rr.eastofealing-第14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！


　'Perk　up；'　the　scholar　replied。　'I　know　the　odds　are　unthinkable；　but　I　have　a　feeling　just　the　same。'
　Omally　stuffed　a　pint　of　Large　into　each　of　Pooley's　outstretched　hands。　'What　a　game　this；　then？'　said　he。
　'You　will　hate　me　also；'　Pooley　replied　dismally。
　'Me？'　Omally　pressed　his　hands　to　his　heart。　'But　I　love　you；　my　dearest　friend；　the　brother　I　never　had。'
　'You　have　five　brothers。'
　'None　like　you。'
　Jim　considered　his　two　pints　and　raised　both　simultaneously　to　his　lips。　It　was　the　kind　of　feat　no　man　could　be　expected　to　perform　twice　in　a　lifetime；　but　he　drained　the　two　at　a　single　draught。　'Oh　cruel　fate；'　said　he；　wiping　the　merest　drip　from　his　chin。
　'Tell　me；　Jim；'　Professor　Slobe　asked；　as　a　crowd　of　female　kissers　took　turns　at　their　hero's　cheek；　'how　did　you　do　it？　Was　it　the　product　of　pure　chance　or　through　the　study　of　form？　I　ask　out　of　professional　interest；　I　can　assure　you　that　it　will　go　no　further。'
　Jim　brushed　away　the　barmaid　from　the　New　Inn；　whose　arm　had　snaked　about　his　waist。　'If　you　really　want　to　know；　it　was　down　to　you　and　your　talk　of　numerology。　Find　the　pattern；　you　said。　Break　everything　down　to　its　numerological　equivalent；　you　said；　and　the　answer　is　yours。'
　Professor　Slobe　nodded　enthusiastically；　a　light　shone　in　his　old　face。　'Yes；　yes；'　he　cried；　'then　you　have　solved　it；　you　have　found　the　key。　Tell　me　Jim；　I　must　know。'
　'It　wasn't　all　that；'　Jim　replied。　'Get　off　there　woman；　those　are　private　places。　I　simply　followed　the　lines。'
　The　lines？　What　lines？'
　Pooley　pushed　his　racing　paper　towards　the　Professor；　'Those　boys　there；'　he　said。　'Madam；　put　those　hands　away。'
　Professor　Slobe　drew　a　quivering　finger　across　the　row　of　puter　lines；　eighteen　in　all；　three　groups　of　six。　'Oh　my　Lord；'　he　said　slowly。　'Jim；　do　you　realize　what　you've　done？'
　'Pulled　off　The　Big　One。'
　'Very　much　more　than　that。'　Professor　Slobe　thumbed　the　paper　back　to　its　front　page。　'I　knew　it。　This　is　not　your　paper。'
　'I　borrowed　it；'　said　Jim　guiltily。
　'Jim；　tear　up　the　slip。　I　am　not　joking。　You　don't　understand　what　you've　got　yourself　into。　Tear　it　up　now；　I　implore　you。'
　'Leave　it　out；'　Jim　Pooley　replied。
　'I　will　write　you　a　cheque。'　The　Professor　brought　out　his　cheque…book。　'Name　the　sum。'
　'Is　the　man　jesting？'　Pooley　turned　to　Old　Pete　who　was　banging　his　deaf　aid　on　to　the　bar　counter。
　'I've　gone　deaf　here；'　the　other　replied。
　'Jim；'　the　Professor　implored；　'listen；　please。'
　'Pete；'　said　Pooley；　'you　old　fool；　give　me　that　thing。'
　Three　o'clock　was　fast　approaching　upon　the　Guinness　clock。
　'Switch　her　on　then；'　said　somebody；　nudging　Old　Pete　upon　the　arm。
　Now；　it　must　be　fairly　stated　that　Pete's　hearing　aid　was　not　one　of　those　microchipped　miracle　appliances　one　reads　so　much　of　in　the　popular　press。　Such　articles；　one　is　so　informed；　although　no　bigger　than　a　garden　pea；　can　broadcast　the　sound　of　a　moth　breaking　wind　to　the　massed　appreciation　of　an　entire　Wembley　cup…tie　crowd。　No；　old　Pete's　contraption　was　not　one　of　these。　Here　instead；　you　had　the　valve；　the　pink　Bakelite　case；　and　the　now　totally　expended　tungsten　carbide　battery。
　'It's　broke；'　said　Old　Pete。　'Caput。'
　'It's　what？'
　'Pardon？'　the　elder　replied。　'You'll　have　to　speak　up；　my　deaf　aid's　gone。'
　'Deaf　aid's　gone。　Deaf　aid's　gone。'　The　word　spread　like　marge　on　a　muffin。　The　panic　spread　with　it。
　'Tear　up　the　slip；'　the　Professor　manded；　his　words　lost　in　the　growing　din。　Pooley　clutched　it　to　his　bosom　as　the　threatened　firstborn　it　was。　Omally　sought　Neville's　knobkerry　as　the　crowd　turned　into　a　mob　and　sought　a　beam　to　throw　a　rope　over。　It　was　lynching　time　in　Brentford。　Having　seen　active　service　in　many　a　foreign　field；　Old　Pete　was　well…prepared　to　go　down　fighting。　He　swung　his　stick　with　Ninja　fury　at　the　first　likely　skull　that　loomed　towards　him。　Friend　or　foe　wasn't　in　it。　Fists　began　to　fly。　Omally；　knobkerry　in　hand；　launched　himself　from　the　counter　into　the　middle　of　the　crowd。　'On　to　the　bookie's；　Jim；'　he　shouted　as　he　brought　down　a　dozen　rioters。
　Sheltering　his　privy　parts　and　clinging　for　dear　life　to　his　betting…slip；　Pooley；　in　the　wake　of　Professor　Slobe；　whom　no　man　present　would　have　dared　to　strike　no　matter　how　dire　the　circumstances；　edged　through　the　melee。
　'He's　getting　away；'　yelled　someone；　struggling　up　from　beneath　the　mad　Irishman。　'After　him；　lads。'
　The　crowd　swung　in　a　blurry　mass　towards　the　saloon…bar　door　through　which　Pooley　was　now　passing　with　remarkable　speed。　The　tumbling　mass　burst　out　after　him　into　the　street。　Professor　Slobe　stepped　nimbly　aside　and　took　himself　off　to　business　elsewhere。
　Leo　Felix；　who　had　been　labouring　away　with　welder's　blow…torch　in　a　vain　attempt　to　salvage　anything　of　his　defunct　tow…truck；　stared　up；　white…faced　and　dread；　as　Pooley　blundered　into　him。　'I　and　I；'　squealed　the　rattled　Rastaman；　vanishing　away　beneath　a　small　Mount　Zion　of　bowling　bodies。　Jim　was　snatched　up　by　a　dozen　flailing　hands　and　raised　shoulder…high。　The　stampede　turned　to　a　thundering　phalanx　which　lurched　forward；　bound　for　Bob　the　bookie's；　bearing　at　their　vanguard　their　multi…million　dollar　standard。　Jim　prepared　to　make　a　deal　with　God　for　the　second　time　in　as　many　days。　When　the　sixth　horse　floundered；　as　surely　it　must；　Mr　Popular　he　was　not　going　to　be。　'Father　forgive　them；'　he　said。
　Antoine　turned　Bob's　Roller　into　the　Haling　Road　with　an　expensive　shriek　of　burning　rubber。　Ahead；　the　advancing　phalanx　filled　the　street。　Antoine　yanked　hard　upon　the　wheel；　but　the　car　appeared　to　have　ideas　of　its　own。　It　tore　forward　into　the　crowd；　scattering　bodies　to　left　and　right。　Jim　cartwheeled　forward　and　came　to　rest　upon　the　gleaming　bonnet；　his　nose　jammed　up　against　the　windscreen。　The　Roller　mounted　the　pavement；　bringing　down　a　lamppost　and　mercifully　dislodging　Jim；　who　slid　into　the　gutter；　a　gibbering　wreck；　bereft　of　yet　another　jacket　sleeve；　which　now　swung　to　and　fro　upon　a　gold…plated　windscreen　wiper　like　some　captured　tribal　war　trophy。
　Antoine　leapt　from　the　cab　as　Pooley's　sixth　horse　kicked　betting　history　into　a　cocked　hat　and　Bob's
　Roller　plunged　onward；　bound　for　the　rear　of　Leo's　tow…truck　and　the　paw　paw　negro　blow…torch　which　was　even　now　blazing　away　at　the　unattended　oxy…acetylene　gas…bottle　beneath　it。
　'It's　been　a　funny　old　kind　of　day；'　said　Bob　the　bookie。
　
　13
　The　Brentford　sun　arose　the　next　morning　upon　a　parish　which　seemed　strangely　reticent　about　rising　from　its　collective　bed　to　face　the　challenge　of　the　day　ahead。　The　Swan　in　all　of　its　long　and　colourful　history　had　never　known　a　night　like　it。　Jim　had　loaded　the　disabled　cash　register　with　more　pennies　than　it　could　ever　hope　to　hold　and　announced　to　all　that　the　drinks　were　most　definitely　on　him。　The　parish　had　not　been　slow　to　respond　to　this　selfless　gesture；　and　the　word　burned　like　wildfire　up　the　side…streets　and　back　alleys　as　it　generally　did　when　fanned　by　the　wind　of　a　free　drink。
　Brentford　put　up　the　'Closed　for　the　Night'　sign　and　severed　all　links　with　the　outside　world。　The　Swan's　rival　publicans　chewed　upon　their　lips　for　only　a　short　while　before　leaving　their　cigars　to　smoulder　in　the　ashtrays　and　join　in　the　festivities。　The　borough　council　awarded　the　swaying　Jim　their　highest　mendation；　the　Argentinum　Astrum；　before　drinking　itself　to　collective　extinction。　With　the　charred　automotive　wreckage　of　Bob's　Roller　and　Leo's　tow…truck　removed；　there　had　been　dancing　in　the　street　that　night。
　For　Neville；　upon　his　bed　of　pain；　news　never　reached　him。　The　Sisters　of　Mercy　who　tended　to　his　bed…pan　and　blanket…baths；　hiked　up　their　skirts　and　joined　in　the　revelry；　leaving　the　metaphysical　fat　boy　to　sleep　on　under　his　heavy　sedation。
　For　John　Omally　it　was　a　night　he　would　long　remember。　As　Christ　had　feasted　the　five　thousand　upon　half　a　score　of　Jewish　baps　and　as　many　kippers；　thus　did　Omally　quench　the　thirsts　of　the　Brentford　multitude。　Like　the　barman　of　myth；　his　hand　was　always　there　to　take　up　the　empty　glass　and　refill　it。
　For　Jim　Pooley；　morning　suddenly　appeared　out　of　drunken　oblivion　beating　a　loud　tattoo　of　drums　upon　the　inside　of　his　skull。　Jim　shook　his　head。　An　ill…considered　move。　The　tattoo　grew　louder　and　more　urgent。　Jim　reopened　a　pair　of　blood…red　eyes。　He　found　himself　staring　into　the　snoring　face　of　Miss　Naylor；　Brentford's　licentious　librarian。　'Gawd；'　muttered　Jim　to　himself；　'I　did　strike　it　lucky　last　night。'
　The　pounding　was　ing　from　below；　from　his　front　door。　It　was　the　relief　postman。　Jim　rose　giddily　and　lurched　towards　the　bedroom　door。　The　words　'never　again'　could　not　make　it　to　his　lips。　'Shut　up；'　he　whispered　as　the　hammering　continued。　Jim　stumbled　down　the　uncarpeted　stairs　and　caught　his　bare　toe　for　the　umpteenth　time　upon　the　tack　protruding　from　the　sixth　tread。　Howling　beneath　his　breath；　he　toppled　into　the　hall　to　find　himself　suddenly　swimming　in　a　sea　of　paper。
　The　hallway　was　jam…packed　with　letters；　literally　thousands　of　them；　of　every　way；　shape；　colour；　and　form。　Telegrams；　buff…coloured　circulars；　and　picture　postcards。
　Pooley　rubbed　at　his　eyes　as　he　lay　half…submerged　in　the　papery　cushion。　He　was　certain　that　they　hadn't　been　there　the　night　before；　but　as　the　later　moments　of　the　previous　night's　revels　were　blank　to　his　recollection；　as　attested　to　by　the　snoring　female　above；　Jim's　certainties　were　purely　subjective　in　nature。
　The　banging　continued　beyond　the　barricade　of　the　king's　mail。
　'All　right；　all　right。'　Pooley　clutched　at　his　temples　and　fought　his　way　towards　the　front　door。　Pushing　envelopes　to　left　and　right　with　great　difficulty；　he　opened　it。
　'Mail；'　said　a　sweating　postman；　thumbing　over　his　shoulder　towards　a　dozen　or　so　bulging　sacks　which　lay　in　an　unruly　line　along　the　pavement。　'Your　bloody　birthday　is　it　then；　pal？'
　Pooley　shrugged；　dislodging　an　avalanche　of　letters　which　momentarily　buried　him。
　'I've　been　sticking　these　bastards　through　your　letter…box　for　the　better　part　of　an　hour　and　I　can't　get　any　more　through。　Do　pardon　this　departure　from　the　norm；　but　I　must　insist　that　you　post　the　rest　yourself。　I　am　here　on　relief　from　Chiswick　as