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

Bang went the gavel onto the block, the court cleared and Jim was left alone in his wheelchair.
At a little after lunchtime closing John Omally arrived to push him home. 'Look on the bright side,
Jim,' he said. 'At least you were on legal aid.'

Months passed, bruises healed and bones knitted themselves back together. Out of respect for the
punishment Jim had taken, the patrons of the Flying Swan made no further reference to winds from the
East. And after the brief excitement of the court case, the borough of Brentford settled itself down to do
what it did best. Nothing. With style.
It was almost a year to the day of Jim's beating that a large brown envelope tumbled through his letter
box and came to rest upon a welcome mat that had long worn out its welcome. Jim plucked the item up
and perused it with interest. He hadn't ordered anything and it wasn't his birthday. A present from a well-
wisher? An admirer? Ever the optimist, Jim took his treasure into the kitchenette, placed it upon the
stained Formica worktop and worried it with the carving knife. Away came the wrappings and out came
the book.
The book!
Brentford: A Study of its People and History.
Jim stared at it in disbelief. Compton-Cummings / had actually had the bare-faced brutality to send him a
copy. It beggared all belief.

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"fou bastardl' Jim snatched up the book and stared it in the glossy cover. 'I just don't believe this.' He put a
foot to the pedal-bin pedal and raised the lid. A noxious stench rose from within, possibly even as noxious
as the infamous, and now publicly chronicled, 'breath of Pooley'. Jim released the pedal and fanned his nose
with the book. 'I've been meaning to empty you,' he told the bin. He carried the book over to the cooker. 'But
you're gonna burn!'
It had been a slow month financially for Jim. The gas had been disconnected.
Jim carried the book to the sink. 'Drown, then,' he said, then shook his head. Drown a book? He sat down
at the kitchen table and thumbed the pages. They fell one upon another with the silky flow of an old school
Bible. Jim sighed once more and with weary resignation flicked through the index for P.
His finger travelled down the page.
Plague Origin of Black Death traced to Brentford.
 Planetary Alignments Astrology invented here.
Plasma Vortex Engine Invented here.
Plastic Ditto.
Platform Tickets World's largest collection housed in museum.
Pooley's finger travelled further down.
Plot Guy Fawkes's confession fingers Brentonian.
Pocahontas Born here.
'Eh?' said Pooley.
Pomegranate Farming Doomed attempt by local man.
Poor House Location of.
Pooley's finger went up, then down again. 'I'm
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not here,' he said with some elation. 'He's left me out. He's a decent fellow after all. Well, what about that?
He sent me a free copy just to show there were no hard feelings about taking him to court for beating the
life out of me. What a gent! I wonder if he signed it.'Jim flicked forward. 'No, he didn't. But I think he
should. I'll go round there now, I've nothing else on.'
And so saying, he did.
For the reader who, now thoroughly won over by Jim's personality, is eager for a description of the man,
let it be said that Jim Pooley looked the way he always has looked. Except when he was younger, of course.