"Greg Egan - Scatter My Ashes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

smirked at the cleverness of her sarcasm. I kept my mouth shut for the rest
of the evening. In the taxi home, though, I couldn't help muttering a vague,
clumsy insult about Neanderthal fascists who revelled in torture. Wendy
laughed and put an arm around my waist. тАЬJealousy really becomes you,тАЭ she
said. I couldn't think of an intelligent reply. That night, we witnessed a
particularly brutal robbery. A taxi pulled up across the road, and the
passengers dragged the driver out and kicked him in the head until he was
motionless. They virtually stripped him naked searching for the key to his
cashbox, then they smashed his radio, slashed his tyres, and stabbed him in
the stomach before walking off, whistling Rossini. Once Wendy had drifted back
to sleep, I crept out of the bedroom and phoned for an ambulance. I nearly
went outside to see what I could do, but thought: if I move him, if I even
just try to stop the bleeding, I'll probably do more harm than good, maybe
manage to kill him with my well-intentioned incompetence. End up in court.
I'd be crazy to take the risk. I fell asleep before the ambulance arrived. By
morning there wasn't a trace of the incident. The taxi must have been towed
away, the blood washed off the road by the water truck. A sixth child had
vanished. I returned to the lake, but found it was deserted. I dipped my hand
in the water: it was oily, and surprisingly warm. Then I drove back home, cut
out the relevant articles, and taped them into place on the wall. As I did so,
the jigsaw puzzle dream flooded into my mind, with the dizzying power of d├йj├а
vu. I stared at the huge grey mosaic, almost expecting it to change before my
eyes, but then the mood passed and I shook my head and laughed weakly. The
door opened. I didn't turn. Someone coughed. I still didn't turn. тАЬExcuse
me.тАЭ It was a man in his mid-thirties, I'd say. Balding slightly, but with a
young, open face. He was dressed like an office worker, in a white shirt with
the cuffs rolled up, neatly pressed black trousers, a plain blue tie. тАЬWhat
do you want?тАЭ тАЬI'm sorry. I knocked on the front door, and it was ajar. Then I
called out twice.тАЭ тАЬI didn't hear you.тАЭ тАЬI'm sorry.тАЭ тАЬWhat do you want?тАЭ тАЬCan
I look? At your walls? Oh, there! The Marsden Mangler! I wonder how many
people remember him today. Five years ago there were two thousand police
working full time on that case, and probably a hundred reporters scurrying
back and forth between the morgue and the night club belt. You know, half the
jury fainted when they showed slides at the trial, including an abattoir
worker.тАЭ тАЬNobody fainted. A few people closed their eyes, that's all. I was
there.тАЭ тАЬWatching the jury and not the slides, apparently.тАЭ тАЬWatching both.
Were you there?тАЭ тАЬOh, yes! Every day without fail.тАЭ тАЬWell, I don't remember
you. And I got to know most of the regular faces in the public gallery.тАЭ тАЬI
was never in the public gallery.тАЭ He crossed the room to peer closely at a
Sunday paper's diagram detailing the modus operandi of the Knightsbridge
Knifeman. тАЬThis is pretty coy, isn't it? I mean, anybody would think that the
female genitalia тАФтАЭ I glared at him, and he turned his attention to something
else, smiling a slight smile of tolerant amusement. тАЬHow did you find out
about my collection of clippings?тАЭ It wasn't something that I boasted about,
and Wendy found it a bit embarrassing, perhaps a bit sick. тАЬCollection of
clippings! You mustn't call it that! I'll tell you what this room is: it's a
shrine. No lesser word will do. A shrine.тАЭ I glanced behind me. The door was
closed. I watched him as he read a two-page spread on a series of unsolved
axe murders, and though his gaze was clearly directed at the print, I felt as
if he was staring straight back at me. Then I knew that I had seen him before.