"Robert Rankin - Brentford 05 - The Brentford Chainstore Mas" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

deal inwardly, but put his best foot forward. So what if he hadn't sprung from noble stock? So what if he
came from a long line of nobodies? So what if the only Pooley who had merited more than a statutory
birth, occupation and death mention in the parish records had been some kind of brimstone-breathing
ogre? So what indeed! Jim, though often daunted and done down, was an optimist ever. He rarely opened
his eyes upon a new day without a sense of wonder and excitement. Certainly, on more than a few
occasions, those eyes were somewhat bleary and bloodshot and the brain behind them still blurred from
drink, but life was life and life was now. And Jim lived his life to the fullest he could manage.
Jim breathed in the healthy Brentford air, scented with honeysuckle, jasmine blossom and sweet pea.
The sky was blue as a blue could do and the sun beamed down its blessings. Alive was a wonderful thing
to be on such a day as this. Jim pulled back his shoulders, thrust out his chest, put a pace into his stride and
found a tune to whistle. God was in his heaven and all was right with the world of Brentford.
Pooley had a fair old skip on by the time he reached the Flying Swan. He put his hand to the saloon bar
door and pushed it open, to find himself confronted by a most bizarre spectacle.
Old Pete's half-terrier, Chips, lay upon its back in

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the centre of the floor, a paw drawn across its canine snout. It appeared to be shaking with mirth. At the bar
counter, several customers had handkerchiefs tied cowboy-bandit fashion about their faces. Two old fellas
from the estate sat at their domino table holding their noses and fanning their beer, while John Omally
stood with his arms folded and a Vick inhaler stuffed up each of his nostrils.
Neville the part-time barman stuck his head up from beneath the counter. He was wearing a gas mask.
Wotcha, stinker,' he said in a muffled tone. 'Just breezed in from the East?'
And then the Swan's patrons collapsed in helpless laughter.
Pooley stood, slack-jawed and shaking, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists. 'Compton-
Cummings,' he said in a cold and deadly voice.
'Got him in one,' declared Neville, removing his gas mask and mopping tears of laughter from his eyes.
'He phoned here five minutes ago, plugging his latest book. Thought we'd all be keen to buy a copy.'
Jim Pooley left the Flying Swan and went home to find his old school cricket bat.




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 3
The judge, in his final summing up of the case, described the attack as vicious and cold-blooded. He said
that for all his long years at the bar, he could not recall an incident of similar barbarity. He drew the jury's
attention once more to the horrific photographs taken by the police scene-of-crime photographer, which
showed in gory detail the full extent of the victim's injuries. He displayed the broken blood-stained cricket
bat and spoke of the long drop from the second-floor window to the pavement below.
He spoke of escalating violence, the influence of television, the need to be firm (but fair), the need to
see justice well and truly done and the need to clear the streets of inhuman monsters and make them safe
for dear little white-haired old ladies to walk upon.
And then he added that in his personal opinion the attack was totally justified and dismissed the case out
of hand. He also dismissed Mr Pooley's claim for one million pounds' compensation. Mr Pooley, he said,
had got the hiding he deserved.
'As a practitioner of Dimac myself,' the judge said,

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'and a fellow Freemason in the same lodge as Mr Compton-Cummings, I would have dealt with you far
more severely.'