rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第9章

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　'For　God's　sake！　Camels；　don't　you　understand？'　Small　Dave　was　growing　increasingly　purple　and　his　voice　was　reaching　a　dangerous；　champagne…glass…splitting　kind　of　a　pitch。
　'Is　he　buying　。or　selling；　do　you　think？'
　'I　hadn't　thought　to　enquire。'　Neville　squinted　down　at　the　postman；　who　was　now　down　on　all　fours　beating　at　the　carpet。　'He　is　impersonating；　I　think。'
　Old　Pete　hobbled　up。　He　had　experienced　some　luck　recently　over　impersonating　and　wasn't　going　to　miss　out　on　a　good　thing。　'That's　not　the　way　of　a　camel；'　he　said　authoritatively。　'That's　more　like　a　gerbil。'
　Small　Dave　fainted；　arms　and　legs　spread　flat　out　on　the　floor。
　'That's　a　polar　bear　skin；'　said　Old　Pete；　'and　a　very　good　one　too！'
　Small　Dave　was　unceremoniously　hauled　up　into　a　waiting　chair。　A　small　green　bottle　was　grudgingly　taken　down　from　its　haunt　amongst　the　Spanish　souvenirs　behind　the　bar；　uncorked　and　waggled　beneath　the　midget's　upturned　nose。
　'C…C…Camels！'　went　Small　Dave；　ing　once　more　to　what　there　were　left　of　his　senses。
　'I　find　that　his　conversation　has　bee　a　trifle　dull　of　late；'　said　Neville。
　'I　think　it　might　pay　to　hear　him　out。'　Pooley　thrust　his　way　through　the　throng　with　a　glass　of　water。　The　postman　spied　out　his　approach。　'What's　that　for？'　he　snapped。　'Going　to　give　me　a　blanket　bath；　are　you？'
　Jim　coughed　politely。　'You　are　feeling　a　little　better　then？　I　thought　perhaps　you　might　like　to　discuss　whatever　is　troubling　you。'
　'I　should　enjoy　another　scotch　to　steady　myself。'
　The　crowd　departed　as　one　man；　they　had　seen　all　this　kind　of　stuff　many　many　times　before。　The　ruses　and　stratagems　employed　in　the　cause　of　the　free　drink　were　as　numerous　as　they　were　varied。　The　cry　of　'Camels'；　although　unique　in　itself；　did　not　seem　particularly　meritorious。
　'But　I　saw　them；　I　did；　I　did；'　wailed　Small　Dave；　as　he　watched　the　patrons'　hurried　departure。　'I　swear。'　He　crossed　himself　above　the　heart。　'See　this　wet；　see　this　dry。　e　back　fellas；　e　back。'
　No…one　had　noticed　John　Omally　quietly　slipping　away。　He　had　bee　a　man　sorely　tried　of　late；　what　with　vanishing　Council　men　and　everything。　The　idea　of　camels　upon　the　allotment　was　not　one　which　appealed　to　him　in　the　slightest。　He　could　almost　hear　the　clicking　of　tourists'　Box　Brownies　and　the　flip…flopping　of　their　beach…sandalled　feet　as　they　trampled　over　the　golf　course。　It　didn't　bear　thinking　about。　If　there　were　rogue　camels　wandering　around　the　allotment；　Omally　determined　that　they　should　be　removed　as　quickly　as　possible。
　John　jogged　down　Moby　Dick　Terrace　and　up　towards　the　allotment　gates。　Here　he　halted。　All　seemed　quiet　enough。　A　soft　wind　gently　wrinkled　the　long　grass　at　the　boundary　fence。　A　starling　or　two　pecked　away　at　somebody's　recently　sown　seed　and　a　small　grey　cat　stretched　luxuriously　upon　the　roof　of　Pooley's　hut。　Nothing　unusual　here；　all　peace　and　tranquillity。
　Omally　took　a　few　tentative　steps　forward。　He　passed　the　first　concealed　tee…box　and　noted　with　satisfaction　that　all　was　as　it　should　be。　He　crept　stealthily　in　and　out　between　the　shanty　town　of　corrugated　huts；　sometimes　springing　up　and　squinting　around；　eyes　shaded　like　some　Indian　tracker。
　Then　a　most　obvious　thought　struck　him：　there　were　only　two　entrances　to　the　allotment　and　any　camel　would　logically　have　to　pass　either　in　or　out　of　these。　Therefore　any　camel　would　be　bound　to　leave　some　kind　of　spoor　which　could　surely　be　followed。
　Omally　dropped　to　his　knees　upon　the　path　and　sought　camel　prints。　He　then　rose　slowly　to　his　feet　and　patted　at　the　knees　of　his　trousers。　What　on　earth　am　I　doing？　he　asked　himself。　Seeking　camel　tracks　upon　a　Brentford　allotment；　he　answered。　Have　I　bee　bereft　of　my　senses？　He　thought　it　better　not　to　answer　that　one。　And　even　if　I　saw　a　camel　track；　how　would　I　recognize　it　as　one？
　This　took　a　bit　of　thinking　out；　but　it　was　eventually　reasoned　that　a　camel　track　would　look　like　no　other　track　Omally　had　yet　seen　upon　the　allotment；　and　thus　be　recognized。
　Omally　shrugged　and　thrust　his　hands　into　his　trouser　pockets。　He　wandered　slowly　about；　criss…crossing　the　pathway　and　keeping　alert　for　anything　untoward。　He　came　very　shortly　upon　the　decimation　of　Small　Dave's　pride　and　joy。　Half…munched　cabbages　lay　strewn　in　every　direction。　Something　had　certainly　been　having　its　fill　of　the　tasty　veg。　Omally　stooped　to　examine　a　leaf　and　found　to　his　wonder　large　and　irregular　toothmarks　upon　it。
　'So；'　said　he；　'old　Posty　was　not　talking　through　his　regulation　headgear；　something　has　been　going　on　here。'
　He　scanned　the　ground　but　could　make　out　nothing　besides　very　human…looking　footprints　covering　the　well…trodden　pathway。　Some　of　these　led　off　towards　the　Butts　Estate　entrance；　but　Omally　felt　disinclined　to　follow　them。　His　eyes　had　just　alighted　upon　something　rather　more　interesting。　Slightly　in　front　of　Soap　Distant's　padlocked　shed；　an　image　glowed　faintly　in　the　dirt。　Omally　strode　over　to　it　and　peered　down。　He　was　certain　the　thing　had　not　been　there　earlier。
　The　Irishman　dropped　once　more　to　his　hands　and　knees。　It　had　an　almost　metallic　quality　to　it；　as　if　it　had　been　wrought　into　the　dirt　in　copper。　But　as　to　exactly　what　it　was；　that　was　another　matter。　Omally　drew　a　tentative　finger　across　its　surface　but　the　thing　resisted　his　touch。　He　rose　and　raked　his　heel　across　it　but　the　image　remained　inviolate。
　John　peered　up　into　the　sky。　It　wasn't　being　projected　from　above；　was　it？　No；　that　was　nonsense。　But　surely　it　had　to　e　off；　you　couldn't　print　indelibly　on　dust。　He　scuffed　at　the　ground　with　renewed　vigour；　raising　a　fine　cloud　of　dust　which　slowly　cleared　to　reveal　the　image　glowing　up　once　more；　pristine　and　unscathed。
　Omally　stooped　again　and　pressed　his　eye　near　to　the　thing。　What　was　it？　Obviously　a　symbol　of　some　sort；　or　an　insignia。　There　was　a　vaguely　familiar　look　to　it；　as　if　it　was　something　he　had　half　glimpsed　upon　some　occasion　but　never　fully　taken　in。　It　had　much　of　the　rune　about　it　also。
　'So；'　said　a　voice　suddenly；　'you　are　a　secret　Mohammedan；　are　you；　Omally？'　The　Irishman　rose　to　confront　a　grinning　Jim　Pooley。　'Surely　Mecca　would　be　in　the　other　direction？'
　Omally　dusted　down　his　strides　and　gestured　towards　the　gleaming　symbol。　'Now　what　would　you　make　of　that；　lad？'　he　asked。
　Pooley　gave　the　copper　coloured　image　a　quick　perusal。　'Something　buried　in　the　ground？'　he　suggested。
　Omally　shook　his　head；　although　the　thought　had　never　crossed　his　mind。
　'Is　it　a　bench　mark　then？　I've　always　wondered　what　those　lads　look　like。'
　'Not　a　bench　mark；　Jim。'
　'It　is　then　perhaps　some　protective　amulet　carelessly　discarded　by　some　wandering　magician？'　Although　it　seemed　almost　a　possibility　Omally　gave　that　suggestion　the　old　thumbs　down。　'All　right；　I　give　up；　what　is　it？'
　'There　you　have　me；　but　I　will　show　you　an　interesting　thing。'　Omally　picked　up　Pooley's　spade；　which　was　standing　close　at　hand；　raised　it　high　above　his　head　and　drove　it　edgeways　on　towards　the　copper　symbol　with　a　murderous　force。　There　was　a　sharp　metallic　clang　as　the　spade's　head　glanced　against　the　image；　cleared　Pooley's　terrified　face　by　the　merest　of　inches　and　whistled　off　to　land　safely　several　plots　away。
　'Sorry；'　said　John；　examining　the　stump　of　spade　handle；　'but　you　no　doubt　get　my　drift。'
　'You　mean　you　cannot　dig　it　out？'　Omally　shook　his　head。　'Right　then。'　Pooley　spat　on　his　palms　and　rubbed　them　briskly　together。
　'Before　you　start；'　said　Omally；　'be　advised　by　me　that　it　cannot　be　either　erased；　defaced　or　removed。'
　Pooley；　who　had　by　now　removed　his　jacket　and　was　rolling　up　his　sleeves；　paused　a　moment　and　cocked　his　head　on　one　side。　'It　has　a　familiar　look　to　it；'　he　said。
　John　nodded。　'I　thought　that　myself；　the　thing　strikes　a　chord　somewhere　along　the　line。'
　Pooley；　who　needed　only　a　small　excuse　to　avoid　physical　labour；　slipped　his　jacket　back　on。　He　took　out　a　biro　and　The　Now　Official　Handbook　of　Allotment　Golf。
　'Best　mark　it　out　of　bounds；'　said　Omally。
　Pooley　shook　his　head　and　handed　him　the　book。　'You're　good　with　your　hands；　John；'　he　said；　'make　a　sketch　of　it　on　the　back。　If　such　a　symbol　has　ever　existed；　o