rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第24章

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being　our　feathered　friends。'
　'Darts？'　queried　Pooley。　The　Professor　ignored　him。
　'I　have　written　something　of　a　monograph　upon　the　subject。　Migrating　birds　inevitably　take　identical　routes　each　year；　and　these　invariably　run　along　the　major　ley　lines　of　the　countrywide　system。'
　'This　all　seems　a　bit　iffy；'　Omally　remarked。　'Are　you　suggesting　that　Cereans；　like　birds；　navigate　by　ley　lines？'
　'I　am　suggesting　that　an　advanced　civilization　such　as　theirs　must　surely　have　discovered　them。　And　here　at　a　time　when　they　were　uninterrupted。　As　the　lines　appear　never　to　move；　they　are　surely　ideal　for　navigation。　The　maps　of　Earth　no　doubt　gather　dust　in　the　Cerean　ships'　puter　banks　even　now。　Ready　when　required。'
　'I　suppose　it　is　feasible；'　Omally　conceded。　'But　even　so；　why　choose　Brentford？　Why　not　Avebury；　Glastonbury；　Stonehenge　or　somewhere？'
　The　Professor　rose　from　his　chair　and　crossed　the　room　to　where　something　rested　upon　an　ornate　Victorian　easel　covered　by　a　green　baize　cloth。　Drawing　this　aside；　he　exposed　a　large　mounted　map　of　the　district。　The　lines　of　the　great　triangle　had　been　inked　in　red　and　stood　out　clearly。
　'Impressive；'　said　Omally。
　'But；　as　you　say；　hardly　sufficient。　It　would　certainly　seem　more　logical　that　the　Cereans　would　choose　one　of　the　better…known　ley　centres　of　this　country。　No；　there　is　something　more　here；　some　inner　pattern　which　I　am　failing　to　observe。　I　am　sure　it　is　staring　me　right　in　the　face；　but　I　cannot　find　it。　Something　is　shining　out　like　a　beacon　into　space　guiding　these　beings　upon　their　way。'
　Pooley　and　Omally　followed　the　old　man　over　to　the　map　and　stood　peering　over　his　shoulders。　They　turned　their　heads　from　one　side　to　the　other；　made　as　to　speak；　then　reconsidered；　traced　the　courses　of　the　streets；　and　pointed　variously　at　random。　At　length　they　looked　at　one　another　and　shrugged。
　'I　cannot　see　anything；'　said　Jim；　'just　roads　and　houses；　shops　and　pubs。'　With　the　mention　of　the　latter　two　pairs　of　eyes　turned　simultaneously　towards　the　great　ormolu　mantelclock；　which　obligingly　struck　five　o'clock。
　'Nearly　opening　time；'　said　Omally。　'I　have　been　a　week　without　a　pint　of　Large。　Possibly；　Professor；　we　might　continue　this　discussion　over　a　refreshing　bevvy　or　two？'
　The　Professor　smiled　gently　and　withdrew　from　his　desk　a　folded　map　of　the　neighbourhood。　'You　certainly　deserve　a　drink；'　he　said；　'and　here'　…　he　took　out　a　crisp　new　five…pound　note　…　'have　it　on　me。'
　Pooley　accepted　both　map　and　fiver。　'Thank　you；'　he　said；　'this　is　most　kind。　Will　you　not　join　us　for　one？'
　'I　think　not；'　said　the　old　man。　'Study　the　map　though　and　employ　your　wits。　I　ask　only　one　favour：　please　bring　me　a　pound's　worth　of　silver　from　the　Swan's　cash　register。　From　there　and　nowhere　else；　do　you　understand？'
　'The　motive　or　the　request？'
　The　old　man　smiled　and　tapped　again　at　his　nose。
　'One　question；'　said　Omally；　as　he　and　Jim　were　turning　to　leave。　'Suppose　by　the　vaguest　of　chances　we　were　to　discover　this　pattern；　what　could　we　do？'
　The　Professor　shrugged　his　ancient　shoulders。　'No　knowledge　is　ever　wasted。　You　know　my　methods。　I　never　make　a　move　before　acquainting　myself　with　every　last　piece　of　relevant　information。'
　'Yes；　but。。。　'　Jim　made　a　rustling　sound　with　the　five…pound　note。　'We　will　be　in　touch；'　said　John　Omally。
　'Good　luck；'　said　the　Professor；　returning　to　his　desk。　'I　shall　look　forward　to　hearing　from　you。'
　John　and　Jim　wandered　off　towards　the　Flying　Swan。　'At　least　one　good　thing　has　e　out　of　all　this；'　said　Jim　after　a　while。
　'Then　you　will　kindly　enlighten　me　as　to　what　it　is；　because　it　has　certainly　slipped　by　me　in　the　heat　of　the　moment。'
　'Well；'　said　Pooley；　'at　least　now　we　know　that　the　strangers　upon　the　allotment　are　not　from　the　council；　so　we　can　continue　our　game。'
　'You　are　wise　beyond　your　years；　Jim；'　said　Omally；　dealing　his　panion　a　weltering　blow　to　the　skull。
　
　16
　Neville　sat　alone　at　a　side　table　in　his　favourite　darkened　corner　of　the　empty　saloon…bar。　He　heard　the　library　clock　faintly　chiming　the　hour　over　towards　the　Butts　Estate　and　sighed　a　deep　and　heartfelt　sigh。
　This　was　one　of　the　part…time　barman's　favourite　times；　when；　the　optics　replenished；　the　pumps　checked；　and　the　glasses　polished；　he　could　sit　alone　for　the　short　half…hour　before　opening　and　reflect　upon　days　gone　by　and　days　possibly　yet　to　e。
　This　afternoon；　however；　the　barman　felt　oddly　ill　at　ease。　Something　was　going　on　in　the　borough；　something　sinister；　and　he　could　smell　it。　Although　whatever　it　was　lurked　just　out　of　earshot　and　beyond　his　range　of　vision；　Neville　knew　he　could　smell　it。　And　what　he　could　smell；　he　most　definitely　did　not　like。　It　was　musty　and　tomb…like　and　had　the　sulphurous　odour　of　the　pit　to　it；　and　it　made　him　feel　awkward　and　uneasy。
　The　part…time　barman's　long　thin　hand　snaked　out　from　the　darkness　and　drew　away　a　tumbler　of　scotch　from　the　table　top。　There　came　a　sipping　sound；　a　slight　smacking　of　lips；　and　another　great　dismal　sigh。　Neville　leant　forward　to　replace　the　glass　and　his　nose　cleaved　through　the　veil　of　shadow；　a　stark　white　triangle。
　He　shook　his　head　vigorously　in　an　attempt　to　free　himself　of　the　gloomy　feeling　which　oppressed　him。　The　feeling　would　not　be　so　easily　dislodged；　however。　Neville　took　a　deep；　deep　breath；　as　a　drunken　man　will　do　under　the　mistaken　belief　that　it　will　clear　his　head。　The　effort　was　wasted　of　course；　and　the　part…time　barman　slumped　away　into　the　darkness　taking　his　scotch　with　him。
　Something　was　very　wrong　in　Brentford；　he　just　knew　it。　Some　dirty　big　sword　of　Damocles；　was　hanging　over　the　place；　waiting　to　drop　at　any　minute。　His　nose　told　him　so　and　his　nose　was　never　wrong。　Certainly　the　Swan's　patrons　scoffed　and　sneered　at　his　extra…nasal　perception；　but　he　knew　what　was　what　when　it　came　to　a　good　sniff。　It　was　a　family　gift；　his　mad　Uncle　Jimmy　had　told　him　when　he　was　but　a　scrawny　sprog。　The　entire　clan　possessed　it　in　varying　degrees；　and　had　done　so　since　some　half…forgotten　time；　in　the　pagan　past；　at　the　very　dawn　of　mankind。　Down　through　the　centuries　it　came；　father　to　son；　turning　up　again　and　again　and　again。　A　great　and　wonderful　gift　it　was；　a　blessing　from　the　elder　gods；　which　should　never　be　used　for　personal　gain　or　profit。　'But　what　exactly　is　it？'　the　young　Neville　had　asked　his　musty…looking　relative。　'Search　me；'　said　Uncle　Jimmy。　'I'm　on　your　mother's　side。'
　Neville　had　total　recall　when　it　came　to　his　childhood。　He　could　remember　every　dismal　dreary　moment　of　it；　with　soul…destroying　clarity。　He；　the　gangling　lad；　always　head　and　shoulders　above　his　classmates　and　always　sniffing。　Such　children　do　not　have　any　easy　time　of　it。　And　with　the　ing　of　his　teens　it　got　no　better。　Although　highly　sexed　and　eager　to　make　the　acquaintance　of　nubile　young　ladies；　Neville's　gaunt；　stooping　figure；　with　its　slightly　effeminate　affectations；　had　attracted　the　attention　of　quite　the　wrong　sort　of　person。　Big　fat　girls；　some　sporting　cropped　heads　and　tattoos；　had　sought　to　smother　him　with　their　unsavoury　affections。　Young　fellow…me…lads　of　the　limp…wristed　persuasion　were　forever　asking　him　around　for　coffee　to　listen　to　their　Miles　Davis　records　with　the　lights　out。　Neville　shuddered；　grim　times。
　He　had　given　up　all　thoughts　of　being　a　young　buck　and　a　bit　of　a　ladies'　man　at　an　early　age；　and　had　fallen　naturally　enough　into　the　role　of　aesthete。　He　had　dutifully　nurtured　a　six…hair　goatee　and　frayed　the　bottom　of　his　jeans。　He　had　done　the　whole　bit：　the　Aldermaston　marches；　which　he　joined　for　the　last　half　mile　to　arrive　in　Trafalgar　Square　amidst　cheering　crowds；　the　long　nights　in　coffee　bars　discussing　Jack　Kerouac　and　René　Magritte　over　cold　cups　of　espresso；　the　dufflecoats　and　Jesus　boots；　the　night…school　fine　arts　courses。　But　he　never　got　his　end　away。
　He　had　met　many　a　big…breasted　girl　in　a　floppy　sweater；　smelling　of　joss　sticks；　who　spoke　to　him　of　love　being　free　and　every　experience　being　sacred。　But　they　always　ended　up　at　the　art　teacher's　pad　and　he　back　at　home　with　his　mum。
　He'd　never　been　one　of　them；　and　he　couldn't　blame　it　all　on　his　nose。　He　was　simply