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

fag,' sighed Jim, at length.
Omally patted his pockets in a professional manner, narrowly avoiding the destruction of five
Woodbine he had secreted in his waistcoat pocket. Tm out,' he said.
Jim shrugged. 'Why do we always go through this performance?' he asked.
Omally shook his head, 'I have no idea whatever, give us a fag, Jim?'
'Would that I could John, would that I could. But times are up against me at the present.'
 Omally shook his head sadly, 'These are troubled times for us all I fear. Take my knee here,' he
raised the gored article towards Jim's nose. 'What does that say to you?'
Pooley put his ear to Omally's knee, 'It is not saying much,' he said. 'Is it perhaps trying to tell me
that it has a packet of cigarettes in its sock?'
'Not even warm.'
'Then you've got me.' Omally sighed. 'Shall we simply smoke our own today, Jim?'
'Good idea.' Pooley reached into his waistcoat pocket and Omally did likewise. Both withdrew
identical packets into the sunlight and both opened these in unison. John's displayed five cigarettes.
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Pooley's was empty. 'Now there's a thing,' said Jim.
'Decoy!' screamed John Omally. Pooley accepted the cigarette in the manner with which it was
offered. 'My thanks,' said he. 'I really do have the feeling that today I might just pull off the long-awaited
Big One.'
'I have something of the same feeling myself,' his companion replied.




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4

The part-time barman finished the last of his toast and patted about his lips with a red gingham napkin.
He leaned back in his chair and rested his palms upon his stomach. He felt certain that he was putting
on weight. A thin man from birth, tall, gaunt, and scholar-stooped, Neville had never possessed a single
ounce of surplus fat. But recently it seemed to him that his jackets were growing ever more tight
beneath the armpits, and that the lower button on his waistcoat was becoming increasingly more difficult
to secure. 'Most curious,' said Neville, rising from his seat and padding over to the bathroom scales
which were now a permanent fixture in the middle of the living-room floor. Climbing aboard, he
peered down between his slippered toes. Eleven stone dead, exactly as it had been for the last twenty
years. The part-time barman shook his head in wonder, it was all very mysterious. Perhaps the scales
were wrong, gummed up with carpet fluff or something. He'd let Norman give them the once-over. Or
perhaps it was the dry cleaners? Things never seemed quite right there since that big combine bought
old Tom Telford out. Possibly this new lot were having a pop at him. Putting an extra tuck in the seat
of his strides every time he put them in for their monthly hose down.
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Most unsporting that, hitting a lad below the belt.
Neville laughed feebly at his unintended funny, but really this was no laughter matter. Taking out
the tape measure, which now never left his person, he stretched it about his waist. All seemed the
same. Possibly it was simply a figment of his imagination. Possibly he was going mad. The thought
was never far from his mind nowadays. Neville shuddered. He would just have to pull himself together.
Sighing deeply, he shuffled away to the bedroom to dress. Flinging off his silken dressing-gown
he took up the rogue trousers from where they hung in their creases over the chair and yanked them
up his legs. With difficulty he buttoned himself into respectability. They were definitely too tight for
comfort, there was no point in denying it. Neville stooped for his socks but stopped in horror. The