"David Langford - The Motivation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Langford David)

"Tit pictures," he murmured crossly, after a moment. They could hardly
market stuff, which would look staid on the racks at W. H. Smith. And the girlтАЩs
hairstyle seemed alien: she was dated despite nakedness, with even her shape being
subtly wrong. Models (in or out of quotes) had evolved a leaner, more predatory
look. With waning excitement Peter unearthed poses having all the erotic impact of
Victorian family groups; there were even examples of the forgotten art of the pubic
airbrush. An envelope marked S/M merely disclosed another of these aphrodisiac
lovelies, rendered S/M by the limp whip in her hand.
He flipped faster through the envelopes, not knowing what obscure frisson
he'd hoped to find but increasingly certain that it wasn't here. Near the end, though,
one caption scrawled on brown manila made him pause. LAMBERTSTOW.
Afterwards, Peter had to remind himself strenuously that he didn't believe in
occult premonition. His little extra edge, his half-baked ability to read people's
feelings, was of no more use than a polygraph when confronted with inanimate
paper. The sudden blank chill must have come from the name, its incongruity here,
its short-circuit connection with old memories. Uncle Owen, that was who... and
what would he have thought of young Peter amid the BOOKS AND MAGAZINES?
Uncle Owen had lived in Lambertstow, and something unspeakable had
happened, and mother had wiped the place from her private map -- freezing at any
mention, ignoring her brother's Christmas cards. Yes. More memories trickled back.
In Lambertstow village a name had been added to criminal legend, up there with
Crippen, the various Rippers, the Moors murderers. The name was Quinn and no
one knew quite what he had done.
The envelope contained several smaller ones, white, each with a printed
caption whose indefinable tattiness suggested a hand-operated press. Police
photographs leaked from Lambertstow horror case. Remains of Kenneth Quinn.
Very violent, for strong stomachs only!! Which left Peter uncertain as to whether the
material really was too strong for Benson's hardened clientele, or whether its sale
might stir up police interest.
He wasn't sure that he wanted to peer at a corpse, however photogenic, but
his inquisitive fingers had already turned back the flap and slid out the first
enclosure. A tightening of the gut came even before he could focus on the glossy
print; he had never somehow realized that police photographs would be in color.
(Why was that? Because they were always in black and white in the newspaper. Of
course.) Then he looked at the thing properly, and his first sensation was one of
relief.
What lay on the grass under harsh lights was nothing recognizable as human.
A long Christmas tree decked with exotic fruits and garlands, tinseled with
innumerable points of reflected light; a Dali vision, which through sheer excess, had
gone beyond mutilation and deformity. It was odd; perhaps a little disturbing in its
abstract forms, but at first glance not at all horrific.
It was a pity, really, that Peter took the second glance.
An observation of G. K. Chesterton's caught up with him later: that one might
look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times and be perfectly safe, but to take
the thousandth look was to be in frightful danger of seeing it for the first time. Peter
thought Chesterton had underestimated the safe exposure period, and sincerely
regretted having looked even twice. The second look stirred up dim memories of an
anatomy course at college, or those parts of it he'd attended; with his second look,
he made the fatal error of analysis. It was fascinating, compulsive, to trace the
relation between the long glittering object and what must have been a man; to