"Robert Rankin - Snuff Fiction" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

would have linked him to the electronic machine and the man pulled the lever that dropped him through
the trapdoor into the cage beneath. It was here, of course, that the Doveston met the princess with the
silver eyes, who had been kidnapped for use in some similar experiment. I don't know whether you can
actually pick a padlock with a matchstick and whether there really is a maze of subterranean caverns
beneath Brentford inhabited by dwarves with tattooed ears. I remain uncertain about the amount of
firepower the Brentford constabulary were able to call upon when they surrounded the house. And I'm
certain we would have heard the explosion when the man pressed the self--destruct button rather than
be taken alive.
But it was a thrilling story and I do feel that it was really decent of Mr Vaux to let the Doveston
finish.
Before he bent him over the desk.
Although we were never taught German at the Grange, we all knew the meaning of the word
Schadenfreude. And we all enjoyed the beating. It was a suitably epic beating and at the end of it Mr
Vaux had four of the injury monitors convey the unconscious Doveston to the school nurse to have his
wounds dressed and the smelling bottle applied to his nostrils.
All in all it was a memorable afternoon and I include it here as I feel it offers the reader an insight into
just what sort of a boy the Doveston was.
Imaginative. And daring.
At home-time we helped him out through the school gates. We were all for carrying him shoulder
high, but his bottom, it seemed, was too tender. However, he was a hero, there was no mistake about
that, and so we patted him gently upon what areas of his body remained uninjured and called him a jolly
good fellow.
As we left the school our attention was drawn to a large black and shiny motor car, parked in the
otherwise deserted street. On the bonnet of this leaned a man in a chauffeur's uniform and cap. At our
rowdy approach he stepped forward. Not, however, to protect the car, but to hand the Doveston a bag
of sweets.
 We looked on in silence as the chauffeur returned to the car, climbed in and drove away at speed.
I have a lasting impression of that moment. Of the car turning the corner past old Mr Hartnell's shop.
And of the passenger in the back seat, smiling and waving.
The passenger was a beautiful young woman.
A beautiful young woman with astounding silver eyes.
 3

`Sir, will you be good enough to tell your friend that my snuff box isn't an oyster.'
Beau Brummell (1778--1840)


Uncle Jon Peru Joans was no uncle of mine. And neither was he one of the Doveston's. The boy
had adopted him.
He had adopted various adults in and around the borough of Brentford and visited each on a regular
basis.
There was an ancient called Old Pete, whose allotment patch he helped to tend. A tramp known as
Two Coats, with whom he went on foraging expeditions to Gunnersbury Park. The lady librarian, who
was apparently teaching him Tantric sexual techniques. And there was Uncle Jon Peru Joans.
The boy's choice of adults had been scrupulous. Only those possessed of useful knowledge
qualified. Old Pete was reckoned by most to be the man in the district when it came to the growing of
fruit and veg. Two Coats was the man when it came to what we now call `survivalism'. The lady librarian
was definitely the woman in most respects. And then there was Uncle Jon Peru Joans.
`What exactly does he do?' I asked the Doveston, as together we shuffled over the cobbles of the
tree-lined drive that led to the historic Butts Estate.