"Campbell, Ramsey - The Parasite 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Campbell Ramsey)

`Of course if you're going to make it move -'

`I'm not doing it,' Richard said resentfully.

`Well, somebody must be.' He gazed at each of them in turn. She noticed that his moustache was glistening: with sweat? Nothing he saw in their eyes seemed to please him. `Well, it's certainly not me,' he said, as though denying a bad smell.

The skate faltered acid was still. Richard was glaring -because of the interruption, or because he had ceased to be the leader? `Are we just going to sit here and argue?' he demanded.

`We're supposed to ask questions. What was the name of the fellow who died here?'

'Allen. Mr. Allen.'

`All right.' The moustached boy sat forward like an executive at a conference; perhaps he was imitating a film. `We'll see if it's him.' Slowly and loudly, as though addressing a retarded child, he asked the skate `Are you Mr. Allen?'

He was answered at once, by stifled giggles. He permitted himself a faint smile: the joke was really too childish for him. Only Richard held himself solemn, furiously so. The girl restrained herself from giggling more loudly than the others. Why was she afraid to draw attention to herself? Because the room was so dim?

Again she heard the faint sound, which was perhaps not so deep in the house, after all: a feeble restlessness. A mouse? No, it must be the noise of the skate, made to sound distant by the oppressive atmosphere - for the skate was moving. It turned purposefully and went straight to a square of paper, where it halted.

That seemed comfortingly meaningless. One letter could tell them nothing. Then the girl saw that two additional squares interrupted the alphabet, on opposite sides of the table: YES and NO. NO, the skate had said.

No, it was not Mr. Allen who was advancing through the house, making doors squeak in the downstairs hall and now on the landing. It must be only a draught. But it was not Mr. Allen who had come into the room, whose feeble restlessness was clearly audible now, though its position was obscure. Richard's head turned, searching. Reluctantly he said, `That's what I heard.'

Now the sound was more definable. Yes, it was like someone very old or very ill fumbling about in the dark -excep>' that just as she was close to locating it in one part of the room, it seemed to reappear elsewhere. Her fingers on the skate were paralysed, they felt glued together by sweat, but they were trembling. Neither her hand nor the rest of her body could do anything about her panic.

Perhaps everyone was waiting for somebody else to be the first to flee. Before anyone could move, the skate began turning. Though their arms were heavy with exhaustion and nerves, it was quicker now, more efficient. I AM, it spelled rapidly.

The moustached boy sat forward, awaiting the rest of the message. His free hand wiped his glistening moustache. The others watched unwillingly as the skate dragged their hands about the table. When it had finished they sat stiffly, not daring to remark on the message in case that lent it power. Only the moustached boy mouthed it silently, frowning: I AM EVERYWHERE IN HERE.

`I think we'd better go,' stammered the wispy boy. His last word sprang into falsetto, but nobody laughed. Nor did anyone move, for the formless sounds were groping about the room, hemming them in. Headlamps slipped rectangles of light into the room; the rectangles turned into gliding parallelograms and vanished. The girl kept her gaze away from the light, for it might make the source of the groping visible.

The skate darted into the centre again, and dodged about the table. Its swiftness seemed almost gleeful. One of the girls was sobbing dryly and incessantly; it sounded as though she was choking. The skate picked out its message deftly, then rested beneath the crowd of their fingertips. DO AS YOURE TOLD, it had said.

A wave of resentment, violent as electricity, flashed through the group. `Fuck that,' said Ken, whom the young girl had yet to hear speak. His voice proved to be high and thin, unsuited to the protest; it breathed out beer, the smell of bravado. His chair creaked as he made to stand up. The sobbing girl managed to gulp herself space between sobs for words, to cry `Don't let go!'

Perhaps she believed that while the presence was occupied in spelling messages it would be unable to do worse. And indeed, the sound of unlocated fumbling had ceased - but the young girl felt it had only come to rest. She thought she could hear the faintest of shiftings, like the movements which betray the serenity of a cat as it prepares to leap on its prey. She dared not look.

In any case, she had to watch the skate, for it was darting urgently about the table. Their fingertips clung to it as though it was their sole protection from the dark. Before the message had ended, the girl was seized by a fit of trembling. Everyone stared at the table, unwilling to meet anyone else's eyes. She felt as though her hand was trying to shake her body to pieces. The message was expanding in -her mind, like an after-image in sudden and absolute darkness.

ALL EXCEPT ONE GO OUT.

`Oh, that's too fucking much,' Ken protested. `That's just fucking stupid.' He was speaking at the top of his voice - to impress them, or himself, or someone else entirely? His piping voice was scrawny in the dark. Nevertheless Richard, at whom he was glaring, turned defensive. `I didn't make it say that,' he retorted. `I'd have said who the one had to be, wouldn't I?'

At once, as though it had been waiting for his cue, the skate pounced. It rushed towards the bed, sweeping letters to the floor, jerking their arms with such force that Weedy felt against the young girt. Weedy began shuddering as though with fever - for the skate was pointing straight at her.

`No,' Weedy cried. `I won't. I won't.' She sounded hardly able to form the words. She managed to stumble to her feet, and fled towards the landing. The young girl struggled away from the wispy boy, who shook himself impatiently free of her.

As she sat up, regaining the place from which Weedy had elbowed her, she realized that the skate was pointing directly at her.

Wendy's flight had released the others. They retreated from the table as though it was diseased. None of them glanced at the young girl; indeed, they seemed to have forgotten her - for in their haste they shoved the table against her, knocking her backwards on the bed.