"Gwyneth Jones - A North Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones Gwyneth)

smile. "Time to get the hell out of here," he said. "I'm done."
"The hell is right," said Camilla, glancing and averting her eyes.
"Why so squeamish? I have to live, don't I?"
"I can see why you want to leave!"
He put on his sunglasses, and grinned at her. "No one ever knows. I'm careful."
"Good, because I'm not done. I haven't finished. Not yet."
The dark lenses gave back a double image of her face, so richly shadowed, it's a
shame she needs another partner. But two predators can't feed on each other. This is
their eroticism, these tastes and smells, this contact at a remove: and it still thrills her.
Sheridan always comes first, true. But Camilla likes it that way.
"Go, sister," says Sheridan, the big teenager. "You look like you need a fix."


The car had been repaired. It arrived back at the B&B that evening. They
announced their departure the next morning, and settled the bill. Noreen was very
sorry to see them go, but she made no fond farewells in front of Camilla's ersatz
husband. Camilla conveyed, by a sad glance or two, that the sudden decision was
not her own; and that she wished they could say goodbye more warmly. She got up
about an hour after midnight, Sheridan peacefully unconscious. The sheets, although
freshly changed, still had that bad-laundry smell. How does she do it? wondered
Camilla, wrapping herself in an elegant blue and white kimono. Poor Noreen is a
genius of poor housekeeping, of meagre portionsтАж She went into the ensuite and
checked her face. Good God, even the electricity in the mean fluorescent tube seems
to come straight from the North Pole. Tiny crow's feet around her eyes, lines
between her brows, is that a broken vein? Can't be! Never mind. Soon, soon this
washed-out hag will disappear. The mirrors of civilization will restore Camilla's
beauty, infused with fresh magic. For a last thrill, she walked the immeasurably ugly,
pine-varnished passageways of the big lumpen house, possessing it like a ghost.
American couples snore peacefully behind their brass number-plates, dreaming of
Blarney Castle and the Rock of Cashel. Noreen shares a room and a bed with Jonas,
with baby Roisin in her cot. The baby, for a wonder, is not grizzling. But the house
is unquiet.
Camilla followed a trail of sound тАФ buzzes and clicks and muted thunderclaps.
Silently, she opened a door and saw the BMX boy there in the shadows, with his
back to her, lost in contemplation of the graphics on his TV screen. His little hands
were moving incessantly, clicketty clicketty clicketty. Camilla knew the names of all
the children. This one was Declan, the ten-year-old, fortunately immune to the virus
that's going round. He's actually a little young for that virus: the bud not quite
bursting, the sap not yet on the rise, but he'd be immune anyway. There are rules.
She slipped into the room and stood behind him, wondering about passions that she
did not share. She was standing so close, it was amazing that the child didn't turn
around. Over his shoulder she could see her own face reflected on the screen,
clearly visible within the racetrack image.
Declan turned and saw nothing (an adult woman, a mother, a featureless conduit).
Without changing expression, he turned back and resumed his game.
Shuddering with horror, Camilla retreated: and that's Noreen's diet. That's all the
feeding her poor starved soul ever gets.
She went down to the TV Lounge, feeling morally justified. I'm not a bad person.
Not entirely greedy. I give as well as take! A quarter of an hour, and Noreen
appeared, red-faced with sleep, her crop-head tousled, bundled up in a dreadful