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

asking for The Times or the latest science fiction magazine; there was even one
twerp who, without glancing at the stock, enquired about first editions of James
Branch Cabell. (Peter had wondered for a moment whether this was an esoteric code
phrase.) Although you knew where you were in the shop and could laugh a little at
the customers' feelings, Monday stretched unbearably, each minute longer than the
one before, until it was a surprise to see Benson fussing browsers out of the back
room and putting an end to the day's literary business.
The bus was crowded, and stank. The tube was worse. The second bus was
less oppressive, rush-hour being past: Peter reached Treetops in good time, perhaps
too soon, since he hadn't a very clear idea of what to say.
It was a chubby Victorian mansion, its red and yellow brick impeccably clean;
the only tree in sight, though, was some way down the road. A middle-aged woman
in a nurse's cap opened the door, her stern aspect launching Peter prematurely into
his Me: "Come to visit Doctor -- er -- Miss Barry. She was a friend of my uncle's
and I thought I, well, I ought to..."
Her answering smile was like sunlight breaking through forbidding cloud. He
read surprised approval, no doubt at finding such nice sentiments in a scruffy youth.
 "If you'll just come this way."
The wide hallway smelt of boiled cabbage, only slightly tinged with the
inevitable antiseptic. Thick, glossy cream paint covered every surface. Peter
followed the nurse up noisy, varnished wooden stairs as she explained in an
undertone that Miss Barry sometimes had a little difficulty, if he knew what she
meant. "The poor thing wanders sometimes."
Peter wasn't prepared for the room at the top of the stairs. The words "private
nursing home" had conjured up images of personal, individual care and attention in
comfortably private rooms. This room, whose door said "Hope," was comfortably
small, but screens divided it into four cramped segments, each with an iron bed,
each bed containing an old woman who lay unmoving. To the boiled-veg and
antiseptic reek was added some other smell, sickly and disagreeable.
"Miss Barry!" said the nurse brightly, speaking loudly and very close to the
third old lady's ear. "It's Peter Edgell, come to visit you!" She added more quietly,
"Ring the bell if there's any trouble," and left.
Peter sat cautiously at the bedside and looked at Janice Barry, whose eyes
stared blankly upwards. She could not possibly be more than seventy, but seemed
far older. They had dwindled in their sockets, those eyes, like jellyfish withered by a
fierce sun; her whole face was shrunken, as though it were a balloon from which a
little too much air had been allowed to escape. Her breathing was noisy.
"Miss... I mean Dr. Barry?" No response, but he couldn't stop now, right on
the verge of something or other. His newest lie followed straight away. "Do you
remember Owen Walker, back in Lambertstow, used to come to you? I'm his
nephew, and there was this rumor, I heard he'd been suspected of... what happened
there. It was all a long time ago, but I was wondering if maybe you could help me
clear things up a bit."
It really did sound feeble. But some trace of animation had crept over the old
woman's face at the mention of Lambertstow. Peter bent closer and made himself
repeat his non-question. This time the eyes moved... and behind them he read
something wary and knowing.
I have the edge on her. She knows something and she can't hide it from me.
This is the start.
"You... No one has talked to me about that for a good many years," she said