"Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

"Who was that?"
The youth shrugged and turned away, but when he was a hundred yards off, he called something
else. Most of the words were carried away by the wind and the noise of the stream, but the last word
sounded like "policeman."
Half a mile below his own cottage, a man's voice called, "Mr. Reade." It was Jeff's father. He
came out from behind the stone wall. There was nothing in the field beyond, so he must have been
waiting. He said without preliminaries, "Your goat ate our beans."
 "I'm sorry. I tied her in the shed."
The dark face was as loutish as his son's, but more cunning. The left eye had a cast that gave his
smile a disquieting air of malice. He stood there, grinning.
Reade said finally, "Where is she?"
"Tied in my shed."
"Did she do much damage?"
"Can't tell yet. They're all shoots. Few bobs' worth I reckon."
He felt in his pocket, took out a leather purse, and removed half a crown. He asked, "Will that
cover it?"
"Reckon so." The hard hand closed over the money and pocketed it unceremoniously.
Reade did not miss the glint of humor in the eyes. He said, "I'm sorry to hear your
daughter-in-law died."
The man shrugged. "Her own fault. She took 'em of her own free will." He turned away, then
added over his shoulder, "I'll bring the goat over. Reckon she need milkin'."
"Thank you."
The cottage felt cold. He poked out the ashes from under the logs and turned the charred sides
upward. Then he poured paraffin on the logs and ignited it. The blaze was welcome. Afterward he went
to look at the rope in the open shed outside. He half expected to find that it had been cut through, but the
frayed ends showed that it had been gnawed. As he stood looking at it, he heard the goat's bleat.
Bowden came in through the gate, leading her by a length of electrical wire tied to her collar. Without
speaking, he released her, waved his hand, and went out the gate again.
Reade took her into the cottage to milk her; she stood quietly near the fire, the steam rising from
her flanks, as he squeezed the milk into a basin. As he milked, she relieved her bowels onto the sheet of
brown paper that he had spread behind her for that purpose. When he had finished, he set down the
bowl on the table and carefully folded the paper, then took it out to the sanitary pit at the end of the
garden. When he came back, the goat was sleeping on the coconut matting in front of the fire.
For the next half hour he busied himself preparing vegetables for a beef stew that would last for a
week. The meat had been cooked days before. Outside, the noise of the wind was audible above the
sound of the stream that ran down the rock face twenty feet from the cottage. This meant that it would
probably rain for the rest of the day. (In winter it would have meant a storm, probably hail or snow; but
then it had to contend with the thunder of a waterfall from November until March.) He was so intent on
slicing the carrots and onions that he failed to hear the knocks on the door. The wind that sucked smoke
across the room made him turn. The dark-coated man who stood in the doorway called, "Anyone home?
May I come in?"
"Please do." He hastened across to close the door.
"Mr. Damon Reade?"
"Yes. Do sit down. Take your coat off. Are you wet?"
Observing the man's look of surprise as the goat heaved herself to her feet, he said, "Come on,
Judy, outside. We've got a visitor."
The man said, "I don't mind."
The goat went reluctantly outside, and then cantered through the rain to the open shed.
"No, but I'm afraid she stinks when she's wet. I don't notice it, but other people do. Do you mind
if I go on making this stew? It's nearly ready."