按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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 cl