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

Conrad was conscious, but only just. His eyes were flickering and blood
was drooling out of his mouth, and he was making a sound at the back of
his throat as though trying to speak through a mouthful of dough. When I
reached Nick, he was bent almost double over Conrad, his face bright red.
He was muttering now, as though his anger was winding down like an old
clock. "I don't want to hear any more about it," he was saying.
"Understand? Understand?"
I reached out, hesitated a moment, then put my hand on Nick's back. Even
through his jacket it felt hot and damp. "He can't hear you, Nick," I
said. "You've knocked him into the middle of next week."
Nick straightened up and turned on me. For a moment I thought he was going
to punch me too. But he didn't, he just said, "Why did he have to go on
like that, Mark? Why couldn't he just shut up? Things are bad enough
without...ah, fucking hell."
He pushed past me and staggered across the playground towards the
condemned school. He slumped against a brick wall, kind of rolled to face
it, his forehead pressed against its rough surface. He looked like a kid
playing hide and seek, counting to a hundred while his friends scatter
like startled mice. I knelt beside Conrad. He was groaning and spitting
blood. He hadn't actually lost consciousness, but he would never have
beaten the ten count if this had been a boxing match.
I did all the usual stuff - wiped the blood from his mouth with a
handkerchief, asked him if he was okay (stupid question, but what else can
you ask?), held up four fingers to make sure he wasn't experiencing double
vision. Conrad didn't say much, but eventually he managed to sit up,
shedding gravel from his clothes and his hair. I wasn't aware that Nick
had moved from his place by the wall until he was squatting beside us,
looking shame-faced.
"Hey, sorry, Connie. Sorry, mate. You okay?" he mumbled, reaching out
tentatively to held me help Conrad sit up straight.
"Yeah," Conrad replied mushily, then abruptly twisted his head and puked
up the beer he'd drunk. If that had been me, I thought, I'd have puked all
over Nick's bald head.
Nick and I pulled him to his feet and walked him around a bit. Nick kept
apologising and telling him to take deep breaths. Eventually Conrad was
able to walk around himself, though we stayed close by in case he should
stumble and fall. With his fingers he probed tenderly at the left side of
his jaw, which was already discoloured and starting to swell.
"Ow," he said, "that hurts."
Nick grimaced. "Sorry," he said again. "Things just got out of hand, you
know."
"I think you've broken one of my Hampsteads," Conrad said, poking about
inside his mouth with his tongue. Suddenly he flinched. "Fuck me, you
have, you chiselling twatter. There's something dangling around in here.
I'm sure it's an exposed nerve."
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry," said Nick. "What can I say? I'll pay
all your dental bills. I'll prostrate myself in your presence." He strode
across to where we had dumped the beer prior to Conrad telling us his
pissing on the playground story. He extracted the remaining three bottles
from the first six pack and ripped off their caps with the bottle opener