rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第7部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


all　the　world　like　a　young　Jack　Palance。　Through　oval　amber　eyes　he　watched　the　shopkeeper　and　his　anomalous　charge　depart。　Drawing　from　a　concealed　pocket　an　instrument　somewhat　resembling　a　brass　divining　rod；　he　traced　a　runic　symbol　into　the　dusty　soil　of　the　allotment　and　then　also　departed　upon　light　and　silent　feet。
　
　7
　When　the　lights　returned　once　more　to　the　Flying　Swan；　a　moment　or　two　after　the　holocaust　in　Norman's　kitchenette；　they　exposed　a　frozen　tableau　of　deceit　and　duplicity；　which　was　a　sad　indictment　upon　the　state　of　our　society。
　Neville　stood　poised　behind　the　counter；　knobkerry　at　the　ready；　to　defend　his　optics　against　any　straining　hands。
　Pooley　held　Omally's　glass　above　his　own；　a　stupefied　expression　upon　his　guilty　face。　Two　professional　domino　players　each　had　their　hands　in　the　spares　box。　Old　Pete's　dog　was　standing；　leg　raised；　to　the　piano；　and　a　veritable　rogues'　gallery　of　similar　deeds　was　exposed　the　entire　length　of　the　bar。
　Neville　shook　his　head　in　disgust；　'You　miserable　bunch；'　was　all　that　he　could　say。
　The　only　patron　who　had　not　shifted　his　position　during　the　unscheduled　blackout　was　a　green…haired　youth；　who　had　been　so　engrossed　in　his　war　against　the　aliens　that　he　had　been　totally　oblivious　to　the　entire　event。　Bitow　Bitow　Bitow　Bitow　crackled　the　machine。　Bitow；　Bitow。。。　'Bugger！'　The　lad　restrained　a　petulant　foot　and　slouched　over　to　the　bar　counter。　'Where's　me　drink　gone；　Nev？'　he　asked。
　The　part…time　barman　shrugged。　'Ask　this　mutinous　crew；'　he　suggested。　Raffles　Rathbone　turned　towards　the　assembled　multitude；　but　they　had　by　now　returned　to　their　previous　occupations。　Conversations　hummed；　darts　whispered　and　glasses　rose　and　fell。　All　was　as　it　had　ever　been。
　'Same　again　then　is　it？'
　'Why　not？　Got　sixteen　thousand；　personal　high　score；　got　me　initials　up　there　three　times。'
　'Oh　goody　goody；'　sneered　Neville。　'Are　you　sure　you　only　want　the　half　of　shandy；　I　shouldn't　crack　a　bottle　of　Bollinger；　should　I？'
　'The　half　will　be　fine；　thank　you。'　Neville　did　the　honours。
　The　Swan　settled　down　once　more　to　its　lunchtime　normality；　and　such　it　would　no　doubt　have　enjoyed；　had　it　not　been　for　certain　distant　screams；　which　were　borne　upon　the　light　spring　breeze　to　announce　the　approach　of　a　certain　small　and　disconsolate　postman。
　'Camels！　Camels　on　the　allotment！'　The　cry　reached　the　Swan　shortly　before　Small　Dave。
　Omally　choked　into　his　beer。　'No　more！'　he　spluttered；　crossing　himself。　Pooley　shook　his　head；　it　was　proving　to　be　a　most　eventful　day　and　it　was　early　yet。　Neville　reached　once　more　for　his　knobkerry　and　Raffles　Rathbone　stood　before　the　video　machine；　oblivious　to　the　world　about　him。
　Small　Dave　burst　into　the　Swan；　looking　very　much　the　worse　for　wear。　He　lurched　up　to　the　counter　and　ordered　a　large　scotch。　Neville　looked　down　at　the　distraught　postman；　and　it　must　be　said　that　the　makings　of　a　fine　smirk　began　to　form　at　the　edges　of　his　mouth。　Turning　away　he　drew　off　a　single　for　which　he　accepted　double　price。　Small　Dave　tossed　it　back　in　one　gulp　as　Neville　had　calculated　and　ordered　another。　'C…C…Camels；'　he　continued。
　Neville　drew　off　a　large　one　this　time　as　a　crowd　was　beginning　to　gather。　'So；　Posty；'　he　said；　pushing　the　glass　across　the　counter　towards　the　postman's　straining　hand；　'how　goes　the　day　for　you　then？'
　Small　Dave　made　pointing　motions　towards　the　general　direction　of　the　allotments。　His　lower　lip　quivered　and　he　danced　about　in　a　state　of　obvious　and　acute　agitation。
　'No　more　postcards　then？'　Neville　asked。
　'C…C…Camels！'　howled　the　midget。
　Neville　turned　to　Omally；　who　had　dragged　himself　up　to　the　bar　counter。　'Do　you　think　our　postman　is　trying　to　tell　us　something；　John？'　he　asked。
　'He　is　saying　camels；'　said　Jim　Pooley　helpfully。
　'Ah；　that　is　what　it　is；　camels；　eh？'
　'C…C…Camels！'
　'Yes；　it　is　camels　for　certain；'　said　Omally。
　'He　has　a　lovely　way　with　words；'　said　Neville；　suddenly　feeling　quite　cheerful；　'and　a　good　eye　for　a　picture　postcard。'
　'For　God's　sake！　Camels；　don't　you　understand？'　Small　Dave　was　growing　increasingly　purple　and　his　voice　was　reaching　a　dangerous；　champagne…glass…splitting　kind　of　a　pitch。
　'Is　he　buying　。or　selling；　do　you　think？'
　'I　hadn't　thought　to　enquire。'　Neville　squinted　down　at　the　postman；　who　was　now　down　on　all　fours　beating　at　the　carpet。　'He　is　impersonating；　I　think。'
　Old　Pete　hobbled　up。　He　had　experienced　some　luck　recently　over　impersonating　and　wasn't　going　to　miss　out　on　a　good　thing。　'That's　not　the　way　of　a　camel；'　he　said　authoritatively。　'That's　more　like　a　gerbil。'
　Small　Dave　fainted；　arms　and　legs　spread　flat　out　on　the　floor。
　'That's　a　polar　bear　skin；'　said　Old　Pete；　'and　a　very　good　one　too！'
　Small　Dave　was　unceremoniously　hauled　up　into　a　waiting　chair。　A　small　green　bottle　was　grudgingly　taken　down　from　its　haunt　amongst　the　Spanish　souvenirs　behind　the　bar；　uncorked　and　waggled　beneath　the　midget's　upturned　nose。
　'C…C…Camels！'　went　Small　Dave；　ing　once　more　to　what　there　were　left　of　his　senses。
　'I　find　that　his　conversation　has　bee　a　trifle　dull　of　late；'　said　Neville。
　'I　think　it　might　pay　to　hear　him　out。'　Pooley　thrust　his　way　through　the　throng　with　a　glass　of　water。　The　postman　spied　out　his　approach。　'What's　that　for？'　he　snapped。　'Going　to　give　me　a　blanket　bath；　are　you？'
　Jim　coughed　politely。　'You　are　feeling　a　little　better　then？　I　thought　perhaps　you　might　like　to　discuss　whatever　is　troubling　you。'
　'I　should　enjoy　another　scotch　to　steady　myself。'
　The　crowd　departed　as　one　man；　they　had　seen　all　this　kind　of　stuff　many　many　times　before。　The　ruses　and　stratagems　employed　in　the　cause　of　the　free　drink　were　as　numerous　as　they　were　varied。　The　cry　of　'Camels'；　although　unique　in　itself；　did　not　seem　particularly　meritorious。
　'But　I　saw　them；　I　did；　I　did；'　wailed　Small　Dave；　as　he　watched　the　patrons'　hurried　departure。　'I　swear。'　He　crossed　himself　above　the　heart。　'See　this　wet；　see　this　dry。　e　back　fellas；　e　back。'
　No…one　had　noticed　John　Omally　quietly　slipping　away。　He　had　bee　a　man　sorely　tried　of　late；　what　with　vanishing　Council　men　and　everything。　The　idea　of　camels　upon　the　allotment　was　not　one　which　appealed　to　him　in　the　slightest。　He　could　almost　hear　the　clicking　of　tourists'　Box　Brownies　and　the　flip…flopping　of　their　beach…sandalled　feet　as　they　trampled　over　the　golf　course。　It　didn't　bear　thinking　about。　If　there　were　rogue　camels　wandering　around　the　allotment；　Omally　determined　that　they　should　be　removed　as　quickly　as　possible。
　John　jogged　down　Moby　Dick　Terrace　and　up　towards　the　allotment　gates。　Here　he　halted。　All　seemed　quiet　enough。　A　soft　wind　gently　wrinkled　the　long　grass　at　the　boundary　fence。　A　starling　or　two　pecked　away　at　somebody's　recently　sown　seed　and　a　small　grey　cat　stretched　luxuriously　upon　the　roof　of　Pooley's　hut。　Nothing　unusual　here；　all　peace　and　tranquillity。
　Omally　took　a　few　tentative　steps　forward。　He　passed　the　first　concealed　tee…box　and　noted　with　satisfaction　that　all　was　as　it　should　be。　He　crept　stealthily　in　and　out　between　the　shanty　town　of　corrugated　huts；　sometimes　springing　up　and　squinting　around；　eyes　shaded　like　some　Indian　tracker。
　Then　a　most　obvious　thought　struck　him：　there　were　only　two　entrances　to　the　allotment　and　any　camel　would　logically　have　to　pass　either　in　or　out　of　these。　Therefore　any　camel　would　be　bound　to　leave　some　kind　of　spoor　which　could　surely　be　followed。
　Omally　dropped　to　his　knees　upon　the　path　and　sought　camel　prints。　He　then　rose　slowly　to　his　feet　and　patted　at　the　knees　of　his　trousers。　What　on　earth　am　I　doing？　he　asked　himself。　Seeking　camel　tracks　upon　a　Brentford　allotment；　he　answered。　Have　I　bee　bereft　of　my　senses？　He　thought　it　better　not　to　answer　that　one。　And　even　if　I　saw　a　camel　track；　how　would　I　recognize　it　as　one？
　This　took　a　bit　of　thinking　out；　but　it　was　eventually　reasoned　that　a　camel　track　would　look　like　no　other　track　Omally　had　yet　seen　upon　the　allotment；　and　thus　be　recognized。
　Omally　shrugged　and　thrust　his　hands　into　his　trouser　pockets。　He　wandered　slowly　about；　criss…crossing　the　pathway　and　keeping　alert　for　anything　untoward。　He　came　very　shortly　upon　the　decimation　of　Small　Dave's　pride　and　joy。　Half…munched　cabbages　lay　strewn　in　every　direction。　Something　had　certainly　been　having　its　fill　of　the　tasty　veg。　Omally　stooped　to　examine　a　leaf　and　found　to　his　wonder　large　and　irregular　toothmarks　upon　it。
　'So；'　said　he；　'old　Posty　was　not　talking　through　his　regulation　headgear；　something　has　been　going　on　here。'
　He　scanned　the　ground　but　could　make　out　nothing　besides　very　human…looking　footprints　covering　the　well…trodden　pathway。　Some　of　these　led　off　towards　the　Butts　Estate　entrance；　but　Omally　felt　disinclined　to　follow　them。　His　eyes　had　just　alighted　upon　something　rather　more　interesting。　Slightly　in　front　of　Soap　Distant's　padlocked　shed；　an　image　glowed　faintly　in　the　dirt。　Omally　strode　over　to　it　and　peered　down。　He　was　certain　the　thing　had　not　been　there　earlier。
　The　Irishman　dropped　once　more　to　his　hands　and　knees。　It　had　an　almost　metallic　quality　to　it；　as　if　it　had　been　wrought　into　the　dirt　in　copper。　But　as　to　exactly　what　it　was；　that　was　another　matter。　Omally　drew　a　tentative　finger　across　its　surface　but　the　thing　resisted　his　touch。　He　rose　and　raked　his　heel　across　it　but　the　image　remained　inviolate。
　John　peered　up　into　the　sky。　It　wasn't　being　projected　from　above；　was　it？　No；　that　was　nonsense。　But　surely　it　had　to　e　off；　you　couldn't　print　indelibly　on　dust。　He　scuffed　at　the　ground　with　renewed　vigour；　raising　a　fine　cloud　of　dust　which　slowly　cleared　to　reveal　the　image　glowing　up　once　more；　pristine　and　unscathed。
　Omally　stooped　again　and　pressed　his　eye　near　to　the　thing。　What　was　it？　Obviously　a　symbol　of　some　sort；　or　an　insignia。　There　was　a　vaguely　familiar　look　to　it；　as　if　it　was　something　he　had　half　glimpsed　upon　some　occasion　but　never　fully　taken　in。　It　had　much　of　the　rune　about　it　also。
　'So；'　said　a　voice　suddenly；　'you　are　a　secret　Mohammedan；　are　you；　Omally？'　The　Irishman　rose　to　confront　a　grinning　Jim　Pooley。　'Surely　Mecca　would　be　in　the　o