"Keith Brooke - Professionals" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brooke Keith)

Professionals
a short story by Keith Brooke

Foreword
I wrote the first two drafts of this story in March 1994 and then sent it
to Eric Brown for a second opinion. As usual, he spotted a number of flaws
and inconsistencies, which I did my best to put right when I revised the
story a few weeks later. In April I sent the story to Interzone; in May
they accepted it and the story appeared in the August issue.
Initially, the story had the working title "What Makes You Cry?" That
title came from a song by Scottish yob-folkies, The Proclaimers: a man
singing belligerently to a departed lover. He knows she still loves him,
even if she can't or won't acknowledge it.
"Angel admit it, admit it ... your love for me didn't die. It's just
sleeping, and it wakes every night to your weeping."
As with most of my stories, once the plot starts to develop it pretty soon
departs from that original spark, and I ended up opting for the more
direct title the story has now. Originally, I saw the story from River
Brady's viewpoint, but I wanted to step back a bit, so I brought in
Christian Taylor, a shabby private eye figure I first used in the story
"Easy Never Pays", which later became an as yet unsold novel. Christian's
a cynical bastard, but he has good reasons to be that way and I have a
soft spot for him: I see him as a 1990s take on James Bond -- fast
thinking and charming but full of hang-ups and character flaws.
The setting is one I've used in several stories: the Essex port where I
spent the first eighteen years of my life. When I was younger, I used to
be envious of other writers with exotic pasts: they'd seen the world, or
they'd grown up in interesting times and places. I came from a comfortably
middle class family, living in a very ordinary town and it took me a long
time to realise what a rich source of material that background contained.

Professionals

"She still loves me," said River Brady from across the room. Christian
Taylor watched him carefully.
Brady was staring moodily out of a blank window. He was a powerfully built
man with gorgeous black hair all the way down to his knees and a mouth
that seemed somehow wider than his face, but that meant nothing here. "I'm
positive that my wife still loves me." He could control his image but not
the wavering tone of his voice.
Christian raised his eyebrows. They were jet black today, to match his
jacket. He had never been able to take VR seriously in a business context:
he was unable to trust his perceptions, wary of manipulation. He studied
River Brady closely, for what it was worth. It wasn't his place to judge,
but the man was pathetic all the same.
"She just hides it effectively," explained Brady in his soft Toronto
drawl. He turned now and leaned a shoulder against the wall. "I saw her in
town three days ago. She looked happy. It was a hell of an act. But when
she's on her own I'm positive that it's all very different. She was always
like that: a tremendous little actress. She constructs this brittle facade