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

fucking dead because of him, and that should be the end of it. We should
be allowed to get on with our lives. But it's not fucking good enough for
that cunt, is it?" He looked up at us, his eyes widening, as though an
astounding idea had just entered his head. "Hey, why don't we tell him to
go fuck it this year? Why don't we go down the rub-a-dub instead of over
to fucking Seven Arches and drink ourselves into an FC Roma?"
He looked desperate, pleading. I looked at Nick, feeling embarrassed and
sick and angry at Conrad for letting the mantle slip, the carapace crack.
Nick didn't look at me. His cheeks were flushed and his lips pursed. I
couldn't see what his eyes were doing because he was still wearing those
stupid fucking sunglasses.
For long, long seconds, none of us said anything. Then in a tight, clipped
voice Nick said, "You know we can't do that. Just tell us the rest of the
story, Conrad."
Conrad's shoulders slumped. He looked a broken man. He'd made his stand,
vented his fury, and we hadn't supported him. Now it seemed he had no
defiance left. I felt ashamed, but relieved too. In little more than a
murmur, he said, "Denton told Mrs Sykes, who made me stand on a desk in
front of the class while she told them what a disgusting little turd I
was. All the girls were giggling, and when I looked down I realised that
my flies were open and that my shorts were wet where I'd accidentally
pissed on them in my fleeting moment of triumph."
"And what colour underpants were you wearing, Connie?" I asked dutifully.
"They were a Paisley pattern in purple and pink. They fit me until I was
eleven. They were voted the most hideous pair of underpants in the world
in the 1977 Chisellers Awards." He looked up at us. "That's all."
"Okay," said Nick. "Now let's go over to the Arches and get pissed as
fucking stoats."
His effusiveness had a hollow ring. Nevertheless Conrad and I both nodded.
As Conrad trudged towards us, I realised he was muttering something.
"What you fucking rambling on about now, you chiseller?" said Nick with
false bonhomie.
"I said, maybe it is over. Maybe Denton won't come any more, now that
Stuart's dead."
Nick went barmy. He ran at Conrad and shoved him so hard in the chest that
Conrad almost fell over. "Why don't you just fucking shut up!" he shouted.
"He'll come. And while he keeps fucking coming, so will we. That cunt's
not going to ruin my life. No fucking way."
He's already ruined all our lives, I thought, but I didn't say anything.
Conrad, however, like a fool, blundered on. "How do you know he'll come?
Maybe he's happy now. Maybe this was all he wanted."
"I said shut up! Nobody wants to fucking hear it!"
Nick whirled and sprang at Conrad, who made no move to get out of the way.
I started to shout, "Nick, no!" as I saw his arm swing round, but hadn't
even completed the first syllable when Nick's clenched fist made contact
with Conrad's jaw. It made a sickening noise, like a mallet hitting a
thick slab of steak. Conrad just fell without even staggering, poleaxed.
Nick stood over him, spitting out the words, "He'll never let us fucking
rest. He's a vindictive little bastard. We stop coming, people start
dying. Is that what you want?"