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

'I don't know if you'll remember her. Sister Ruth Buchanan?'

'Ruth? Christ. You met Ruth. Well, well. That woman had a mouth on her. . .' He poured a shot of whisky into a
well-beaten enamel mug, and downed it in one. 'Nuns talk too much. Ever noticed that?'

'I think that's why there are vows of silence.'

The reply pleased Guthrie. He loosed a short, barking laugh, which he followed with another shot of whisky.
'So what did she say about me?' he asked, peering at the whisky bottle as if to calculate how much solace it had
left to offer.

'Just that you'd talked about extinction. About how you'd seen the last of some animals.'

'I never said anything to her about Rosa and Jacob.'

'No. I just assumed if you'd seen one you might have seen the other.'

'Huh.' Guthrie's face knitted up as he thought this through. Rather than be seen to be studying him - this was not
a man who took kindly to scrutiny - Will crossed to the table to look at the books that were piled upon it. His
approach brought a warning growl from under the table. 'Shut up, Lucy!' Guthrie snapped. The dog hushed its
growl, and came out of hiding to ingratiate herself. She was a sizeable mongrel, with strains of German
Shepherd and Chow in her bloodline, better fed and groomed than her master. She'd brought her bone out with
her, and dutifully carried it to her master's feet.

'Are you English?' Guthrie said, still not looking at Will.

'Born in Manchester. But I was brought up in the Yorkshire Dales.'

'England's always been a little too cosy for me.'

'I wouldn't call the moors cosy,' Will said. 'I mean, it's not wild like this, but when the mists come down and
you're out on the hills-'

'That's where you met them then.'

'Yes. That's where I met them.'

'English bastard,' Guthrie said. Then, finally looking at Will: 'Not you. Steep. Chilly, English bastard.' He spoke
the three words as if cursing the man, wherever he was. 'You know what he called himself?' Will knew. But it
would serve him better, he suspected, if he let his host have the moment. 'The Killer of Last Things,' Guthrie
said. 'He was proud of it. I swear. Proud of it.' He emptied the remnants of the whisky into his mug but didn't
drink. 'So you met Ruth in Mauritius, huh? What were you doing there?'

'Taking pictures. There's a kestrel there looks like it's going to be extinct some time soon.'

'I'm sure it was grateful for your attention,' Guthrie said dryly. 'So what do you want from me? I can't tell you
anything about Steep or McGee. I don't know anything, and if I ever did I put it out of my head. I'm an old man
and I don't want the pain.' He looked at Will. 'How old are you? Forty?'