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.Applause.A youth dragged a floreate pianointo the swelling parade, making placatory gestures to me to hold back whilehe made it.Wearily I waved him on.That said it all Lovejoy, hot-rodding toescape, overtaken by a pianoforte.A poet declaimed from a girl s shoulders.She was dressed as a skeleton and clutched an anchor. See what I mean? Our girl was bitter. A waste of political potential. Shesuddenly burst out laughing.The Mawdslay stank sweetly from her smoking.Ohdear.And Dobson s gaunt face among the pavement mobs. Lovejoy. I see him, Dutchie. He was hurrying along the pavement, quickening when we could make a yard ortwo, dawdling in each hiatus.One overcoated bloke was with him.As long as westayed with the carnival& A group of tumblers formed a sudden arch.The paradetrundled beneath, to cheers.Our snakeskin girl sang tunelessly, head back. This bint s taking tablets, Tinker croaked, disapproving.To him anybodystoned on drugs is taking tablets. Ahead a regular thumping sounded.A brass band.Correction: a military band,getting closer.Pipes.A cluster of actors froze an instant, took three paces,froze, dressed as vegetables.A pea pod, a cabbage, a possible lentil, aflute-playing celery.Fireworks lit the sky, hitherto the only turn unstoned.A bobby waved us on, veering towards somewhere distantly tall.The thumping ofdrums at long range.Our pink donkey s jazzy band bopped past as we got stuckbehind the piano.I felt clammy.No sign of Dobson and his goon, but one blokewas stock-still on the pavement, keeping his eyes on us even when jostled.Depression and fear fought for my panic-stricken spirit. There s no bleedin notes in that piano, Tinker said. It s Jan the Judge, our snakeskin said, happy herself now. He playssilence.The performance is in its nothingness. What happens if he don t turn up? Tinker was puzzling. Lovejoy.It s the tattoo. Dutchie pointed.Searchlights swept the night.Pipers lined the battlements.A fusillade crackled.Slower and slower.The parade was practically static now.Sweat poured off me.The Mawdslay, inch a minute, was trapped.Exactly as I hadn t wanted, therewas no way for us to go.Behind us bands jigged, actors twisted and danced.Both sides were thronged with acts and noise.Giant puppets milled.Above usstilted actors and balloons.Something shattered the windscreen.Nobodynoticed except me. Hey, your gondola! I grabbed the girl, now floppy-limbed and crooning. Scatter, lads. I was crouching below the dashboard, yelling. Tinker, hopit.Dutchie, stay among a band. I hauled the lass sideways.More glasscracked.The Mawdslay trembled.The bloody donkey trod on my foot.Its bandswayed past. Where? She stood up, peering. Over there, I yelled, fetching her down on me by a yank of her arm.Theshots came from ahead but obliquely, so I spoiled a few syncopations byshoving my way through to the pavement.I couldn t even do that right.I hadPage 100 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlto step over three actors in evening dress in the gutter.A placard announcedthat they were the Drunken Theatre of Leigh.I tugged the snakeskin girlalong, some protection.You penetrate crowds fastest hunched over and buttingalong at waist height.The trouble is you can t see.After a hundred yards adoorway, people shoving inside with such a tidal rip, I got crushed along.Brilliantly lit, wall labels and pseudo-Victorian illumination.Red plush,chandeliers.We were in a foyer.Cinema? Theater? Thickset men in dinnerjackets on the door directing us, me included. No, mate, I said, breathless in my terror sweat. You see, me and my birdare He practically lifted me aside. Dressing room there, laddie.She in theSupper Room? The Music Hall shares the same accommodation. Where? My girl s question was audible.A bell sounded two pulses.Peoplebegan to hurry carrying half-finished drinks.A theater s two-minute bell.Applause burst out upstairs, amid catcalls.A xylophone began.I pulled thedoor.Two girls were just leaving, all spangles and scales. Jesus, one said,disgusted [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Applause.A youth dragged a floreate pianointo the swelling parade, making placatory gestures to me to hold back whilehe made it.Wearily I waved him on.That said it all Lovejoy, hot-rodding toescape, overtaken by a pianoforte.A poet declaimed from a girl s shoulders.She was dressed as a skeleton and clutched an anchor. See what I mean? Our girl was bitter. A waste of political potential. Shesuddenly burst out laughing.The Mawdslay stank sweetly from her smoking.Ohdear.And Dobson s gaunt face among the pavement mobs. Lovejoy. I see him, Dutchie. He was hurrying along the pavement, quickening when we could make a yard ortwo, dawdling in each hiatus.One overcoated bloke was with him.As long as westayed with the carnival& A group of tumblers formed a sudden arch.The paradetrundled beneath, to cheers.Our snakeskin girl sang tunelessly, head back. This bint s taking tablets, Tinker croaked, disapproving.To him anybodystoned on drugs is taking tablets. Ahead a regular thumping sounded.A brass band.Correction: a military band,getting closer.Pipes.A cluster of actors froze an instant, took three paces,froze, dressed as vegetables.A pea pod, a cabbage, a possible lentil, aflute-playing celery.Fireworks lit the sky, hitherto the only turn unstoned.A bobby waved us on, veering towards somewhere distantly tall.The thumping ofdrums at long range.Our pink donkey s jazzy band bopped past as we got stuckbehind the piano.I felt clammy.No sign of Dobson and his goon, but one blokewas stock-still on the pavement, keeping his eyes on us even when jostled.Depression and fear fought for my panic-stricken spirit. There s no bleedin notes in that piano, Tinker said. It s Jan the Judge, our snakeskin said, happy herself now. He playssilence.The performance is in its nothingness. What happens if he don t turn up? Tinker was puzzling. Lovejoy.It s the tattoo. Dutchie pointed.Searchlights swept the night.Pipers lined the battlements.A fusillade crackled.Slower and slower.The parade was practically static now.Sweat poured off me.The Mawdslay, inch a minute, was trapped.Exactly as I hadn t wanted, therewas no way for us to go.Behind us bands jigged, actors twisted and danced.Both sides were thronged with acts and noise.Giant puppets milled.Above usstilted actors and balloons.Something shattered the windscreen.Nobodynoticed except me. Hey, your gondola! I grabbed the girl, now floppy-limbed and crooning. Scatter, lads. I was crouching below the dashboard, yelling. Tinker, hopit.Dutchie, stay among a band. I hauled the lass sideways.More glasscracked.The Mawdslay trembled.The bloody donkey trod on my foot.Its bandswayed past. Where? She stood up, peering. Over there, I yelled, fetching her down on me by a yank of her arm.Theshots came from ahead but obliquely, so I spoiled a few syncopations byshoving my way through to the pavement.I couldn t even do that right.I hadPage 100 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlto step over three actors in evening dress in the gutter.A placard announcedthat they were the Drunken Theatre of Leigh.I tugged the snakeskin girlalong, some protection.You penetrate crowds fastest hunched over and buttingalong at waist height.The trouble is you can t see.After a hundred yards adoorway, people shoving inside with such a tidal rip, I got crushed along.Brilliantly lit, wall labels and pseudo-Victorian illumination.Red plush,chandeliers.We were in a foyer.Cinema? Theater? Thickset men in dinnerjackets on the door directing us, me included. No, mate, I said, breathless in my terror sweat. You see, me and my birdare He practically lifted me aside. Dressing room there, laddie.She in theSupper Room? The Music Hall shares the same accommodation. Where? My girl s question was audible.A bell sounded two pulses.Peoplebegan to hurry carrying half-finished drinks.A theater s two-minute bell.Applause burst out upstairs, amid catcalls.A xylophone began.I pulled thedoor.Two girls were just leaving, all spangles and scales. Jesus, one said,disgusted [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]