"Adam Roberts - Balancing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Robert)

gone quarter past. The thought of the Devil appearing in his bedroom in a
few minutes, of Moira being present, put a forceful pressure of panic onto
Allen's heart. He didn't want that. It was stupid of course, but he didn't
want that. He sat up abruptly.
'I'm going to go get a paper,' he told Moira. She made some non-specific
grunting noise, possibly containing a degree of surprise. Allen never got
up to buy a Saturday paper. He had specifically instructed the newsagent
not to deliver a paper on Saturday, to keep his weekend free from
contamination by the outside world.
But he was up and out of the bedroom, carrying a bundle of clothes in his
arms. He washed rapidly in the bathroom, sponging under his arms and
towelling himself roughly, before dressing in jeans and a sweater.
Twenty-five minutes past. Would the Devil appear here, in his bathroom, if
he simply waited another five minutes? But the thought of summoning him
into the house at all was unsettling to Allen. Better to meet him on
neutral territory. You don't really believe that nonsense, do you, said
his scoffing inner-voice. As if you're really going to meet the Devil.
Nonetheless, he was down the stairs and letting the door snick gently shut
behind him before the half hour. The air was clean, the sky a fresh
blue-colour. Cars hummed past.
As he walked along the road, in the general direction of the shops, he saw
a smudge of brown in the middle distance. Should have put in his contacts,
perhaps. But as he approached the figure resolved itself in vision into a
man in a long brown coat, with a small woollen cap, sitting on a bench at
the roadside. Behind him, in the blurred green of the park, birds whirred
and scurried through the air. Bluebirds were perched on the railings
behind the bench.
'Good morning,' said Allen, suddenly feeling very nervous.
The Devil was on his feet in his instantaneous, rather disconcerting
fashion. 'And good morning to you,' he said, sweeping his hand in front of
him. 'So nice to see that the ordinary politenesses have not completely
perished from the earth.'
Allen stood in front of him. Seeing him again, there was something
intensely familiar about his long pale face, his serious sleepy-looking
eyes.
'So,' said the Devil. 'Have you made up your mind?'
'Yes,' said Allen, his heart suddenly trotting and his head going queerly
light. He thought again of the pleasure. Of being the conduit for the
greatest of pleasures. 'I have decided,' he said in a clear, small voice,
'to accept your offer.'
'I'm so pleased,' said the Devil.
He seemed to be smiling. Is that good? thought Allen. Should he be so
pleased? Had Allen let himself into a world of pain, was that why the
Devil was smiling? Or was he smiling only because his offer had been
accepted? It would presumably have been galling to have had his offer
simply rebuffed, after going to all this trouble. And the voice still
nagged: why had he gone to so much trouble in the first place?
Allen's mouth was dry. He ran his fingers nervously through his hair. Now
it was going to happen. It was going to happen right here, right now.
'Should I sit down for this?' he asked, indicating the park bench.