"Mark Morris - The Chisellers' Reunion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morris Mark)

mates. It's not as though we never do anything that we haven't done
before, is it?"
"I suppose you're right," I said, and he was in a way, though that didn't
make it any better.
"Course I am," he said. We reached Conrad's front door. Nick played the
'Match Of The Day' theme tune on the doorbell with his thumb.
When Conrad opened the door, Nick thrust his six-pack of Beck's into his
stomach, making Conrad blow out his cheeks, an "oof" sound escaping his
pursed lips. "You took your time, you chiselling bastard," said Nick,
striding into the house.
Recovering, Conrad said, "Fuck off, you bald chiselling git. And what are
you wearing those fucking sunglasses for? Are you blind as well as bald
now, or are you just being a posey bastard?"
The repartee was raucous and crude as usual, though perhaps a little
louder than normal, as though we believed volume could conceal the grief
and fear we must all have been feeling because of Stuart's death and the
hole it had torn in the established pattern of the day's coming events. We
were always like this when we got together - lots of swearing, lots of
insults. This was because we loved each other like brothers. Stuart's
wife, Wendy, called it 'male bonding', and she also used to say that when
we got together our conversation exhausted her because it was so
competitive. Though these were my best friends, as the years had
progressed we had seen each other less and less. In fact, I suppose it's
true to say that Stuart's wedding had been a kind of cut-off point for us
all. It was the reunion, of course, which had soured our friendship, just
as it soured everything else. Seeing each other any time of year apart
from on this day brought the reunion too close, made it seem as though it
was hovering just beneath the surface of every conversation, even though,
like typical men, we never talked about it, never talked about what was
really important.
We filed into Conrad's house. Or rather, Nick and I went in - I'm still
thinking in terms of us being four, still thinking that Stuart was here,
which he wasn't any more and never would be again.
"Fancy a coffee?" Conrad said.
"Don't be a chiselling knob-end. Open the beers. Why drink shite when you
can have nectar?" said Nick.
I guess before I go any further I ought to explain this 'chisellers'
thing. The phrase was one that had endured from schooldays, though who
first gave voice to it I can't really remember. If I had to put money on
it, I'd say it was one of Conrad's weird expressions; he was full of them,
including his own version of Cockney rhyming slang. It was Nick, I think,
though, who coined the phrase, 'chiselling twatter', our most enduring and
(we thought) hilarious insult. Of course, it was just one of those silly,
cliquey things that cement kids together, that identify them as a gang or
club or whatever. I suppose most people relinquish dumb stuff like that
when they grow into adulthood, but we never had.
Which just goes to show what a bunch of sad individuals we are.
We sat in Conrad's front room for a bit, swigging beer out of the bottle
and keeping up the volume and the insults and the repartee. We talked
about everything but what was really on our minds - the reunion, and more