"Robert Rankin - Brentford 03 - East Of Ealing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

In another part of Brentford other things were stirring this Shrove Tuesday morning and what those
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other things were and what they would later become were matters which would in their turn weigh
very heavily indeed upon certain part-time barmen's shoulders.
They all truly began upon a certain section of unreclaimed bomb-site along the High Street between
the Beehive pub and a rarely used side-turning known as Abaddon Street. And as fate would have it, it
was across this very stretch of land that an Irish gentleman of indeterminate years, wearing a well-
patched tweed jacket and a flat cap, was even now striding. He was whistling brightly and as it was his
wont to do, leading by the perished rubber grip of a pitted handlebar, an elderly sit-up-and-beg bike.
This was one John Vincent Omally, and his rattling companion, labouring bravely along, although
devoid of front mudguards and rear brake and sorely in need of the healing balm offered by Norman's
oilcan, was none other than that prince of pedaldom, Marchant, the wonder bike. Over the rugged strip
of land came these two heroic figures, the morning sun tinting their features, treading a well-worn
short-cut of their own making. Omally whistling a jaunty tune from the land of his fathers and
Marchant offering what accompaniment he could with the occasional bout of melodic bell ringing.
God was as ever in Omally's Heaven and all seemed very much all right with the world.
As they came a-striding, a-whistling and a-ringing, small birdies fluttered down on to the crumbling
ivy-hung brickwork of the surrounding walls to join them in a rowdy chorus. Beads of dew swung
upon
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dandelion stems and fat-bellied garden spiders fiddled with their diamond-hung webs. It certainly wasn't
a bad old life if you had the know of it, and Omally was a man whom it could reasonably be said had that
very know. The lad gave a little skip and doffed his hat to the day. Without warning his foot suddenly
struck a half-buried object which had certainly not existed upon his previous day's journeyings. To the
accompaniment of a great Godless oath which momentarily blotted out the sunlight and raised the
twittering birdies into a startled confusion, the great man of Eire plunged suddenly towards the planet
of his birth, bringing with him his bicycle and tumbling into a painful, untidy, and quite undignified
heap.
'By the blood of the Saints!' swore Omally, attempting to rise but discovering to his horror that
Marchant now held him in something resembling an Indian death-lock. 'In the name of all the Holies!'
The tangled bike did what it could to get a grip of itself and spun its back wheel, chewing up several of
Omally's most highly-prized fingers. 'You stupid beast!' screamed himself, lashing out with an over-
sized hobnail. 'Have a care will you?' The bike, having long years of acquaintanceship with its master to
its credit, considered that this might be the time to keep the now legendary low profile.
Amidst much cursing and a great deal of needless profanity, Omally struggled painfully to his feet
and sought the cause of his downfall. Almost at once he spied out the villain, a nubble of polished
metal protruding from the dusty path. John was not slow in levelling his size-nine boot at it.
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He was someway between mid-swing and full-swing when a mental image of a bygone relative
swam into his mind. He had performed a similar action upon a half-buried obstruction during the time
of the blitz. The loud report and singular lack of mortal remains paid a posthumous tribute to his lack of
forethought. DANGER UNEXPLODED BOMB! screamed a siren in Omally's brain. John lowered his size-nine
terror weapon gently to the deck and stooped gingerly towards the earth to examine the object. To his
amazement he found himself staring at the proverbial thing of beauty. A mushroom of highly-polished
brass surmounted by an enamel crown. There was that indefinable quality of value about it and
Omally was not slow to notice the fact. His fingers greedily wore away at its earthy surrounding, exposing
a slender, fluted column extending downwards. From even this small portion it was clear that the thing
was a rare piece of workmanship; the flutes were cunningly inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Omally
climbed to his feet and peered furtively around to assure himself that he was alone with his treasure.
That he had struck the motherlode at last was almost a certainty. There was nothing of the doodlebug