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

absorption, but what happened in the immediate moments
following: viz, nothing at all. The jangle of some keys, the
muted echoes of shouts from somewhere else in the hall,
the departing footsteps of the warder, and after that, only
the sound of his own breath.

A few seconds of that and all the things it had seemed

so bloody important to be right about suddenly lost their

hypnotic allure, finally revealing themselves to be as tarnished and
worthless as anyone else could have told him.

Or rather, as one particular person had been trying to tell
him, if only he'd taken his head out of his arse long enough
to hear her.

Sarah. Oh shit.

Yep, he'd really shown her, hadn't he? She'd certainly

learn her lesson now. No more stepping out of line for that
one, no sirree.
Christ.
Unreconstructed wanker? Total fucking arsehole.

He sat down on the edge of the lower bunk, staring at the

door, head sinking to palms, elbows in anticipatory support

on his thighs.


Remind me agam, he asked himself, why you thought
it a constructive course of action to go breaking into the
headquarters of the Scottish Catholic Church. Stumped?
Too tough? All right, how about an easier one. Run by me
one more time why you decided your own pride would
keep you company once it had successfully alienated your
wife. Maybe you'd like some more time to think about it.
No problem. How about six months, minus remission?

Awwww, fuck.'

He closed his eyes, waiting for tears, but no such comfort
came. He was still too numb to feel anything but stupid.

'Haaa! You're gaunny greet, ya fuckin' waaank!'

Fright ripped through Parlabane like an electro-magnetic