"Robert Rankin - Brentford 02 - The Brentford Triangle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

Let me guess? Experimenting with some advanced form of Esperanto is it? Or having a try at ventriloquism?'
Norman clutched at his jaw and grew red about the jowls, his eyes began to roll.
'Ah,' said Old Pete, tapping at his nose. 'I think I am beginning to get the measure of it. Something in
mime,


isn't it? Now let's have a go, I'm quite good at this, give me a clue now, how many words hi the title?'
Norman tore at his welded teeth and bashed at the counter-top with a clenched fist.
'Five words,' said Old Pete. 'No, six, seven? Is it a film or a book?'
Norman lurched from the counter in a most grotesque fashion, grunting and snorting. Old Pete stepped
nimbly aside as he blundered past, while Young Chips sought a safe hideyhole.
'It's a poser,' said the Old One, as Norman threw himself about the shop, toppling the magazine stand and
spilling out its contents. 'I have it, I have it!' he cried suddenly. 'It is the now legendary Charles Laughton in
his famous portrayal of Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame.'
In hearty congratulations for Norman's excellent impersonation the old man, who still retained a considerable
amount of strength in his right arm despite his advancing years, slapped Norman upon the back. The blow
loosened the cemented teeth, which flew from the shopkeeper's mouth, tumbled noisily across the linoleum,
and finally came to rest in an impenetrable place beneath the counter, where they lay in the darkness grinning
ruefully.
'Sanks yous,' spluttered Norman, 'sanks yous, Petes.'
'Credit where credit is due,' the elder replied. 'My tobacco now, if you please.'
Norman staggered to the counter and tore out a one-ounce packet from the tin. 'Ons a houses,' he
whistled through his naked gums. 'Ons a houses.'
Old Pete, who was never a man to look a gift impersonator in the mouth, accepted his reward with a hasty display
of gratitude and departed the shop at speed. Halfway up the Ealing Road Young Chips unearthed a pristine copy
of Bra-Busting Beauties from its secret hiding place beneath a beer crate outside the Swan.
'



This has all the makings of being a most profitable day,' said the ancient to his furry companion. Young
Chips woofed noncommittally. Being naturally clairvoyant he sensed something rather to the contrary and
therefore wished to reserve judgement for the present.




4

The allotment golfers had come to something of a critical stage in their game. They had by now reached the
eighteenth 'green' and Omally had but to sink a nine-foot putt across Reg Watling's furrowed spinach patch to
take the match. Betting had been growing steadily during the morning's play and with each increase in financial
risk the two men had grown ever more tight-lipped, eagle-eyed, and alert to the slightest infringement of the
rules.
Omally spat on his palms and rubbed them together. He stalked slowly about his ball and viewed it from
a multiplicity of angles. He scrutinized the lie of the land, tossed a few straws into the air and nodded
thoughtfully as they drifted to earth. He licked his finger and held it skyward, he threw himself to the
ground and squinted along his putter sniper fashion. 'Right then,' said the broth of a boy. 'It looks like child's
play.'
Pooley, who was employing what he referred to as 'the psychology', shook his head slowly. 'That would be at