"Robert Rankin - The Witches Of Chiswick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

always fascinated me. Something about the Victorian era.”
 “The what?” asked Will’s mum.
“Be silent, woman,” said Will’s dad, sending another sausage
stomachwards.
“The years of Queen Victoria,” said Will. “She ruled this country, and
much of the world besides, for sixty years. She died in 1901.”
“King Charles ruled for seventy-five years,” said Will’s mum. “And so did
Queen Camilla.”
“I don’t think you could really call that ruling,” said Will’s dad, “although
I’m impressed that you should know even that. I recall as a child learning
about the last of the Royal Household of England. They didn’t actually rule
that long – they didn’t actually rule at all. They were both assassinated at
their coronation. It was a virtual reality programme that did all the
subsequent ruling – until it crashed in the late twenty-first century.”
“Same thing,” said Will’s mum. “The present World leader is a
programme: President Adidas the 42nd. ‘Corporate wisdom for a better
world’.”
“Hmm,” went Will. “Well, that may be as may be, but there was a time
when the world was run by human beings. And in the days of Queen
Victoria, there were many wonderful things. Wonderful art and wonderful
architecture. And books that were written by people.”
“I once had a book,” said Will’s mum, finally beginning work on her
baconettes. “I liked the pictures in that.”
“That was not a book,” her husband told her. “That was a manual, for
the home screen’s remote control.”
“I’ve seen books,” said Will. “And I’ve read them too. I’ve been to the
British Library.”
“The boy is just full of surprises.” Will’s dad held out his cup for further
coffee. “But you can call up books on the home screen.”
“Not like these Victorian books. I’ve read The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes. The works of Oscar Wilde. And amazing books by H. G. Wells,
Jules Verne and Edgar Allen Poe. I go every lunchtime. I have a special
pass because I work at the Tate. I can’t touch the actual books, but they’re
all on digital.”
“I’m amazed,” said Will’s dad. “But surely you should be on your way to
work now?”
“Indeed, yes.” Will finished his coffee and rose from his special chair.
“Off to work. Off to the art and the literature of the past.”
“He’s a weirdo,” said Will’s mum.
“He’s not,” said Will’s dad. “He’s simply Will.”

Will togged up in sufficient protective outerwear to ensure the prolongation
of his existence and bade his farewells to his mother and father. He would
have taken the lift to the ground floor, had it been working. But it wasn’t
working. It was broken yet again, and so Will was forced to trudge down
the many, many stairs, no easy feat in a chem-proof suit that was many,
many sizes too large, before braving the acid rain and plodding through it
to the tram station.
Once inside he passed through decontamination – a hose-down,
followed by a big blow-dry – then he raised his weather dome to admit an