"Robert Rankin - THe Suburban Book of the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

Fido viewed him along the horizontal plane. Even in this undignified repose Rex was a handsome
fellow. Tall, well muscled and still bearing the same uncanny resem-blance to the young Harrison
Ford he had since book one. Pity about the wok-hurling wife, though.

'It's my duty to care for this man in his time of need,' said Fido. 'And having no bucket of water
to paw, I regret I must add insult to injury.' He lifted his rear offside leg and took careful
aim.

'Don't even think about it,' Rex whispered through gritted teeth. 'If you want to help, then
whimper a bit and look concerned.'

'Gotcha, man. Play for sympathy, eh? Shrewd thinking oooooooh--' The contents of the slop pail,
issuing even as it did from the upstairs window, caught them both with unerring accuracy.

Fido took to his heels. Rex clambered to his feet.



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'Now just you see here,' he began.

The spade missed him by inches.

'Dig it deep and dig it now,' were his wife's final

10

demands. The window slammed shut and Rex was left very much alone.

He gazed around at his wonderful garden. The toil of his hands and the sweat of his brow had
brought all this into being. He had planted every plum and pulse, pepper and pimento, pomegranate
and passion fruit. He had pampered each pear and peach and pomelo, particularly the pineapples,
papayas, parsnips and potatoes. He'd even been patient with the peas. It was a theme garden.
Although for the life of him he couldn't remember what the theme actually was. Nor why he'd
planted the sprouts.

And the house itself. He'd designed that from the ground up. High gabled, daub and wattle. A
veritable tour de force in Arts and Crafts revivalism. All for her. Christeen, his wife.
Christeen, twin sister of Jesus.

But was it enough? Not a bit of it.

Was she contented? Not one smidgen.

Grateful? As if.