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

Only we weren't here to play football. We were here to re-live the worst
day of our lives.
Nick and I looked at each other, Nick's eyebrows raising above his
sunglasses as if to say, here we go, as Conrad strode to the middle of the
playground. We both knew what was coming next. In what used to be the
centre circle of the netball court, Conrad halted and turned to face us.
"We all know what happened here, don't we, boys and girls?"
"Yes," I said as though I was incredibly bored and didn't want to hear it
again.
This, however, was tradition. Conrad continued with his story, undeterred.
"It was here that I, at the age of six, removed my purple-headed custard
cannon from my undergarments and took a bangers and mash all over this
very patch of concrete, watched by a large and adoring crowd. Only someone
informed the cling peaches of my nefarious pursuits, didn't they?"
Nick and I were both nodding.
"And who was that, boys and girls?"
"The chiselling twatter himself," responded Nick.
"Correct," said Conrad, narrowing his eyes. Tall and thin and pale and
dressed in black, he looked like a prophet of doom. "The chiselling
twatter himself. And we all know what happened to that cunt, don't we?"
I gaped at him. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I didn't want to
hear this. Even though the memory of it went round and round in my head
and always would, I didn't want to hear what we'd done put into words, and
especially not by Conrad. If we started talking about it, started
admitting to each other that it had happened, then we wouldn't be able to
cope with it, we'd fall apart. I really believe this, odd though it
sounds. They say a problem shared is a problem halved, but in this
instance a problem shared would have been a problem doubled, a problem
come to life. Just coming here every year and having to do what we did was
bad enough without having to actually bring it out into the open, face up
to it. It's hard to explain, and maybe you can't understand my feelings,
but if you were in my situation, if you were me, you'd know.
Normally Conrad just told this story straight without putting any
accusatory slant on it. I don't know why he told it at all, to be honest.
It was just part of the odd, unspoken ritual that we all felt compelled to
go through, I suppose, before the reunion got underway proper.
"Leave it, Connie," I snapped now. "That isn't fucking funny."
Conrad glared at me as though I'd done something to make him furious. He
looked really weird, as if he was capable of anything, and that scared me.
I mean, Conrad could be a weird fucking bastard at the best of times, but
he knew the rules as well as we did and he'd never strayed from them
before. You could hardly blame him for being a bit weird, having to look
at Seven Arches every day when he opened his bedroom curtains. I often
wondered how he could bear to go on living here, but maybe he felt he had
no choice.
"It's not supposed to be fucking funny," he snarled. "It's supposed to be
fucking tragic. Stuart's dead, you cunt, and it's because of that fucking
chiselling fucking bastard twatting chiseller." He flapped an arm in the
general direction of Seven Arches. "And I don't fucking care if he can
hear me, and I don't fucking care what fucking happens any more. Stuart's