rr.thebrentfordtriangle-第1部分

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　The　solitary　figure　in　the　saffron　robes　shielded　his　eyes　from　the　glare　and　squinted　down　the　glacier　to　where　the　enormous　black　vessel　lay；　one…third　submerged；　in　the　floor　of　the　valley。　Allowing　for　the　portion　lost　below　the　icy　surface　of　the　frozen　lake　it　was　easily　some　three　hundred　cubits　long；　at　least　fifty　wide　and　another　thirty　high。　It　had；　overall；　the　appearance　of　some　fantastic　barge　with　a　kind　of　gabled　house　mounted　upon　its　deck。　Its　gopher　wood　timbers　were　blackened　by　a　heavy　coating　of　pitch　and　hardened　by　the　petrification　of　the　glacier　which　had　kept　it　virtually　intact　throughout　the　countless　centuries。　A　great　opening　yawned　in　one　side；　several　hundred　yards　away　lay　the　door　which　had　once　filled　it；　resting　upon　two　huge　rocks　like　some　kind　of　altarpiece。
　The　solitary　figure　dropped　the　butt　of　his　Wild　Woodbine；　ground　it　into　the　snow　with　the　heel　of　his　naked　left　foot　and　raised　his　field　glasses。　His　guides　had　long　since　deserted　him；　fearing　in　their　superstition　to　set　foot　upon　the　ice　pastures　of　the　sacred　mountain。　Now　he　stood　alone；　the　first　man　to　breast　the　glacier　and　view　a　spectacle　which　many　would　gladly　have　given　all　to　witness。
　He　whistled　shrilly　between　closed　teeth　and　a　faint　smile　played　about　his　lips。　He　slapped　his　hands　together；　and　with　his　orange　robes　swirling　about　him　in　the　bitter　winds　of　the　mountain　peak；　he　girded　up　his　loins　and　strode　down　the　frozen　escarpment　to　survey　the　ancient　wreck　at　closer　quarters。
　
　1
　Neville　the　part…time　barman　drew　back　the　polished　brass　bolts　and　swung　open　the　saloon…bar　door　of　the　Flying　Swan。　Framed　in　the　famous　portal；　he　stood　yawning　and　scratching；　a　gaunt　figure　clad　in　Japanese　silk　dressing…gown；　polka…dot　cravat　and　soiled　carpet…slippers。　The　sun　was　rising　behind　the　gasometers；　and　in　the　distance；　along　the　Baling　Road；　the　part…time　barman　could　make　out　the　diminutive　form　of　Small　Dave　the　postman　beginning　his　morning　rounds。　No　mail　as　usual　for　the　Four　Horsemen；　more　bills　for　Bob　the　bookie；　a　small　brown　parcel　for　Norman's　corner　shop；　something　suspicious　in　a　large　plain　envelope　for　Uncle　Ted　at　the　greengrocer's；　and；　could　it　be…？　Neville　strained　his　good　eye　as　Small　Dave　approached　…　tunelessly　whistling　the　air　to　'Orange　Claw　Hammer'　…　a　postcard？
　The　wee　postman　trod　nearer；　grinning　broadly。　As　he　drew　level　with　the　part…time　barman　he　winked　lewdly　and　said；　'Another！'　Neville　extended　a　sum　white　hand　to　receive　the　card；　but　Small　Dave　held　it　below　his　reach。　'It's　from　Archroy；'　announced　the　malicious　postman；　who　greatly　delighted　in　reading　people's　mail；　'and　bears　an　Ararat　postmark。　It　says　that　our　lad　has　discovered。。。'　Neville　leant　hurriedly　forward　and　tore　the　card　from　his　hand'。。。　has　discovered　the　remains　of　Noah's　Ark　upon　the　mountain's　peak　and　is　arranging　to　have　it　dismantled　and　brought　back　to　England。'
　Neville　fixed　the　little　postman　with　a　bitter　eye。　'And　you　could　tell　all　that　simply　by　reading　the　address？'　he　snarled。
　Small　Dave　tapped　at　his　nose　and　winked　anew。　'I　took　the　liberty　of　giving　it　the　once…over；'　he　explained；　'in　case　it　was　bad　news。　One　can　never　be　too　careful。'
　'One　certainly　can't！'　The　part…time　barman　took　a　step　backwards　and　slammed　the　Swan's　door　with　deafening　finality　upon　the　dwarfish　scrutineer　of　the　Queen's　mail。　Neville　took　a　deep　breath　to　steady　his　nerves　and　turned　away　from　the　door。　His　long　strides　took　him　with　haste　across　the　threadbare　carpet　of　the　saloon…bar。
　His　first　drew　him　past　the　pitted　dartboard；　the　chalked　scores　of　the　previous　night's　play　faintly　aglow　in　the　early　light。　His　second　brought　him　level　with　the　aged　shove…halfpenny　table；　and　a　third　took　him　past　the　first　of　the　Swan's　eight　polished　Britannia　pub　tables。　Two　more　soundless　strides　and　Neville　halted　involuntarily　in　his　tracks。　Before　him　stood　an　object　so　detestable；　so　loathsome　and　so　mind…stunningly　vile　that　the　postman's　irritating　habits　paled　into　insignificance。
　The　Captain　Laser　Alien　Attack　Machine！
　Its　lights　blinked　eternally　and　a　low　and　sinister　hum　arose　from　it；　setting　the　part…time　barman's　ill…treated　teeth　on　edge。　Installed　by　one　of　the　brewery's　cringing　cat's…paws　the　thing　stood；　occupying　valuable　drinking　space；　and　as　hated　by　the　Swan's　patrons　as　it　was　possible　for　any　piece　of　microchipped　circuitry　to　be　hated。
　Neville　caught　sight　of　his　face　reflected　in　the　screen　and　surprised　even　himself　with　the　ferocity　of　his　expression。　He　addressed　the　machine　with　his　regular　morning　curse；　but　the　monster　hummed　on　regardless；　indifferent　to　the　barman's　invocation　of　the　dark　forces。　Neville　turned　away　in　disgust　and　slouched　off　up　the　stairs　to　his　rooms。　Here　in　privacy　he　poured　milk　upon　his　cornflakes　and　perused　Archroy's　postcard；　propped　against　the　marmalade　pot。
　A　rooftop　view　of　Brentford。
　It　was　a　great　pity　that　Archroy；　in　the　interests　of　economy；　as　he　put　it；　had　chosen　to　take　a　bundle　of　local　postcards　with　him　when　he　set　off　upon　his　globetrotting。　Rooftop　views　of　Brentford　were　all　very　pleasant　of　course；　but　they　did　tend　to　bee　a　little　samey。　After　all；　when　one　received　a　card　postmarked　'The　Potala；　Lhasa'；　or　'The　East　Pier；　Sri　Lanka'；　it　wouldn't　hurt　to　see　a　bit　of　pictorial　representation　on　the　front　once　in　a　while。　It　did　tend　to　take　the　edge　off；　having　read　the　exotic　details　of　a　Singhalese　temple　dance；　to　turn　over　the　card　and　view　the　splendours　of　two　gasometers　and　a　water　tower。
　Neville　sighed　deeply　as　he　squinted　over　to　the　row　of　identical　postcards　which　now　lined　his　mantelpiece。　Certainly；　the　one　view　was　so　monplace　as　to　be　practically　invisible；　but　each　of　these　little　cards　had　been　despatched　from　some　far…flung　portion　of　the　great　globe。　Each　had　travelled　through　strange　lands；　across　foreign　borders；　over　continents；　finally　to　return；　like　little　pictorial　homing　pigeons；　to　the　town　of　their　birth。　Certainly　there　was　romance　here。
　Neville　plucked　up　the　card　and　turned　it　between　his　fingers。　'Noah's　Ark；　eh？'　That　one　took　a　bit　of　believing。　Each　of　the　postcards　had　boasted　some　fabulous　deed　or　another；　but　this　outdid　them　all。
　Noah's　Ark？　To　the　pagan　Neville　it　did　seem　a　trifle　unlikely。　Even　if　it　had　existed　at　all；　which　Neville　considered　a　matter　of　grave　doubt；　the　chances　of　it　surviving；　even　partially　intact；　down　through　the　long　centuries　on　the　peak　of　Mount　Ararat　did　seem　pretty　slight。　Such　things　were　just　silly…season　space…fillers　for　the　popular　press。　The　barman　recalled　reading　about　that　chap　up　north　who　claimed　to　have　discovered　the　bottomless　pit　in　his　back　garden。　He　would　probably　have　e　clean　that　it　was　all　a　hoax　had　he　not　stepped　backwards　down　it　while　posing　for　the　press　photographer。
　Noah's　Ark　indeed！　Neville　took　the　card　and　placed　it　with　its　eight　identical　brothers　upon　the　mantelshelf。　Noah's　Ark　indeed！　It　couldn't　be　true。　Could　it？
　
　2
　That　same　sun；　having　now　risen　from　behind　the　gasometers；　stretched　down　a　tentative　ray　towards　a　rarely　washed　bedroom　window　at　Number　Six　Abaddon　Street。　Passing　with　some　difficulty　through　the　murky　pane；　it　displayed　itself　upon　an　inner　wall　as　a　pale　lozenge　of　light　surrounding　a　noseless　statuette　of　Our　Lady。
　This　mantelpiece　beatification　of　the　blessed　Virgin　was　as　usual　lost　upon　the　room's　tenant。　John　Vincent　Omally　was　what　the　textbooks　are　wont　to　describe　as　'a　late　riser'。　Usually　the　lozenge　of　light　would　move　noiselessly　across　the　mantelpiece　wall　until　it　reached　the　cracked　mirror；　and　then　reflect　itself　on　to　the　face　of　the　sleeper；　thus　awakening　him　from　his　restful　slumbers。　But　today；　as　for　some　days　past；　it　was　to　be　denied　its　ritual。
　Today　it　would　find　but　an　empty　pillow；　showing　naught　of　a　recumbent　head　but　a　slight　indentation　and　a　Brylcreem　stain。　The　coverlet　was　tossed　aside　and　a　pack　of　ragged　pyjama　strides　lay　in　an　athletic　splits　posture　upon　the　linoleum。　A　timeworn　tweed　jacket　was　missing　from　its　appointed　hook　behind　the　door。　It　was　not　yet　eight　of　the　clock　and　John　Omally　was　no　longer　at　home　to　callers。　For　John　Omally　had　important　business　elsewhere。
　John　Omally　was　gone　a…golfing。
　'Fore！'　The　cry　echoed　across　the　allotment；　struck　the　wall　of　the　Seamen's　Mission　and　passed　back　over　the　head　of　a　curly…headed　son　of　Eire；　clad　in　soiled　Fair　Isle　slipover　and　rolled…up　tweeds。　'Fore　and　have　a　care！'　Omally　swung　the　aged　club；　the　relic　of　a　former　and　more　refined　age；　with　a　vengeance　and　struck　the　little　white　pill　a　mighty　blow。　The　ball　soared　some　four　feet　into　the　clear　morning　air　and　fell　to　earth　in　the　midst　of　Jim　Pooley's　radish　patch。
　Jim　stifled　a　titter　and　read　from　a　dog…eared　exercise　book　entitled　The　Now　Official　Handbook　of　Allotment　Golf：　'Unless　rendered　totally　inextricable；　by　nature　of　being　unreachable；　i。e。　under　more　than　four　feet　of　water　or　beyond　climbing　capability；　the　player　will　play　the　stroke。　Should　the　player；　however；　endanger　the　growth　of　his　opponent's　radishes　he　will　forfeit　the　hole。'
　Omally　scratched　his　head　with