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

morning after they met, by the cruel facelessness of a
system that refused to recognise the bond that had been
forged between them. (Actually, Parlabane did have to
concede one benefit to Fooaltiye's endless burbling: like
listening to hardcore dance music, you felt fucking great
whenever it stopped.)
He was taken from the reception cell to one of the
prison's main halls, a structure so Dickensian he could
imagine himself growing bushy facial hair the moment he
crossed its threshold. He checked his hands to make sure
fingerless woollen gloves hadn't materialised upon them.
The only accessory they were currently sporting was a pair
of steel cuffs.
The screw led him up two flights of stairs on to an iron
gantry, which took him across a mesh-protected drop to the
opposite landing. He opened the cell door with an action of
near-ceremonial precision: faaaace door; raaaise key; keeeey
insert; keeeey turn; dooooor open. This man liked his job.
Parlabane could picture him locking up Action Man dolls
as a child.
He removed Parlabane's cuffs and ushered him into the
cell, walking exactly two feet inside, to the inch.
'Right, Parlabane. It'll be a couple of days before they
decide what they want to do with you, so just make yourself
comfortable here for the present.'
With that, he withdrew, locking up again with near-
orgasmic exactitude.
Parlabane, having learned from yesterday, checked the
lower bunk for occupants. The front and back pages of
the Daily Mail looked back out at him, gripped by two
gnarled and wiry hands. Their owner spoke without lowering his paper.
'I'll tell you two things for dead-sure certain. Wan is
you'll have some job makin' yoursel' comfortable in here,
an' the other yin is, you're gettin' nae fuckin' present.'
Parlabane said nothing, but remained focused on the
newspaper and the bony digits that were supporting it.
So far, the physical condition of his fellow inmates was
hinting at serious ramifications for the quality and quantity
of the establishment's catering. The newspaper dropped a
few inches, and a scowling wee punter with thin but angrily
ginger hair peered intently over the top of it. The man
looked about sixty-ish, much of it probably spent wearing that same
expression. He gave Parlabane a thorough
once-over, then the scowl twisted slightly into a sneer with
optimistic aspirations of a grin.
'First time, innit?'
Oh for fuck's sake. Here we go again. He wondered
whether it was perhaps tattooed on his forehead, but Scowl
put him straight on that.
'Pure obvious. Face like a well-skelped arse, an' you look