"The Sympathy Society" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

СFinancially, nothing.Т

СYou mean there are no fees at all?Т

СLet me put it this way. I do expect some output from all of the people we help. I'll explain it you when you come to see us.Т

СYou sound pretty confident that I will.Т

СWe word our advertisement very carefully. It appeals only to those who we can genuinely help.Т

It started to rain again. Martin couldn't see it through the blind, but he could hear the castanet-clatter of water on the concrete outside.

СTell me how to reach you,Т he said.

The taxi dropped him off by a sagging green-painted gate, at the end of a driveway that was made almost impassable to motor vehicles by its overgrown laurel-bushes. His feet crunched up the wet pea-shingle until eventually a redbrick Victorian house came into view. Its windows were black and empty, and one of its side-walls was streaked green with lichen. Three enormous ravens were strutting on the lawn, but they flapped away when they saw him coming, and settled on the roof instead, like three bad omens.

Martin went to the front door and rang the bell. He waited for two or three minutes but nobody answered, so he rang it again. He couldn't hear it ringing anywhere in the house. A corroded brass knocker hung in the center of the door, with the face of a hooded monk. He banged it twice, and waited some more.

At last the door opened. Martin was confronted by a white-faced young woman with her hair twisted on top of her head in a messy but elaborate bun. She wore a simple gray smock and grubby white socks.

СYou must be Martin,Т she said. She held out her hand. СI'm Sylvia.Т

СHello, Sylvia. I wasn't sure I'd come to the right house.Т

СOh, you have, Martin. Believe me, you have. Come inside.Т

Martin followed her into a huge gloomy hallway that smelled of frying onions and lavender floor-polish. On the right-hand side of the hallway, a wide staircase ran up to a galleried landing, where there was a high stained-glass window in ambers and browns and muted blues. It depicted two hooded monks in prayer and a third figure in a thick coat that looked as if it were made of dead stoats and weasels and water-rats, all sewn together, their mouths open, their legs lolling. This figure had its back turned, so that it was impossible to see who it was meant to be.

Sylvia led Martin along the hallway until they reached a large sitting-room at the back of the house. It was wallpapered and furnished in brown, with two dull landscapes on the walls. Here sat three others - two men and a woman. They turned around as Martin came in, and one of them, a silver-haired man in a baggy brown cardigan, stood up and held out his hand. The other man remained where he was, black-haired, with deep black rings under his eyes, hunched in his big worn-out armchair. The woman was standing by the window with a cup of milky coffee in her hand. She was so thin that she was almost transparent.

СGeoffrey,Т said the silver-haired man, shaking Martin's hand. СBut you can call me Sticky, my dear. Mary always did. Ardent stamp-collector, that's why.Т

СSticky - the stamp-collector who came unhinged,Т put in the black-haired man, in a West Country accent.

Sticky gave Martin a tight little smile. СThis is Terence. Someнtimes Terence is extremely cordial but most of the time Terence is extremely offensive. Still, we've learned to take him as he comes.Т

СWhat he means is, they've learned to keep their gobs shut,Т said Terence.

Sticky ignored him. СOver here - this is Theresa. She used to be a very fine singer, you know. Cheltenham Ladies' Chorus.Т Theresa gave Martin an almost imperceptible nod of her head. СIt's a pity,Т said Sticky. СShe hasn't sung a single note since she lost her family.Т

Terence said, СWhere's the pity in that? I haven't plowed a single furrow and you haven't stuck in a single stamp, and Sylvia hasn't strung together a single necklace. There has to be a reason for doing things, doesn't there? A reason. And none of us here has a single reason for breathing, let alone singing.Т

СCome on, Terence,Т Sticky chided him. СYou know we do. You know what we're here for, all of us.Т

At that moment another door opened on the opposite side of the sitting-room, and a tall man entered, leaning on a walking-stick. He was very thin, almost emaciated, with steel-gray hair scraped back from his forehead, and a nose as sharp as an ax. His eyes were so pale that they looked as if all of the colour had been leached out of them by experience and pain. A triangular scar ran across his left cheek and disappeared into his hairline.

He wore a black double-breasted suit with unfashionably flappy lapels. As he walked into the room, Martin had the impression that beneath his clothes, his body was all broken and dislocated. It was the way he balanced and swiveled as he made his way across the carpet.

СMartin,Т he said, in a voice like glasspaper. СYou'll forgive me for not shaking hands.Т