"Brookmyre, Christopher - Boiling A Frog" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)in perpetual fear of being chibbed and humped by rabid
schemies. 'Take him down.' Okay, so those weren't the sheriff's precise words, but the import was much the same, and Parlabane wasn't arguing. No grand conspiracy had ensnared him, just his own stubbornness and complacency, in combination with a nihilistic recklessness that was unmistakably borne of wilful self- destruction. He was in the huff with the whole wide world, and indulged the negligent abandon of a wounded fool, heedless of danger because he's convinced nothing can hurt him anymore than he's been hurt already. The slamming of the cell door shook him out of it and loudly begged to differ. The sheriff's pronouncement of sentence had failed to deliver such a jolt, Parlabane meekly absorbing it with I care. You think I'm scared of, pain and misery? Let me tell you about pain and misery, pal. Let me tell you what jail is really like. Loneliness? Isolation? Humiliation? Ostracisation? Tick, tick, tick, tick. The van, the guards, the handcuffs, the prison building, none of them penetrated the cocoon of symbiotic self-pity and self-loathing. They were all part of a journey, and on journeys it's always easy, if you wish, to blot out all thoughts of what awaits at your destination. Parlabane remembered the supreme acts of will it once took to get him to leave even a diesel-reeking railway carriage at Glasgow Central when only lectures and tutorials lay ahead. Elaborate sexual imaginings and scything ripostes to Old-Firm-biased football pundits were hardly the stuff of profound immersion, but nonetheless most mornings he was willing the train to slow. whether it be by van, train, car or womb, coping with reality could be suspended until you reached your destination - but only until then. In truth, it wasn't really the slamming and locking of the reception cell that woke Parlabane from his weeks of |
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