"Robert Rankin - Waiting for Godalming" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

case, satchel, knapsack, rucksack, haversack ..."
"You certainly know your luggage," said the doctor.
"Buddy," I told him, "in my business, knowing your luggage can
mean the difference between looking through the eyes of love
and staring down the barrel of a P45. If you know what I mean
and I'm sure that you do."
"I don't," said the doctor.
"Well I do," said I. "There was one case I was on back in ninety-
five and I confused a sabretache with a reticule. That case cost
me my two front teeth, my entire collection of Lonnie Donegan
records, my reputation as a connoisseur of pine kitchen wall
cupboards, my pet duck named Derek and ..."
"What?" asked the doctor.
"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
"Wake up!" shouted the doctor.
And I woke up in a bit of a sweat.
"Listen," I said. "All I want is the tablets, so I can stay awake.
You want me to stay awake, so I can tell you all about the case. I
want to stay awake, so I can close the case. For pity's sake, man,
we both want me to stay awake. So why don't you just give me
the damn tablets and then I'll stay awake?"
"All right," said the doctor. "I'll give you a tablet now and you can
have another when you've finished telling me all about your
case."
I could see he was lying. It shows up on their heads when they
lie, the wrong'uns. Their quills go blue at the tips. But of course
he didn't know that I could see his quills. He didn't know that I
was on to him. But I was. I could see his quills and his terrible
reptilian eyes and those awful insect mouthparts that kept
chewing chewing chewing. I could see it all, because I had taken
the drug.
And so I told him all about the case. Just to pass the time. Just
so I could stay awake for a couple more days and wipe him and
his kind from the face of the Earth. I didn't tell him all of it.
Because I didn't know all of it. And even if I had, I wouldn't have
told him. I told him my side of the story, when I was called in on
the case. I don't know for sure just what happened earlier,
because I wasn't there to see it happen. I guess it all really
began in that barber's shop. But like I say, I wasn't there, so I
couldn't say for sure.


1
Now you don't really see barber's shops any more. They've gone
the way of the Pathe News and Raylbrook Poplin, the shirts you
don't iron. But once, in a time not too long ago, the barber's shop
was a very special place. A shrine to all things male.
Here men of every social order gathered for their bi-weekly
trims. The gentry rubbed shoulders with the genetically deficient,
princes with paupers, wide boys with window dressers. Here was