"Robert Rankin - Brentford 02 - The Brentford Triangle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

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.




1

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