rr.eastofealing-第18章

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　Antoine　leapt　from　the　cab　as　Pooley's　sixth　horse　kicked　betting　history　into　a　cocked　hat　and　Bob's
　Roller　plunged　onward；　bound　for　the　rear　of　Leo's　tow…truck　and　the　paw　paw　negro　blow…torch　which　was　even　now　blazing　away　at　the　unattended　oxy…acetylene　gas…bottle　beneath　it。
　'It's　been　a　funny　old　kind　of　day；'　said　Bob　the　bookie。
　
　13
　The　Brentford　sun　arose　the　next　morning　upon　a　parish　which　seemed　strangely　reticent　about　rising　from　its　collective　bed　to　face　the　challenge　of　the　day　ahead。　The　Swan　in　all　of　its　long　and　colourful　history　had　never　known　a　night　like　it。　Jim　had　loaded　the　disabled　cash　register　with　more　pennies　than　it　could　ever　hope　to　hold　and　announced　to　all　that　the　drinks　were　most　definitely　on　him。　The　parish　had　not　been　slow　to　respond　to　this　selfless　gesture；　and　the　word　burned　like　wildfire　up　the　side…streets　and　back　alleys　as　it　generally　did　when　fanned　by　the　wind　of　a　free　drink。
　Brentford　put　up　the　'Closed　for　the　Night'　sign　and　severed　all　links　with　the　outside　world。　The　Swan's　rival　publicans　chewed　upon　their　lips　for　only　a　short　while　before　leaving　their　cigars　to　smoulder　in　the　ashtrays　and　join　in　the　festivities。　The　borough　council　awarded　the　swaying　Jim　their　highest　mendation；　the　Argentinum　Astrum；　before　drinking　itself　to　collective　extinction。　With　the　charred　automotive　wreckage　of　Bob's　Roller　and　Leo's　tow…truck　removed；　there　had　been　dancing　in　the　street　that　night。
　For　Neville；　upon　his　bed　of　pain；　news　never　reached　him。　The　Sisters　of　Mercy　who　tended　to　his　bed…pan　and　blanket…baths；　hiked　up　their　skirts　and　joined　in　the　revelry；　leaving　the　metaphysical　fat　boy　to　sleep　on　under　his　heavy　sedation。
　For　John　Omally　it　was　a　night　he　would　long　remember。　As　Christ　had　feasted　the　five　thousand　upon　half　a　score　of　Jewish　baps　and　as　many　kippers；　thus　did　Omally　quench　the　thirsts　of　the　Brentford　multitude。　Like　the　barman　of　myth；　his　hand　was　always　there　to　take　up　the　empty　glass　and　refill　it。
　For　Jim　Pooley；　morning　suddenly　appeared　out　of　drunken　oblivion　beating　a　loud　tattoo　of　drums　upon　the　inside　of　his　skull。　Jim　shook　his　head。　An　ill…considered　move。　The　tattoo　grew　louder　and　more　urgent。　Jim　reopened　a　pair　of　blood…red　eyes。　He　found　himself　staring　into　the　snoring　face　of　Miss　Naylor；　Brentford's　licentious　librarian。　'Gawd；'　muttered　Jim　to　himself；　'I　did　strike　it　lucky　last　night。'
　The　pounding　was　ing　from　below；　from　his　front　door。　It　was　the　relief　postman。　Jim　rose　giddily　and　lurched　towards　the　bedroom　door。　The　words　'never　again'　could　not　make　it　to　his　lips。　'Shut　up；'　he　whispered　as　the　hammering　continued。　Jim　stumbled　down　the　uncarpeted　stairs　and　caught　his　bare　toe　for　the　umpteenth　time　upon　the　tack　protruding　from　the　sixth　tread。　Howling　beneath　his　breath；　he　toppled　into　the　hall　to　find　himself　suddenly　swimming　in　a　sea　of　paper。
　The　hallway　was　jam…packed　with　letters；　literally　thousands　of　them；　of　every　way；　shape；　colour；　and　form。　Telegrams；　buff…coloured　circulars；　and　picture　postcards。
　Pooley　rubbed　at　his　eyes　as　he　lay　half…submerged　in　the　papery　cushion。　He　was　certain　that　they　hadn't　been　there　the　night　before；　but　as　the　later　moments　of　the　previous　night's　revels　were　blank　to　his　recollection；　as　attested　to　by　the　snoring　female　above；　Jim's　certainties　were　purely　subjective　in　nature。
　The　banging　continued　beyond　the　barricade　of　the　king's　mail。
　'All　right；　all　right。'　Pooley　clutched　at　his　temples　and　fought　his　way　towards　the　front　door。　Pushing　envelopes　to　left　and　right　with　great　difficulty；　he　opened　it。
　'Mail；'　said　a　sweating　postman；　thumbing　over　his　shoulder　towards　a　dozen　or　so　bulging　sacks　which　lay　in　an　unruly　line　along　the　pavement。　'Your　bloody　birthday　is　it　then；　pal？'
　Pooley　shrugged；　dislodging　an　avalanche　of　letters　which　momentarily　buried　him。
　'I've　been　sticking　these　bastards　through　your　letter…box　for　the　better　part　of　an　hour　and　I　can't　get　any　more　through。　Do　pardon　this　departure　from　the　norm；　but　I　must　insist　that　you　post　the　rest　yourself。　I　am　here　on　relief　from　Chiswick　as　the　local　bloke　hasn't　turned　in。　What　is　this；　some　kind　of　bleeding　joke？　Candid　Camera；　is　it；　or　that　Game　for　a　Laugh　crap？'
　Pooley　hunched　his　shoulders　beneath　the　pressing　load。　'What　are　they？'　he　asked。　'Who　has　sent　them？'
　'From　those　which　unaccountably　fell　open　in　my　hands；　they　would　seem　to　be　begging　letters　to　a　man。　What　did　you　do　then；　e　up　on　the　bleeding　pools？'
　'Something　like　that。'　Jim　made　an　attempt　to　close　the　door。
　The　postman's　contorted　face　suddenly　sweetened。　'Is　that　a　fact？'　he　said　thoughtfully。　'Then　let　me　be　the　first　to　congratulate　you。'
　'You　are　not　the　first；'　Jim　replied；　'but　thanks　all　the　same。　Now　if　you　will　excuse　me。'　He　fought　with　the　front　door　but　Posty's　foot　was　now　firmly　in　it。　Pooley　relaxed　his　grip。　'Your　foot　is　caught；'　he　observed。
　'It　must　be　a　wonderful　thing　to　have　money；'　said　the　postman；　edging　forward。　'I　have　always　been　a　poor　man　myself；　not　that　I　have　ever　resented　the　rich　their　wealth；　you　understand；　but　I　have　often　had　cause　to　wonder　why　fate　chose　to　deal　with　me　and　mine　in　so　shabby　a　way。'
　'Really？'　said　Jim　without　interest。
　'Oh　yes。　Not　that　I　plain；　soldiering　on　in　all　weathers；　crippled　to　the　fingertips　with　arthritis；　simply　so　the　mail　should　get　through。'
　'Very　noble。'　Jim　applied　more　pressure　to　the　door　but　it　was　getting　him　nowhere。
　'And　my　wife；'　the　postman　continued；　'a　holy　martyr　that　woman。　If　I　only　had　the　money　to　pay　for　the　operation　I　am　certain　that　she　could　be　relieved　of　her　daily　misery。'
　'Let　us　hope　so。'
　'And　my　poor　blind　son；　Kevin！'
　'Get　your　bloody　foot　out　of　my　door。'
　Knowing　a　lost　cause　when　he　saw　one；　the　postman　withdrew　his　boot　and　swung　it　at　the　nearest　sack。　The　contents　spilled　out　to　flutter　away　upon　the　breeze。　'Privileged　bastard；'　he　called　after　the　retreating　Pooley。　'e　the　revolution；　you　and　your　kind　will　be　first　up　against　the　wall。　Capitalist　Pig！'
　Pooley　slammed　fast　the　door　and　stood　engulfed　in　the　flood　tide　of　mail。　He　had　sent　out　a　few　begging　letters　himself　in　the　past；　but　now　he　knew　what　it　felt　like　to　be　on　the　receiving　end。　Jim　Pooley　did　not　like　it　one　little　bit。　His　mail　unread　and　his　bedmate　unwoken；　Jim　left　the　house　that　morning　by　the　rear　entrance。
　Now　he　sat　alone　upon　the　Library　bench。　The　sun　had　long　arisen　and　all　the　makings　of　a　great　day　ahead　looked　in　the　offing。　Jim　sighed　mournfully　and　at　intervals　studied　the　palm　of　his　right　hand。　He　was　not　a　happy　man。　He　was　a　gentleman　of　substance　now　and　it　pained　him　greatly。　The　terrible　feeling　of　responsibility；　one　he　had　never　before　experienced；　gnawed　away　at　his　innards。　It　was　all　just　too　much。　The　total　sum　of　his　wealth　was　too　large　even　to　contemplate　and　with　the　passing　of　the　night　and　the　current　bank　rate　it　had　already　grown　alarmingly。
　Jim　made　a　dismal　groaning　sound　and　buried　his　face　in　his　hands。　It　was　all　just　too　much。　He　had　never　owned　before　what　one　might　actually　call　'money'　and　certainly　not　what　the　'swells'　refer　to　as　the　current　account。　He　had　had　an　overdraft　once　but　that　hadn't　proved　to　be　up　to　much。　And　the　manner　in　which　he　had　acquired　the　fortune；　also　drastically　wrong。　No　betting　shop　could　ever　have　had　that　amount　of　readies　waiting　under　the　counter。　And　even　if　it　had；　it　would　be　hardly　likely　to　simply　push　them　across　the　counter　without　a　life　or　death　struggle　at　the　very　least。　Guns　would　have　been　toted　and　knee…caps　an　endangered　species。　He　and　Omally　had　transferred　no　fewer　than　twenty…six　wheelbarrow　loads　from　there　to　the　bank。　It　was　simply　ridiculous。
　And　the　bank？　Pooley　moaned　pitifully。　They　had　taken　the　entire　thing　for　granted；　as　if　he　had　been　merely　bunging　in　a　couple　of　quid　out　of　his　wages。　It　was　almost　as　if　they　had　been　expecting　him。　Through　the　bullet…proof　glass　of　the　office　Pooley　had　seen　the　manager　sitting　at　his　desk；　a　pair　of　minuscule　headphones　clasped　about　his　ears；　nodding　his　head　and　popping　his　fingers。
　And