"Higgins, Jack - Prayer For The Dying" - читать интересную книгу автора (Higgins Jack)

Billy went out and Meehan turned to Donner with a sigh. "I don't know what I'm going to do with him, Frank. I don't really."

"He's young, Mr.. Meehan." "All he can think about is birds," Meehan said. "Dirty little tarts in mini skirts showing all they've got." He shivered in genuine disgust. "I even found him having it off with the cleaning woman one afternoon. Fifty-five if she was a day -and on my bed."

Donner kept a diplomatic silence and Meehan opened an inner door and led the way through into the Chapel of Rest. The atmosphere was cool and fresh thanks to air-conditioning, and scented with flowers. Taped organ music provided a suitably devotional background.

There were half-a-dozen cubicles on either side. Meehan took off his hat and stepped into the first one. There were flowers everywhere and an oak coffin stood on a draped trolley.

"Who's this?"

"That young girl. The student who went through the wind-screen of the sports car/ Donner told him,

"Oh yes," Meehan said. "I did her myself."

He lifted the face cloth. The girl was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, the face so skillfully made up that she might only have been sleeping.

"You did a good job there, Mr.. Meehan," Donner said.

Meehan nodded complacently. I've got to agree with you there, Frank. You know something. There was no flesh left on her left cheek when she came to me. That girl's face was mincemeat, I'm telling you."

"You're an artist, Mr.. Meehan," Donner said, genuine admiration in his voice. "A real artist. It's the only word for it."

It's nice of you to say so, Frank. I really appreciate that." Meehan switched off the light and led the way out. "I always try to do my best, of course, but a case like that - a young girl. Well, you got to think of the parents."

"Too true, Mr.. Meehan."

They moved out of the chapel area into the front hall, the original Georgian features still beautifully preserved, blue and white Wedgwood plaques on the walls. There was a glass door leading to the reception office on the right. As they approached, they could hear voices and someone appeared to be crying.

The door opened and a very old woman appeared, sobbing heavily. She wore a headscarf and a shabby woolen overcoat bursting at the seams. She had a carrier bag over one arm and clutched a worn leather purse in her left hand. Her face was swollen with weeping.

Henry Ainsley, the reception clerk, moved out after her. He was a tall, thin man with hollow cheeks and sly, furtive eyes. He wore a neat, clerical-grey suit and sober tie and his hands were soft,

"I'm sorry, madam," he was saying sharply, "but that's the way it is. Anyway, you can leave everything in our hands from now on."

"That's the way what is?" Meehan said, advancing on them. He put his hands on the old lady's shoulders. We can't have this, love. What's up?"

"It's all right, Mr.. Meehan. The old lady was just a bit upset She's just lost her husband," Ainsley said.

Meehan ignored him and drew the old lady into the office. He put her in a chair by the desk. "Now then, love, you tell me all about it"

He took her hand and she held on tight "Ninety, he was. I thought he'd last for ever and then I found him at the bottom of the stairs when I got back from chapel, Sunday night" Tears streamed down her face. "He was that strong, even at that age. I couldn't believe it."

"I know, love, and now you've come here to bury him?"

She nodded. "I don't have much, but I didn't want him to have a state funeral. I wanted it done right. I thought I could manage nicely what the insurance money and then this gentleman here, he told me I'd need seventy pound."

"Now look, Mr.. Meehan, it was like this," Ainsley cut in.

Meehan turned and glanced at him bleakly. Ainsley faltered into silence. Meehan said, "You paid cash, love?"