"Eric The Pie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

Deborah wriggled and giggled. Sandy giggled from the next office. 'It's hot. Thought you might like it, that's all.'

'Well...' said Eric, staring at Deborah's stocking-tops, starнing at the flesh that bulged from Deborah's thighs.

They sat outside the Blue Anchor watching half-a-dozen small boys play cricket. Eric drank two halves of cider and pecked at a packet of criaps. Deborah drank gin-and-orange and chattered incessantly.

'Sandy says you're a mystery man,' she giggled.

'Oh, yes?'

'Sandy says you're probably a spy or something.'

'No, I'm not a spy.'

'You're a mystery, though, aren't you?'

'I don't think so. I just believe in living my life my own way, that's all.'

'And what way's that?'

He stared at her. She hadn't realised before now how dreadfully pale he was. He smelled, too. He gave off the strangest of smells. It was sweet, yet sickening. A bit like a gas-leak. She hadn't smelled anything like it since a starling had died in her bedroom chimney.

'You can come and see my flat if you like,' he told her. 'Then I'll show you.'

They finished their drinks and took the bus to Eric's flat. The sun was almost gone. Eric seemed to be peculiarly cheerнful, and he strode along with his hands in his pockets and Deborah found it almost impossible to keep up with him.

They reached the mews. It was silent and deserted. Mr Bristow's Standard Twelve but no Mr Bristow

'He's probably inside, having his tea,' Eric remarked.

'Who?' asked Deborah. She had laddered one of her stockнings and she was growing worried.

'Sandy thinks I'm a mystery man, does she? Well she should come and see this.'

Eric unlocked the garage door and took hold of Deborah's hand and guided her inside. It was so dark that she couldn't see anything at all. Eric let go of her hand and she stood breathless not knowing what to do. But then the garage doors collided behind her, and locked, and Eric switched on the light.

He folded his glasses and set them on top of his trousers. He was white, ribby, blue-veined, but his penis stood out erect and very dark.

Deborah tried to scream, but he had gagged her so tightly that she could only shout mfff, mfff, mfff. He approached her, drawing aside the hooks and chains that dangled down from every beam on the ceiling, and peered at her from only six or seven inches away. She could smell his breath; and it smelled of unspeakable decay.

He had taken off all her clothes except for her stockings and garter-belt and he had tied her in a sitting position in his bentwood chair. He had criss-crossed her breasts with thin cord so that they bulged in diamond patterns. He peered shortsightedly between her leg and then reached out to touch her, but she mfff'd! with such ferocity that he hesitated.

'I've never seen a real girl naked before.'

She tried to scream at him to let her go; but he suddenly turned away, with apparent disinterest. But then he turned back again, and he was holding a craft-knife in his hand.

'You are what you eat, Deborah. Can't argue with that. Cakes, Mars bars, you are what you eat. I always used to think that if I ate too many pies, I'd turn into a pie! Can you imagine that? Eric the Pie!'

He took the triangular-bladed craft-knife, and touched the point of it against her skin, just below the breast-bone. She saw the knife, his smile, his blue-cheese skin.