"Shaun Hutson - Stolen Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hutson Shaun)

PART ONE
Hell is for children.
And you shouldn't have to pay for your love
With your bones and your flesh
Pat Benatar
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with
years?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
One
If he hurried, he might just make it, thought Peter Hyde as he scuttled across
the crowded concourse of Euston Station. He glanced at his watch, apologising
as he bumped into a woman dragging a large suitcase on a set of wheels. It
looked as if she was taking the luggage for a walk, Hyde mused, weaving his
way through the maze of bodies which thronged the busy area.
He was torn between the options of using his briefcase as a weapon to clear a
path through the milling throng or holding it close to him in case he
accidentally struck anyone with it. Ahead of him he saw a young man with an
enormous back-pack turn and slam into an older man in a grey suit who was
sweating profusely, perspiration beading on his bald head. The suited man
slapped angrily at the back-pack and marched towards the platforms.
Hyde glanced beyond him and saw what he sought.
He had minutes if he was lucky.
Would there be time?
He pushed past two porters who were standing pointing at the huge departures
and arrivals board which towered over the concourse and he heard them speaking
loudly to a foreigner who was having difficulty understanding their accents.
Hyde thought that it would have been hard enough for someone English to
decipher the words of the porters, jabbering away as they were in a curious
combination of South Asian tinged Cockney.
Not far now.
Another few yards and he should make it.
He saw his objective come into view.
Up above him, the huge clock on the board clicked round to 18.00 hours.
Now or never.
The doors were actually closing before him.
Hyde slipped through the narrow gap and smiled broadly at the assistant in the
Knickerbox shop.
'I know you're closing,' he said, smiling even more broadly. 'I won't keep you
two minutes.'
The assistant, a girl in her teens wearing an enormous pair of Doc Martens,
nodded and returned to her till where she was cashing up.
Hyde glanced around the rails at the array of silk and cotton underwear.
He began to browse.
He knew that Maggie loved silk. He wasn't averse to the feel of it himself.
Especially when it was wrapped around his wife's slender form. He smiled to
himself as he gently rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger,
running approving eyes over the range of lingerie.
Basques, body suits, camisoles and knickers.
Heaven, he thought, almost laughing aloud.
He selected a camisole in burgundy.