"Robert Rankin - Brentford 04 - The Sprouts Of Wrath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

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Porsche into the council car park. Binding, the scrofulous attendant, lurched from his sentry box and put up his
hand. 'Pass?' he demanded.
Jennifer generally let him do this several times before winding down the window to enquire what exactly he
wanted. Today, however, she was in a hurry. Regarding him as she might a dollop of poodle-doo on her Gucci
instep, she indicated the pass, affixed as ever to her windscreen.
Binding leant forward, his ghastly hands deep at some nefarious activity within his trouser pockets. He examined
the pass and what he could of Jennifer's cleavage by turn. At length, evidently satisfied that each was in order, he
mumbled, Til guide you in,' and turned to view the all but empty car park with a thoughtful gaze. There's one over
there in the corner by the bottle bank.' But his words were lost amidst a squeal of expensive rubber as Jennifer spun
the Porsche into the nearest parking space. That of Major McFadeyen.
'You can't park there!' wailed Binding, withdrawing his terrible hands from their place of business and waving
them in the air. That's the Major's bay! It's more than my job's . . .' A loud blast from the Porsche's horn drowned
out the deadly phrase.
Thank you,' said Jennifer Naylor, 'this will do nicely.'

At shortly after ten o'clock: Jim Pooley left Bob the Bookie's at the trot, the millionaire's guffaws ringing in his
ears. He had got far greater odds than Omally had predicted. In his eagerness to acquire ten pounds from Pooley all at
once, Bob had informed him that upon this special occasion the sky was the limit. Jim felt it best to keep this
information from John, as the Irishman would only become over-excited if he knew the true extent of the
projected winnings. 'Also,' thought Jim, 'as I have taken the greater financial risk then so should I reap the greater
reward.' Pleased with the persuasiveness of this argument he

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jingled the last of his small change, winked at the sky and sauntered into Norman's cornershop in the hope of five
Woodbine on tick. 'You never know your luck,' thought Jim Pooley. 'You never know.'

At shortly after ten-thirty there was a council meeting.




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7

'Lunacy! Madness!' Major McFadeyen struck the council table with two tightly knotted fists. A surprising tangle
of veins arrayed themselves upon his neck, lending it the appearance of one of those nasty anatomical models
surgeons like to frighten patients with. Something resembling a blue slug pulsed away upon the major's left temple.
 'Madness!' Momentarily exhausted by the ferocity of his out-cries, he slumped back into his chair. 'And I'll tell
you this . . .' He rose again, supporting himself upon his palms. 'It's . . . it's . . .' A button flew from the top of
his waistcoat, tinkled to the table and rolled in a curious geomantic circle before rattling to a standstill. 'It's . . .
lunacy!' He sat down, puffing and blowing.
Councillor Ffog examined his fingernails and made little embarrassed tutting noises with his mouth.
Philip Cameron chewed his lower lip and rattled coins in his trouser pocket. Sensing his anxiety, Mavis
Peake slipped a calming hand on to his thigh and smiled encouragingly.
For their part the brothers Geronimo stared into the middle distance, arms folded, knees together, minds upon
the Little Big Horn. Ms Naylor regarded the Major with a mild expression.
'Lunacy, I say.' McFadeyen, now a shade of purple that interior decorators describe as crimson magenta, arose
for another blast.
Ms Naylor smiled the sweetest of smiles towards the fuming fogey. 'And might I enquire as to why?'