"Brookmyre, Christopher - Boiling A Frog" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)

that when it came to physical brutality, he wouldn't last
three rounds with Tweety-Pie. He'd always been slight, but
with it had come the benefits of a low centre of gravity and a
blessed gift in the middle-ear department. Balance and aim
came easily, which in his schooldays had made him a fairly
nippy winger in the classic Scottish 'irritating wee bastard'
mould. In later life they had afforded an unusual (but
frequently utilised) facility for negotiating the exteriors of
otherwise inaccessible premises; and an even more dubious
subsidiary bonus was that they also made him a natural
shot. These abilities, together with a connoisseur's eye
for subterfuge, had allowed him to evade the malice and
vengeance of billionaires, politicians, conspirators, crooks,
thugs and professional assassins on two continents.
None of them, however, were any use one-on-one in a
Saughton jail-cell, with his brain still reverberating and his
sense of self at a record low. Fooaltiye was hardly likely to
be the worst of it, either.
The patting-down ceased with a loud tut and a 'fuck's
sake'. Fooaltiye got up and returned to his lair on the bottom
bunk. Parlabane remained staring at the floor, fearing that
if he stood up, he'd find himself less than an inch tall.
'Fuckin' waank. Fuckin' nae use tae nae cunt, fuck's
sake.'
Parlabane harboured fleeting thoughts of the Beretta once
secreted in his flat in East London Street. Childish. He glanced
up at Fooaltiye, his revenge fantasy mutating absurdly. The
scrawny baw hair became the Emperor Palpatine, the Beretta
sitting on the arm of his chair. 'You want . . . this . .
don't you?'
Get over it. Get used to it.
'Fuck's sake, man. Nae fuckin' fags. Aww, fuck, man. I'm
fuckin' dyin' man, altiye. Fuckin' nuhin since this mornin'
man, fuckin' chronic, man. Altiye, s'gaunny be 'oors afore
we get sorted oot here - an' that means fuckin' 'oors afore I
can get sorted oot, if ye ken whit I mean. ....... take
their time, so they will, the fuckin' screws. You might as
well get comfy, ya cunt, 'cause we're gaun naewhere. Aww,
s'gaunny be murder, man, fuuuck. Fuckin' need somethin'
man. Just a fuckin' fag would dae me the noo.'
This was the closest thing to helpful advice he was likely
to get. It would indeed be a while - maybe even overnight,
given the hour already - before the powers-that-be decided
more specifically what they were going to do with him. He
eyed the upper bunk. The brain-rattling exertions of the
ascent would be rewarded with the convalescent opportunities of a lie-down,
and maybe with a little luck the
whole fucking thing might collapse and crush Kate Moss
down there to death.
Unfortunately, the solidity suggested by the frame's earlier impact on