"M. John Harrison - Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison John M)

'Who the hell is this?' he said.
'Michael, this is Tim. Tim, this is Michael.'
'Hi,' said Tim. He held out his hand. 'I won't get up.'
'Jesus Christ, Anna,' Kearney said.
He went through to the back room, where a brief search turned up some clean Levis and an old black
leather jacket he had once liked too much to throw away. He put them on. There was also a
cycle-courier bag with the Marin logo on the flap, into which lie began emptying the contents of the little
green chest of drawees. Looking up blankly from this task, he discovered that Anna had washed the
chalked diagrams off the wall above it. He wondered why she would do that. He could hear her talking in
the bedroom. Whenever she tried to explain anything, her voice took on childish, persuasive values. After
a moment she seemed to give up and said sharply, 'Of course I don't! What do you mean?' Kearney
remembered her trying to explain similar things to him. There was a noise outside the door and Tim
poked his head round.
'Don't do that,' Kearney said. 'I'm nervous already.'
'I wondered if I could help?'
'No, thanks.'
'It's just that it's five o'clock in the morning, you see, and you come in here covered in mud.'
Kearney shrugged.
'I see that,' he said. 'I see that.'
Anna stood angrily by the door to watch him out. 'Take care,' he said to her, as warmly as he could.
He was two nights down the stone stairs when he heard her footsteps behind him. 'Michael,' she called.
'Michael.' When he didn't answer, she followed him out into the street and stood there shouting at him in
her bare feet and white nightdress. 'Did you come back for another fuck?' Her voice echoed up and
down the empty suburban street. 'Is that what you wanted?'
'Anna,' he said, 'it's five o'clock in the morning.'
'I don't care. Please don't come here again, Michael. Tim's nice and he really loves me.'
Kearney smiled.
'I'm glad.'
'No, you're not!' she shouted. 'No, you're not!'
Tim came out of the building behind her. He was dressed, and he had his car keys in his hand. He
crossed the pavement without looking at Anna or Kearney, and got into his car. He wound the driver's
window down as if he thought about saying something to one of them, but in the end shook his head and
drove off instead. Anna stared after him puzzledly then burst into tears. Kearney put his arm round her
shoulders. She leaned in to him.
'Or did you come back to kill me,' she said quietly. 'The way you killed all those others?'
Kearney walked off towards the Underground station at Gunnersbury. His phone chirped at him
suddenly, but he ignored it.

Heathrow Terminal 3, hushed after the long night, maintained a slow dry warmth. Kearney bought
underwear and toilet articles, sat in one of the concessions outside the departure lounge reading the
Guardian and taking small sips of a double espresso.
The women behind the concession counter were arguing about something in the news. 'I'd hate to live
forever,' one of them said. She raised her voice. 'There's your change, love.' Kearney, who had been
expecting to see his own name on page two of the paper, raised his head. She gave him a smile. 'Don't
forget your change,' she said. He had found only the name of the woman he had killed in the Midlands;
no one was looking for a Lancia Integrale. He folded the paper up and stared at a trickle of Asians
making their way across the departure lounge for a flight to LAX. His phone chirped again. He took it
out: voicemail.
'Hi,' said Brian Tate's voice. 'I've been trying to get you at horns.' He sounded irritable. 'I had an idea
a couple of hours ago. Give me a ring if you get this.' There was a pause, and Kearney thought the