"Greg Egan - Mind Vampires" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

Mind VampiresMind Vampires by Greg Egan тАЬNeighbourhood WatchтАЭ | тАЬScatter My
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Framed Site Map There are moments when my mind misses a beat. I find
myself, in mid-step or mid-breath, feeling as if delivered abruptly into my
body after a long absence (spent where, I could not say), or a long,
dreamless sleep. I lose not my memory, merely my thread. My attention has
inexplicably wandered, but a little calm introspection restores my context
and brings me peace. Almost peace. I suppose I am a detective, a private
investigator, for why else would I be prowling the corridors of a posh girls'
boarding school, softly past the doors of the dark-breathing dormitories? I
suppose the headmistress rang me, hysterical. I'm sure that's right. She was
sixty-two and had begun to menstruate again. What a surprise for her, what a
strange shock. No wonder she went straight to the telephone and dialled my
number. She was calm in her office when I arrived in person, if a little
embarrassed. Women have problems, she said. These things do happen, she
explained. Rarely, but one cannot attach any significance. I find it very
irritating to be told one minute to hurry and the next to get lost; I could
have shrugged and walked out, abandoned her right then, but I have my code of
ethics. My reputation. My pride. For her sake, for the sake of those in her
charge, I frightened her into hiring me. I described the next few stages to
her. Prepubescent girls, even infants and newborn babes, would also start to
menstruate. Sweat, tears, saliva, urine, mother's milk and semen would all
turn to blood. Dead rats and birds would be found everywhere. Water pipes
would issue blood, and every container of any kind of fluid, from
disinfectant to dye, from vinegar to varnish, from wine to window-cleaner,
would be brimming with blood. There is definitely no semen on school premises,
she said. I think she was trying to make a joke. I showed her a colour
photograph from a previous case, the kind the police don't like me carrying
about. She turned pale and then wiped the perspiration from her face with (oh
yes) a white lace handkerchief, which she carefully examined for any trace of
red. Then she signed. New England. Connecticut? How? Young soldiers come home
with bad dreams. Atrocities in a muddy trench, a bloody trench. Young soldiers
who would rather be dead than return to their friends and families bearing
this European curse. A horrible embrace, a horrible feast. Much better to
feed the rats and the worms. The smell of the trenches drawing them for
hundreds of miles. They devour the gangrenous parts. Later the healed will
attribute this to the rats. Struggles in the mud, the blood rains down.
Screams are natural enough. Nobody will ever guess, they'll be lost amongst
the shell-shocked. тАЬI'm responsible for the girls. You must be
discreet.тАЭ тАЬDiscreet? There'll be no discretion when the snow turns red.тАЭ I
may be wrong. Sometimes there is no carnival of horrors; fear of detection
dampens their natural flamboyance, their love of dark theatre. But it's a new
moon tonight, the nadir of their strength, and already they have announced
their presence. Whatever shows so little caution is afraid of no one. тАЬYou
mustn't cause a panic.тАЭ Her chin trembled, she pleaded with her eyes. тАЬYou
know what I'm concerned about.тАЭ I knew, all right. тАЬIf there were nothing to
fear but fear itself,тАЭ I said, тАЬwouldn't life be sweet?тАЭ So I prowl the
corridors, watching for signs, preparing for the fight. My reputation is the
highest, I have never lost. My clients shake my hand, hug and kiss me, shower
me with gifts and favours. No wonder. A thin young girl, a somnambulist,