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

certain observational deficiencies, it nonetheless failed to
explain entirely how he could miss the fact that the bed
he'd sat down on was already occupied. But then, that was
because he was used to people existing in three dimensions.
This sliver barely put a ripple in the blanket.
'Fuckin' never saw me there, did ye? Fuckin' daft cunt.
Hahahahaha.'
It was initially difficult to make out a face atop what
the sliver was attempting to pass off as a body - at least
until you knew what you were looking for. The bloke's
skin was a bluey-grey colour that would have had any

competent physician diving for the intubation kit, and

which, by what Parlabane sincerely hoped was coincidence,

matched the walls of the cell to within a pantone. when
he laughed - which had so far been about sixty percent
of the time - he wore an expression that suggested he
was simultaneously attempting to pass an agricultural
implement, with the subsidiary effect of stretching his
skin so tight across his face that there seemed a tangible danger of his
cheekbones bursting through the
pallid membrane. Fortunately, he didn't appear to have
any cheekbones. Evolution, Parlabane reflected, could be
awful clever that way.
He patted tenderly at his scalp again. It was still seeping,
the reverberations continuing to shudder through his head
in time with his pulse. He had a look at the ascent required
to reach the top bunk and opted to stay crumpled on the
floor for a few more minutes' convalescence.
'Fooaltiyeman, that looked fuckin' sair. Hahahahahaha.
Fuckin' daft cunt.'
The sliver adjusted his reclining posture, shuffling for-
wards from the wall, presumably to afford himself a better
view of the ongoing daft-cuntery.
'Serve ye fuckin' right, sittin' there when it's ma fuckin'
bed.'
With his sleeve having fallen away from it a couple of
inches, Parlabane could now more clearly see the grey
twiglet of arm that was implausibly supporting Sliver's
head. It looked as though all it would take to snap the thing
would be for a fly to alight on his nose, but Parlabane knew
better than to assume his appearance was any reflection
on his ability to look after himself. He certainly wasn't
about to put it to the test by telling him to shut the fuck
up. Nonetheless, Parlabane felt sure, if Sliver had been in
Belsen, his nickname would have been 'Slim'.
'Sorry,' he managed quietly. 'I'll take the top one, shall I?'
'Fuckin' right ye will. Go up there an' greet.'