"Robert Rankin - Brentford 01 - The Antipope" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

The Antipope
Robert Rankin

Prologue

A long finger of early spring sunshine poked down between the flatblocks and reached through the dusty panes
of the Flying Swan's saloon bar window, glistening off a pint beer glass and into the eye of Neville, the part-time
barman.
Neville held the glass at arms' length and examined it with his good eye. It was very clean, small rainbows
ran about its rim. It was a good shape too, gently rising to fill the hand with an engagingly feminine bulge. Very
nice. There was a lot of joy to be had in the contemplation of a pint glass; in terms of plain reality of course,
there was a deal more to be had in the draining of one.
The battered Guinness clock above the bar struck a silent 11 o'clock. Once its chimes had cut like a butcher's
knife through the merry converse of the Swan's patrons. But it had been silent now these three long years, since
Jim Pooley had muted it with a well-aimed pint pot. These days its lame thuds went unheeded and Neville was
forced to more radical methods for clearing the bar come closing. Even the most drunken of revellers could
understand a blow to the skull from the knobkerry he kept below the bar counter.
At the last thud of the Guinness clock Neville replaced the dazzling glass. Lifting the hinged bar top, he
sidled towards the saloon-bar door. The Brentford sun glinted upon his Bryl-creemed scalp as he stood nobly
framed in that famous portal, softly sniffing the air. Buses came and went in the morning haze, bound for exotic
destinations west of London. An unfragrant miasma drifted from the Star of Bombay Curry Garden, sparrows
along the
telephone lines sang the songs their parents had taught them. The day seemed dreamy and calm.
Neville twitched his sensitive nostrils. He had a sudden strange premonition that today was not going to be
like any other.
He was dead right.

1
Jim Pooley, that despoiler of pub clocks, sat in the Memorial Library, pawing over ancient tomes in a never-
ending search for the cosmic truths which might lead a man along the narrow winding pathway towards self-
fulfilment and ultimate enlightenment. 'Looking up form and keeping out of the rain' was what the Head
Librarian called it. 'Mr Pooley,' she said, in those hushed yet urgent tones affected by those of her station. 'Mr
Pooley, why don't you take your paper around to the bookie's and there study in an atmosphere which must
surely be more conducive to your purposes?'
Pooley, eyes fixed upon his paper as if in a trance, mouthed, 'You have a wonderful body on you there, Mrs
Nay lor.'
Mrs Naylor, who lip-read every word as she had done upon a thousand other such occasions, reddened
slightly but maintained her dignity. 'Why can't you look at the books once in a while just to keep up appearances?'
'I have books of my own,' said Jim silently, 'but I come here to absorb the atmosphere of this noble edifice and
to feast my eyes upon your supple limbs.'
'You haven't even a ticket, Mr Pooley.'
'Give us a French kiss,' said Jim loudly.
Mrs Naylor fled back to her desk and Pooley was left to his own devices. His eyes swept over the endless
columns of racehorses. Somewhere he knew, amid this vast assortment, existed six horses which would win
today at good odds, and if placed in a 'Yankee' accumulator would gross Ј250,000 at the very least. Such
knowledge, of course, is generalized, and it is the subtle particularities of
knowing which horses to choose that make the thing difficult.
Pooley licked the end of his Biro, especially blessed by Father Moity for the purpose. He held it up to the shaft
of sunlight which had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared through an upper window. Nearly spent, more than
half of its black life-fluid ebbed away, and upon what? Upon ill-considered betting slips, that was upon what.