"Alan Williams - Holy of Holies" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Alan)

twice a week. He was the easiest, the most accommodating of men: it didn't
matter at what hour they returned, the scene was always the same. Mason would
be sitting in the study, working at his figures, with the hi-fi playing soft
classical music. He always wiped the records before and after playing them,
and washed up the cups he used. He never accepted a drink.

Occasionally he reported that little Tom had woken up, but he had always known
exactly how to get the baby off to sleep again. Once he had bought him a
rubber turtle which rolled over on its back and wiggled its legs in the bath;
but this was his only gesture of intimacy. He had few resources in the way of
conversation, which made it all the more surprising when, one evening on which
he was not scheduled to 'sit', he called Rawcliff from a pay-phone and asked
if he could come round and 'talk something over in private'. He sounded as
sober as ever, and very serious.

Rawcliff agreed, with a mixture of misgiving and curiosity. His first thought
was that Mason was going to touch him for money. Until now the only
awkwardness that he and Judith had experienced with the man was getting him to
accept any money at all for his services. He always said, 'Really, it should
be me who's paying you.'

Before he was due to arrive, Rawcliff said to his wife, 'Give me half an hour
alone with him, to find out what he's on about. If it starts getting
embarrassing - woman or wife trouble, for instance - I may call you in to draw
on your wisdom.' , Mason arrived, as always, on the dot. The only difference
was that he was carrying a bag which turned out to contain a bottle of whisky.
'I'm awfully sorry, am I butting in?'
'Not at all Terry - I wouldn't have asked you round if you were.' He led the
way into the study. 'What's the meaning of the bottle?'

'I'm afraid it's rather by way of a farewell present.' Mason blushed under his
ruddy tan. 'You wouldn't mind, would you, as I'm strictly not on duty tonight,
if I joined you in a glass?'

'For Christ's sake, Terry, it's your booze, not mine!' Rawcliff fetched two
tumblers and a jug of water from the kitchen. Mason took his drink thin, and
sipped it like a liqueur.

Rawcliff had already found that the pilot's presence in the house had a
combined disadvantage. The young man not only made him feel his age - he also
reminded Rawcliff of what he was missing. For Mason would soon be returning
,to base, to the pressurized perspex cocoon of a fighter-bomber. Nothing
particularly dramatic or hazardous, perhaps - they no longer flew by the book
these days, they flew by computers, which was Judith's territory, Rawcliff
recalled sourly - but during a few wonderful hours Mason would be up there in
the icy blue-black emptiness, streaking along at Mach Two, a tiny disciplined
god above the clouds. Free.

Rawcliff had been like that once. Better, he'd been his own man - taken out of
uniform and trained almost to breaking point, then let loose as a licensed