"Barker, Clive - Weaveworld (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive)

'Don't be an idiot, Shane,' said the other man, a West Indian. His name - Gideon was emblazoned on the back of his overalls.

'Why'd they migrate in the middle of the fuckin' summer?’

'Too hot,' was the idler's reply. 'That's what it is. Too fuckin' hot. It's cookin' their brains up there.’

Gideon had now put down his half of the armchair and was leaning against the back yard wall, applying a flame to the half-spent cigarette he'd fished from his top pocket.

'Wouldn't be bad, would it?’ he mused. ’Being a bird. Gettin' yer end away all spring, then fuckin' off to the South of France as soon as yer get a chill on yer bollocks.’

'They don't live long,' said Cal.

'Do they not?’ said Gideon, drawing on his cigarette. He shrugged. 'Short and sweet,' he said. That'd suit me.’

Shane plucked at the half-dozen blond hairs of his would-be moustache. 'Yer know somethin' about birds, do yer?’ he said to Cal.

'Only pigeons.’

'Race 'em, do you?’

'Once in a while-'

'Me brother-in-law keeps whippets; said the third man, the idler.' He looked at Cal as though this coincidence verged on the miraculous, and would now fuel hours of debate. But all Cal could think of to say was: 'Dogs.’

'That's right,' said the other man, delighted that they were of one accord on the issue. 'He's got five. Only one died.’

'Pity,' said Cal.

'Not really. It was fuckin' blind in one eye and couldn't see in the other.’

The man guffawed at this observation, which promptly brought the exchange to a dead halt. Cal turned his attention back to the birds, and he grinned to see - there on the upper window-ledge of the house - his bird.

'I see him,' he said.

Gideon followed his gaze. 'What's that then?’

'My pigeon. He escaped.’

Cal pointed. 'There. In the middle of the sill. See him?’

All three now looked. 'Worth something is he?’ said the idler.

'Trust you, Bazo,' Shane commented.

'Just asking,' Bazo replied.

'He's won prizes,' said Cal, with some pride. He was keeping his eyes glued to 33, but the pigeon showed no sign of wanting to fly; just preened his wing feathers, and once in a while turned a beady eye up to the sky.

'Stay there . . .’ Cal told the bird under his breath,'. . . don't move.’