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

Twenty years before, on television, smiling shyly as they hustled him along,
never quite looking at the camera, but never quite turning away. My eyes
began to water, and a crazy thought filled my head: hadn't I known then,
hadn't I been certain, that the killer would come and get me, that nothing
would stand in his way? That the man had not aged was unremarkable, no, it
was necessary, because if he had aged I would never have recognised him, and
recognition was exactly what he wanted. Recognition was the start of my
fear. I said, тАЬYou might tell me your name.тАЭ He looked up. тАЬI'm sorry. I have
been discourteous, haven't I? But тАФтАЭ (he shrugged) тАЬтАФ I have so many
nicknames.тАЭ He gestured widely with both hands, taking in all the walls, all
the headlines. I pictured the door handle, wondering how quickly I could turn
it with palms stinking wet, with numb, clumsy fingers. тАЬMy friends, though,
call me Jack.тАЭ He easily lifted me over his head, and then somehow (did he
float up off the floor, or did he stretch up, impossibly doubling his
height?) pinned me face-down against the ceiling. Four fangs grew to fill his
mouth, and his mouth opened to fill my vision. It was like hanging over a
living well, and as his distorted words echoed up from the depths, I thought:
if I fall, nobody will ever find me. тАЬTonight you will take my photograph.
Catch me in the act with your brightest flashgun. That's what you want, isn't
it?тАЭ He shook me. тАЬIsn't it?тАЭ I closed my eyes, but that brought visions of a
tumbling descent. I whispered, тАЬYes.тАЭ тАЬYou invoke me and invoke me and invoke
me!тАЭ he ranted. тАЬAren't you ever sick of blood? Aren't you ever sick of the
taste of blood? Today it's the blood of tiny children, tomorrow the blood of
old women, next the blood of тАж who? Dark-haired prostitutes? Teenaged baby
sitters? Blue-eyed homosexuals? And each time simply leaves you more jaded,
longing for something crueller and more bizarre. Can't you sweeten your long,
bland lives with anything but blood? тАЬColour film. Bring plenty of colour
film. Kodachrome, I want saturated hues. Understand?тАЭ I nodded. He told me
where and when: a nearby street corner, at three fifteen. I hit the floor
with my hands out in front of me, jarring one wrist but not breaking it. I
was alone. I ran through the house, I searched every room, then I locked the
doors and sat on the bed, shaking, emitting small, unhappy noises every few
minutes. When I'd calmed down, I went out and bought ten rolls of
Kodachrome. We ate at home that night. I was supposed to cook something,
but I ended up making do with frozen pizzas. Wendy talked about her tax
problems, and I nodded. тАЬAnd what did you do with yourself
today?тАЭ тАЬResearch.тАЭ тАЬFor what?тАЭ тАЬI'll tell you tomorrow.тАЭ We made love. For a
while it seemed like some sort of ritual, some kind of magic: Wendy was
giving me strength, yes, she was fortifying me with mystical energy and
spiritual power. Afterwards, I couldn't laugh at such a ludicrous idea, I
could only despise myself for being able to take it seriously for a moment. I
dreamt that she gave me a shining silver sword. тАЬWhat's it for?тАЭ I asked
her. тАЬWhen you feel like running away, stab yourself in the foot.тАЭ I climbed
out of bed at two. It was utterly freezing, even once I was fully dressed. I
sat in the kitchen with the light off, drinking coffee until I was so bloated
that I could hardly breathe. Then I staggered to the toilet and threw it all
up. My throat and lungs stung, I wanted to curl up and dissolve, or crawl
back to the warm blankets, back to Wendy, to stay hidden under the covers
until morning. As I clicked the front door shut, it was like diving into a
moonlit pool. Being safe indoors was at once a distant memory, lying warm in