleasure, gentlemen?' he asked.

Pooley hoisted himself on to his favourite stool. 'Two pints of your very best, barlord,' he said. 'My

companion is in the chair.'

Making much of his practised wrist action, Neville drew off two pints of the very very best. He eyed Omally

with only the merest suspicion as the Irishman paid up without a fuss, guessing accurately that it was some

debt of honour. His eyebrows were raised somewhat, however, to the shabby and mudbespattered appearance of

the two drinkers. He thought to detect something slightly amiss. 'I think to detect something slightly amiss,' he

observed.

John drew deeply upon his pint. 'You find me a puzzled man,' said he with some sincerity.

Pooley nodded, 'I also am puzzled,' he said tapping his chest.

The part-time barman stood silently a moment, hoping for a little elaboration, but when it became apparent that

none was to be forthcoming he picked up a pint glass and began to polish it.

'You have had no luck yet with the disablement of that horror?' said Omally, gesturing over his shoulder

towards the video machine.

Neville accelerated his polishing. 'None whatever,' he snarled. 'I have tried the hot soup through the vent,

the

bent washer in the slot, assault with a deadly weapon. I have tried simply to cut the lead but the thing is

welded into the wall.'

'Why not pull the fuse at the mains box?' Pooley asked.

Neville laughed hollowly. 'My first thought. Our friends from the brewery have thought of that. I have pulled

every fuse in the place, but it still runs. It works off some separate power supply which doesn't even register on the

electric meter. It cannot be switched off. Night and day it runs. I can hear it in my room, humming and

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

TheBrentfordTriangleRobertRankinPrologueThesolitaryfigureinthesaffronrobesshieldedhiseyesfromtheglareandsquinteddowntheglaciertowheretheenormousblackvessellay,one-thirdsubmerged,inthefloorofthevalley.Allowingfortheportionlostbelowtheicysurfaceofthefrozenlakeitwaseasilysomethreehundredcubitslong,atle...

展开>> 收起<<

Rankin, Robert - Brentford 02 - The Brentford Triangle.pdf

共93页,预览19页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Rankin, Robert - Brentford 02 - The Brentford Triangle

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: