"ferryman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Eric)

The constable handed over a sheaf of papers, which Lincoln duly signed and passed back. "I'll be on my way, Mr Lincoln," the constable said. "See you later." He waved and climbed into his squad car.

One of the farmer's daughters hurried from the house. "You'll stay for a cup of tea?"

Lincoln was about to refuse, then realised how cold he was. "Yes, that'd be nice. Thanks."

He followed her into a big, stone-flagged kitchen, an Aga stove filling the room with warmth.

He could tell that she had been crying. She was a plain woman in her mid-thirties, with the stolid, resigned appearance of the unfortunate sibling left at home to help with the farm work.

He saw the crucifix on a gold chain around her neck, and then noticed that her temple was without an implant. He began to regret accepting the offer of tea.
He sat at the big wooden table and wrapped his hands around the steaming mug. The woman sat down across from him, nervously meeting his eyes.

"It happened so quickly. I can hardly believe it. He had a weak heart - we knew that. We told him to slow down. But he didn't listen."

Lincoln gestured. "He was implanted," he said gently.

She nodded, eyes regarding her mug. "They all are, my mother, brothers and sisters." She glanced up at him, something like mute appeal in her eyes. "It seems that all the country is, these days."

When she looked away, Lincoln found his fingers straying to the outline of his own implant.

"But..." she whispered, "I'm sure things were... I don't know - better before. I mean, look at all the suicides - thousands of people every month take their lives..." She shook her head, confused. "Don't you think that people are less... less concerned now, less caring?"

"I've heard Cockburn's speeches. He says something along the same lines."

"I agree with him. To so many people this life is no longer so important. It's something to be got through, before what follows."

How could he tell her that he felt this himself?

He said, "But wasn't that what religious people thought about life, before the change?"

She stared at him as if he were an ignoramus. "No! Of course not. That might have been what atheists thought religious people felt... But we love life, Mr Lincoln. We give thanks for the miracle of God's gift."

She turned her mug self-consciously between flattened palms. "I don't like what's happened to the world. I don't think it's right. I loved my father. We were close. I've never loved anyone quite so much." She looked up at him, her eyes silver with tears. "He was such a wonderful man. We attended church together. And then they came," she said with venom, "and everything changed. My father, he..." she could not stop the tears now, "he believed what they said. He left the Church. He had the implant, like all the rest of you."

He reached out and touched her hand. "Look, this might sound strange, coming from me, but I understand what you're saying. I might not agree, but I know what you're experiencing."

She looked at him, something like hope in her eyes. "You do? You really do? Then..." She fell silent, regarding the scrubbed pine table-top. "Mr Lincoln," she said at last, in a whispered entreaty, "do you really have to take him away?"
He sighed, pained. "Of course I do. It was his choice. He chose to be implanted. Don't you realise that to violate his trust, his choice..." He paused. "You said you loved him. In that case respect his wishes."

She was slowly shaking her head. "But I love God even more," she said. "And I think that what is happening is wrong."

He drained his tea with a gesture of finality. "There'll be a religious service of your choice at the Station in two days' time," he said.

"And then... what then, Mr Lincoln?"

"Then he'll be taken, healed. In six months the process will be complete."

"Then he'll come back?"