Free The Brentford Triangle by Robert Rankin Page A

the bar.”
    “You are a mean player,” said the boy admiringly. “It has been a pleasure to do battle with you.”
    “You have the edge by virtue of practice,” replied Jim, “but I’ll give you a run for your money tomorrow lunchtime.”
    “You’re on,” said Raffles Rathbone.
    When Jim found his way to the bar counter he was somewhat astonished by the full extent of Omally’s hostility.
    “What in the name of all the saints, including even those who have recently been given the big ‘E’ by the present papacy, do you think you are up to?” the Irishman asked.
    Pooley was unrepentant. “Psychology?” he suggested.
    “Psychology?”
    “Yes, you know, win over the machine’s confidence, probe its defences, find the weak spot then
Bitow
! Whose round is it?”
    “Yours,” said Omally, “Irrefutably yours.”
    “I got fifteen thousand two hundred and one,” said Jim proudly, “personal high score, take a bit of beating that.”
    “Your head likewise.”
    “It’s in the wrist action,” Pooley continued informatively, “and you have to know the sequences, once you know the sequences you can go for the high-scoring ships and simply dodge the lower ones. It’s simple enough once you’ve sussed it out.”
    “You’re mad,” said Omally. “You were right about the X-rays, they’ve burned out your brain.”
    “Wrist action,” said Pooley, drumming his killing finger on to the bar. “One, two, three,
Bitow
, move to the left,
Bitow, Bitow, Bitow
.”
    “I will kill you.”
    “Tell you what,” said Jim, “I’ll give you a game of doubles tomorrow. Nick will be here and he can give you a few pointers, you’ll soon pick it up. Last one to two thousand points gets the drinks in, what do you say?”
    Omally buried his face in his hands and began to sob plaintively. Pooley finished the Irishman’s pint for him. “You couldn’t spare a couple of two-bobs, could you, John?” he asked. “I just thought I’d get in another game before we go.”

10
    Small Dave peeled open a packet of frozen
filet mignon amoureuse
and oozed it into the cankerous baking tray which had served his family for several generations. Turning the enamel oven up to regulo six, he popped the gourmet’s nightmare on to a vacant shelf and slammed shut the door. This having been done to his satisfaction, the dwarfish postman slouched over to his sawn-down armchair and flung himself into it. He was not a happy man.
    It is a sad fact that those unfortunates amongst us who are born lacking certain vital parts, or possess others to over-abundance, have good cause to bear grievance regarding their lots in life. Those blessed with the lucky humpty back, those who perpetually bump their heads upon the undersides of road bridges, or are capable of walking beneath bar stools without stooping, tend to feel that the gods have dealt with them rather shabbily.
    Small Dave was one of this unhappy crew and he played the thing up for all it was worth. He took kindness for pity, the friendly word for the cutting jibe, and spent his days making life miserable for a community which would gladly have taken him as one of its own had he given it half a chance. When it came to having the old chip on the shoulder the little postman was in a class by himself. The arguments that many a famous man had been well below average height and that it wasn’t a man’s height that mattered, it was what he had in his heart, fell upon very deaf ears. Small Dave had resolved that if it stood taller than four feet and walked about, he hated it.
    He was not exactly Mr Popular in Brentford. In fact, in a parish which tolerated almost every kind of eccentricity, he managed to achieve some notoriety.
    This pleased his contemporaries, for, after all, they had wasted a lot of breath trying to convince him that you didn’t have to be tall to be famous. Now they felt a lot less conscience-stricken about hating the vindictive, grudge-bearing wee bastard.
    Small Dave dug