"Robert Rankin - The Greatest Show Off Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

Raymond shook his head and showered his shoulders with cement dust. 'I must hear
of them now, I suppose?'
'They might be pertinent to the situation.'
'Pertinent?'
'Pertinent.' Simon hooked his thumbs into the belt-loops of his jeans and began to
pace about. 'I read of them in a book about unexplained phenomena that I received through
the post.'
'I sent up for one of those,' said Raymond wistfully. 'But mine never arrived.'
'Shame. Well in this book there's an article about The Barisal Guns. They are sounds
resembling cannon fire that are regularly heard around this little village called, coincidentally
enough, Barisal. Which is somewhere in the Ganges delta. They're not cannons though and
no-one knows what causes them. They're believed to be of an atmospheric nature and they go
... Ouch my nose!'
'That would surely be a misprint in your book then.'
'No, its ouch my nose.' Simon staggered about, clutching at his face.
'I don't think I altogether follow that,' said Raymond.
'I just banged my bloody nose,' whined Simon, somewhat nasally.
'On what?'
 'I don't know. On something. Something there.' Simon gestured in the general
direction of where the nose-banging incident purportedly occurred. Raymond stepped over to
see what might be seen.
But nothing was to be seen.
Although something was to be felt.
'Shiva's sheep!' cried Raymond. 'I have banged my nose also. And stubbed my toe
into the bargain.' He reached out a seeking hand and found it blocked before him by a cold,
hard and quite invisible wall. 'It is glass,' said he.
'Glass?' Simon slouched over, rubbing his nose. 'How is my profile?' he enquired,
and, 'Show me this glass.'
'It is here.' Raymond went tap tap tap with his knuckle.
Simon put out his hand and he too gave it a tap. 'It is very clear glass,' said he, 'as it
cannot be seen at all. And very cold glass also and . . .' He put his tapping knuckle to his nose.
'It smells strongly of fish.'
Raymond sniffed at his own knuckle. 'Perhaps it is recycled glass,' said he. 'But who
put it here and, for that matter,' he began to tap up and down and all around, 'how big is it?'
'Let's find out. You go that way and I will go this.'
The two set off, reaching and tapping and stooping and tapping and doing that thing
with the palms of their hands that mime artistes never tire of boring their audiences with.
Presently they found themselves together once more. On the other side of Raymond's hut.
'Ah,' said the allotment holder.
'Ah indeed,' said his companion. 'We would appear to be encircled. This isn't good, is
it?'
Raymond scratched his head. And so did Simon.
'Kindly stop scratching my head,' said Raymond. 'And help me to smash our way out.'
'Good idea.' Simon took up Raymond's spade and Raymond sought out the pickaxe
that he had once been persuaded into buying by the man with the earring who ran the
ironmongers in the high street.
They swung and they smote. They pummelled and they pounded. They beat and
belaboured, bashed and blackjacked, battered and bludgeoned, biffed and banged. Great
ungodly oaths were sworn and knuckles grazed aplenty. But it was all to no avail. The
invisible wall didn't give. Not a crack, nor a chip, nor a chaffing. It held.