rr.eastofealing-第2章

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　They　all　truly　began　upon　a　certain　section　of　unreclaimed　bomb…site　along　the　High　Street　between　the　Beehive　pub　and　a　rarely　used　side…turning　known　as　Abaddon　Street。　And　as　fate　would　have　it；　it　was　across　this　very　stretch　of　land　that　an　Irish　gentleman　of　indeterminate　years；　wearing　a　well…patched　tweed　jacket　and　a　flat　cap；　was　even　now　striding。　He　was　whistling　brightly　and　as　it　was　his　wont　to　do；　leading　by　the　perished　rubber　grip　of　a　pitted　handlebar；　an　elderly　sit…up…and…beg　bike。　This　was　one　John　Vincent　Omally；　and　his　rattling　panion；　labouring　bravely　along；　although　devoid　of　front　mudguards　and　rear　brake　and　sorely　in　need　of　the　healing　balm　offered　by　Norman's　oilcan；　was　none　other　than　that　prince　of　pedaldom；　Marchant；　the　wonder　bike。　Over　the　rugged　strip　of　land　came　these　two　heroic　figures；　the　morning　sun　tinting　their　features；　treading　a　well…worn　short…cut　of　their　own　making。　Omally　whistling　a　jaunty　tune　from　the　land　of　his　fathers　and　Marchant　offering　what　acpaniment　he　could　with　the　occasional　bout　of　melodic　bell　ringing。　God　was　as　ever　in　Omally's　Heaven　and　all　seemed　very　much　all　right　with　the　world。
　As　they　came　a…striding；　a…whistling　and　a…ringing；　small　birdies　fluttered　down　on　to　the　crumbling　ivy…hung　brickwork　of　the　surrounding　walls　to　join　them　in　a　rowdy　chorus。　Beads　of　dew　swung　upon　dandelion　stems　and　fat…bellied　garden　spiders　fiddled　with　their　diamond…hung　webs。　It　certainly　wasn't　a　bad　old　life　if　you　had　the　know　of　it；　and　Omally　was　a　man　whom　it　could　reasonably　be　said　had　that　very　know。　The　lad　gave　a　little　skip　and　doffed　his　hat　to　the　day。　Without　warning　his　foot　suddenly　struck　a　half…buried　object　which　had　certainly　not　existed　upon　his　previous　day's　journeyings。　To　the　acpaniment　of　a　great　Godless　oath　which　momentarily　blotted　out　the　sunlight　and　raised　the　twittering　birdies　into　a　startled　confusion；　the　great　man　of　Eire　plunged　suddenly　towards　the　planet　of　his　birth；　bringing　with　him　his　bicycle　and　tumbling　into　a　painful；　untidy；　and　quite　undignified　heap。
　'By　the　blood　of　the　Saints！'　swore　Omally；　attempting　to　rise　but　discovering　to　his　horror　that　Marchant　now　held　him　in　something　resembling　an　Indian　death…lock。　'In　the　name　of　all　the　Holies！'　The　tangled　bike　did　what　it　could　to　get　a　grip　of　itself　and　spun　its　back　wheel；　chewing　up　several　of　Omally's　most　highly…prized　fingers。　'You　stupid　beast！'　screamed　himself；　lashing　out　with　an　oversized　hobnail。　'Have　a　care　will　you？'　The　bike；　having　long　years　of　acquaintanceship　with　its　master　to　its　credit；　considered　that　this　might　be　the　time　to　keep　the　now　legendary　low　profile。
　Amidst　much　cursing　and　a　great　deal　of　needless　profanity；　Omally　struggled　painfully　to　his　feet　and　sought　the　cause　of　his　downfall。　Almost　at　once　he　spied　out　the　villain；　a　nubble　of　polished　metal　protruding　from　the　dusty　path。　John　was　not　slow　in　levelling　his　size…nine　boot　at　it。
　He　was　someway　between　mid…swing　and　full…swing　when　a　mental　image　of　a　bygone　relative　swam　into　his　mind。　He　had　performed　a　similar　action　upon　a　half…buried　obstruction　during　the　time　of　the　blitz。　The　loud　report　and　singular　lack　of　mortal　remains　paid　a　posthumous　tribute　to　his　lack　of　forethought。　DANGER　UNEXPLODED　BOMB！　screamed　a　siren　in　Omally's　brain。　John　lowered　his　size…nine　terror　weapon　gently　to　the　deck　and　stooped　gingerly　towards　the　earth　to　examine　the　object。　To　his　amazement　he　found　himself　staring　at　the　proverbial　thing　of　beauty。　A　mushroom　of　highly…polished　brass　surmounted　by　an　enamel　crown。　There　was　that　indefinable　quality　of　value　about　it　and　Omally　was　not　slow　to　notice　the　fact。　His　fingers　greedily　wore　away　at　its　earthy　surrounding；　exposing　a　slender；　fluted　column　extending　downwards。　From　even　this　small　portion　it　was　clear　that　the　thing　was　a　rare　piece　of　workmanship；　the　flutes　were　cunningly　inlaid　with　mother…of…pearl。　Omally　climbed　to　his　feet　and　peered　furtively　around　to　assure　himself　that　he　was　alone　with　his　treasure。　That　he　had　struck　the　motherlode　at　last　was　almost　a　certainty。　There　was　nothing　of　the　doodlebug　or　Mark　Seventeen　Blockbuster　about　this　boy；　but　very　much　of　the　antique　bedstead　of　Victoria　and　Albert　proportions。
　John　rubbed　his　hands　together　and　chuckled。　What　was　it　his　old　Da　had　once　said？　A　dead　bird　never　falls　out　of　the　nest；　that　was　it。　Carefully　covering　his　find　with　a　clump　or　two　of　grass；　Omally　continued　upon　his　way。　The　birdies　had　flown　and　the　spiders　had　it　away　on　their　eight　ones；　but　before　Omally　reached　his　secret　exit　in　the　planked　fencing　he　was　whistling　once　more；　and　Marchant　was　doing　his　level　best　to　keep　up　with　the　increasingly　more　sprightly　tune。
　
　3
　Jim　Pooley　sat　upon　his　favourite　bench　before　the　Memorial　Library；　racing　paper　spread　out　across　his　knees；　liberated　Woodbine　aglow　between　his　lips；　and　Biro　perched　atop　his　right　ear。　Few　were　the　passers…by　who　even　troubled　to　notice　the　sitter　upon　the　bench。　Fewer　still　observed　the　chalk…drawn　pentagram　encircling　that　bench；　the　sprig　of　hemlock　attached　to　the　sitter's　lapel；　or　the　bulge　of　the　tarot　pack　in　his　waistcoat　pocket。　Such　subtleties　were　lost　to　the　casual　observer；　but　to　the　trained　eye　they　would　be　instantly　significant。　Jim　Pooley　was　now　having　a　crack　at　occultism　in　his　never…ending　quest　to　pull　off　the　six…horse　Super…Yankee。
　Jim　had　tried　them　all　and　found　each　uniformly　lacking。　The　I…Ching　he　had　studied　until　his　eyes　crossed。　The　prophecies　of　Nostradamus；　the　dice；　the　long　sticks；　the　flight　paths　of　birds；　and　the　changes　of　barometric　pressure　registered　upon　the　charts　of　the　library　entrance　hall　…　each　had　received　his　attention　as　a　possible　catalyst　for　the　pulling　off　of　the　ever…elusive　Big　One。　He　had　considered　；　selling　his　soul　to　the　devil　but　it　was　on　the　cards　that　the　Prince　of　Darkness　probably　had　his　name　down　for　conscription　anyway。
　Thrusting　his　hands　into　his　trouser　pockets；　Jim　peered　down　at　his　paper。　Somewhere；　he　knew；　upon　this　page　were　those　six　horses。　Tomorrow；　he　knew；　he　would　kick　himself　for　not　having　seen　the　obvious　cosmic　connection。　Jim　concentrated　every　ounce　of　his　psychic　energies　upon　the　page。　Presently　he　was　asleep。　Blissful　were　his　Morphean　slumbers　upon　this　warm　spring　morning　and　blissful　they　would　no　doubt　have　remained；　at　least　until　opening　time　at　the　Swan；　had　not　a　deft　blow　from　a　size…nine　boot　struck　him　upon　the　sole　of　the　left　foot　and　blasted　him　into　consciousness。　The　man　who　could　dream　winners　awoke　with　a　painful　start。
　'Morning　Jim；'　said　the　grinning　Omally。　'Having　forty　winks　were　we？'
　Pooley　squinted　up　at　his　rude　awakener　with　a　bloodshot　eye。　'Yoga；'　said　he。　'Lamaic　meditation。　I　was　almost　on　the　brink　of　a　breakthrough　and　you've　spoilt　it。'
　Omally　rested　his　bicycle　upon　the　library　fence　and　his　bum　upon　the　bench。　'Sorry；'　said　he。　'Please　pardon　my　intrusion　upon　the　contemplation　of　your　navel。　You　looked　to　all　the　world　the　very　picture　of　a　sleeper。'
　'Nothing　of　the　sort；'　Pooley　replied　in　a　wounded　tone。　'Do　you　think　that　I；　like　yourself；　can　afford　to　fritter　away　my　time　in　dalliance　and　idleness？　My　life　is　spent　in　the　never…ending　search　for　higher　truths。'
　'Those　which　e　in　six　or　more　figures？'
　'None　but　the　very　same。'
　'And　how　goes　this　search？'
　'Fraught　as　ever　with　pitfalls　for　the　unwary　traveller。'
　'As　does　our　each；'　said　the　Irish　philosopher。
　The　two　men　sat　awhile　upon　the　library　bench。　Each　would　dearly　have　liked　a　smoke　but　out　of　politeness　each　waited　upon　his　fellow　to　make　that　first　selfless　gesture　of　the　day。　'I'm　dying　for　a　fag；'　sighed　Jim；　at　length。
　Omally　patted　his　pockets　in　a　professional　manner；　narrowly　avoiding　the　destruction　of　five　Woodbine　he　had　secreted　in　his　waistcoat　pocket。　Tm　out；'　he　said。
　Jim　shrugged。　'Why　do　we　always　go　through　this　performance？'　he　asked。
　Omally　shook　his　head；　'I　have　no　idea　whatever；　give　us　a　fag；　Jim？'
　'Would　that　I　could　John；　would　that　I　could。　But　times　are　up　against　me　at　the　present。'
　Omally　shook　his　head　sadly；　'These　are　troubled　times　for　us　all　I　fear。　Take　my　knee　here；'　he　raised　the　gored　article　towards　Jim's　nose。　'What　does　that　say　to　you？'
　Pooley　put　his　ear　to　Omally's　knee；　'It　is　not　saying　much；'　he　said。　'Is　it　perhaps　trying　to　tell　me　that　it　has　a　packet　of　cigarettes　in　its　sock？'
　'Not　even　warm。'
　'Then　you've　got　me。'　Omally　sighed。　'Shall　we　simply　smoke　our　own　today；　Jim？'
　'Good　idea。'　Pooley　reached　into　his　waistcoat　pocket　and　Omally　did　likewise。　Both　withdrew　identical　packets　into　the　sunlight　and　both　opened　these　in　unison。　John's　displayed　five　cigarettes。
　Pooley's　was　empty。　'Now　there's　a　thing；'　said　Jim。
　'Decoy！'　screamed　John　Omally。　Pooley　accepted　the　cigarette　in　the　manner　with　which　it　was　offered。　'My　thanks；'　said　he。　'I　really　do　have　the　feeling　that　today　I　might　just　pull　off　the　long…awaited　Big　One。'
　'I　have　something　of　the　same　feeling　myself；'　his　panion　replied。
　
　4
　The　part…time　barman　finished　the　last　of　his　toast　and　patted　about　his　lips　with　a　red　gingham　napkin。　He　leaned　back　in　his　chair　and　rested　his　palms　upon　his　stomach。　He　felt　certain　that　he　was　putting　on　weight。　A　thin　man　from　birth；　tall；　gaunt；　and　scholar…stooped；　Neville　had　never　possessed　a　single　ounce　of　surplus　fat。　But　recently　it　seemed　to　him　that　his　jackets　were　growing　ever　more　tight　beneath　the　armpits；　and　that　the　lower　button　on　his　waistcoat　was　being　increasingly　more　difficult　to　secure。　'Most　curious；'　said　Neville；　rising　from　his　seat　and　padding　over　to　the　bathroom　scales　which　were　now　a　permanent　fixture　in　the　middle　of　the　living…room　floor。　Climbing　aboard；　he　peered　down　between　his　slippered　toes。　Eleven　stone　dead；　exactly　as　it　had　been　for　the　last　twenty　years。　The　part…time　barman　shook　his　head　in　wonder；　it　was　all　very　mysterious。　Perhaps　the　scales　were　wrong；　gummed　up　with　carpet　fluff　or　something。　He'd　let　Norman　give　them　the　once…over。　Or　perhaps　it　was　the　dry　cleaners？　Things　never　seemed　quite　right　there　since　that　big　bine　bought　old　Tom　Telford　out。　Possibly　this　new　lot　were　having　a　pop　at　him。　Putting　an　extra　tuck　in　the　seat　of　his　strides　every　time　he　put　them　in　for　their　monthly　hose　down。
　Most　unsporting　that；　hitting　a　lad　below　the　belt。
　Neville　laughed　feebly　at　his　unintended　funny；　but　really　this　was　no　laughter　matter。　Taking　out　the　tape　measure；　which　now　never　left　his　person；　he　stretched　it　about　his　waist。　All　seemed　the　same。　Possibly　it　was　simply　a　figment　of　his　imagination。　Possibly　he　was　going　mad。　The　thought　was　never　far　from　his　mind　nowadays。　Neville　shuddered。　He　would　just　have　to　pull　himself　together。
　Sighing　deeply；　he　shuffled　away　to　the　bedroom　to　dress。　Flinging　off　his　silken　dressing…gown　he　took　up　the　rogue　trousers　from　where　they　hung　in　their　creases　over　the　chair　and　yanked　them　up　his　legs。　With　difficulty　he　buttoned　himself　into　respectability。　They　were　definitely　too　tight　for　fort；　there　was　no　point　in　denying　it。　Neville　stooped　for　his　socks　but　stopped　in