East of Ealing by Robert Rankin Read Free Book Online

it leads. If you could manage one for my companion also it would not go unappreciated.”
    Norman smiled. He wondered whether or not to ask Pooley where the sleeves of his jacket were, but he presupposed the answer to be of a somewhat poignant nature, evoking images of such hardship and tragedy as to morally oblige the asker to purchase many further pints. “I’ll get the round in then,” said Norman, departing to the bar.
    “One pint and one half-ounce up,” said John bleakly. “What profit the day, I ask you?”
    “Perk up, John, it can only get better, surely.” Pooley now sighted Old Pete hobbling purposefully towards them. “Or possibly not.”
    “Where’s my bed then?” the ancient asked, prodding Omally’s bruised shoulderblade with his stick. “I’ve brought the money.”
    “Money?” John did not recall mentioning a figure. “How much did you bring?”
    “Twenty quid.”
    “Twenty quid.” Omally buried his face in his hands.
    “It’s enough, isn’t it? You said it was an antique. I think twenty quid’s a fair price if it’s a good one. So where’s my bed?”
    “What bed?” asked Norman, who was bringing up the drinks.
    “Omally said he had an antique bedstead to sell me, I want to see it.”
    “The muggers took it,” said Jim Pooley helpfully. Omally, who was just coming to terms with a ten pound down payment for an antique bedstead at present being refurbished by mythical upholsterers, looked up at him in horror. “Sorry,” said Jim, shrugging innocently.
    “What muggers?” asked Norman.
    “The ten who blacked his eye, or did you say there were twelve, John?”
    “Ah,” said Norman stroking his chin. “Come to think of it, I did see a gang of bully boys pushing an antique bed along down by the half-acre. Thought it odd at the time. A right evil-looking bunch they were, wouldn’t have dared tackle them myself. No fighter me.”
    “Bah,” snarled Old Pete. “You’re all bloody mad.” Turning upon his heel, he muttered a few well-chosen obscenities, and shuffled away.
    “Thanks,” said Omally when the ancient was beyond earshot. “I suppose that calls us square.”
    “Good.” Norman passed the two newly-retired bedsalesmen their pints. “Then, if you will pardon me, I think I will go and have a word with Old Pete. I have an old brass bed in my lock-up he might be interested in. The money will go somewhere towards meeting the cost of a new shopdoor. So all’s well that ends well, eh? Every cloud has a silver lining and a trouble shared is a friend indeed.” With the briefest of goodbyes, Norman left the two stunned drinkers staring after him.
    After a short yet very painful silence Omally spoke. “You and your bloody big mouth,” said he.
    Pooley turned up his ruined palms helplessly. “Still,” he said, “your reputation is saved at least.”
    “You buffoon. There is no reputation worth more than five pounds and the man who is five pounds to credit needs no reputation whatever.”
    “Ah well, let’s look on the bright side. I think I can say without any fear of contradiction that nothing else can possibly happen to us today.”
    It is of some small consequence to note that had Jim been possessed of that rare gift of foresight, even to the degree of a few short hours, he would certainly not have made that particular, ill-considered and totally inaccurate remark.

8
    Brentford’s only cinema, the Electric Alhambra, had closed its doors upon an indifferent public some fifty years ago. The canny Brentonians had shunned it from the word go, realizing that moving pictures were nothing more than a flash in the pan. Miraculously, the building had remained intact, playing host to a succession of small industries which had sprung up like mushrooms and died like mayflies. The last occupier, a Mr Doveston, Purveyor of Steam-Driven Appliances to the Aristocracy, had weathered it out for a full five years before burning his headed notepaper and vanishing with the