"Ian McDonald - Some Strange Desire" - читать интересную книгу автора (McDonald Ian)

quizzical angle on the rain-wet metal. Complete motor paralysis.
I am already halfway down the fire escape. Flat shoes. No heels. I have it all
planned. As I had thought, bundling him into the passenger seat is the hardest
part of the operation. I think I may have broken a finger wresting the keys from
him. It will be academic, soon enough. As I drive up through Bethnal Green and
Hackney to Epping Forest I pass at least twenty other white BMWs. I sample his
CD selection, then scan across the AM wavebands until I find some anonymous
Benelux station playing hits from the forties. Childhood tunes stay with you all
your life. I chat to him as we drive along. It is a rather one-sided
conversation. But I do not think he would have been much of a conversationalist
anyway. It is really coming down, the wipers are on high speed by the time we
arrive at the car park. I shall get very wet. Another crime against you, goi.
It is wonderful how much can be expressed by eyes alone. Anger, incomprehension,
helplessness. And, as I pull the syringe out of my belt-pouch, terror. I tap the
cylinder a couple of times. I can tell from his eyes he has never seen so much
in one needle before. He may consider himself honored. We have our own discreet
sources, but we, like you, pay a price. I squat over him. He will take the image
of who I am into the dark with him. Such is my intention.
"Hear these words: you do not touch us, you do not harass us, you do not try to
recruit us or bully us into your stable. We are tesh, we are older and more
powerful than you could possibly imagine. We have been surviving for centuries.
Centuries."
He cannot even flinch from the needle.
I find a sheltered spot among the bushes and crushed flat lager cans, away from
the steamed-up hatchbacks, and go into tletchen. I strip. I dress in the denims
and shell-suit top I brought in my backpack. I stuff the rainsoaked clothes in
around the hru-tesh. I go to the cardphone half a mile down the road and call a
minicab to pick me up at the pub nearby and take me back to Shantallow Mews. The
driver is pleased at the generosity of the tip. It is easy to be generous with
the money of people who have no further use for it.
The hru-tesh goes back to its place under the hall floor-boards. Rest there for
a long time, beautiful device. The unused needles go into the kitchen sink to
melt and run and lose themselves in the sewers of London town. The soaked
clothes go into the machine, the jacket will need dry cleaning. I make tea for
my sister, bring it to him on the Harrods tray with the shelduck on it.
The only light in the room is from the portable television at the foot of the
bed. The remote control has slipped from his hand. His fingers rest near the
"mute" button. Late-night/early morning horror. Vampires, werewolves, Freddies.
A little saliva has leaked from his lips onto the pillow. So peaceful. On the
pale blue screen, blood is drunk, limbs dismembered, bodies chain-sawn apart. I
want that peace to last a little longer before I wake him. By the light of the
screen I move around the room setting the watches and wards, the little shrines
and votaries to the Five Lords of the tesh that keep spiritual watch around my
sister. Pere Teakbois the Balancer, Tulashwayo Who Discriminates, File' Legbe'
Prince of the Changing Ways, Jean Tombibie' with his bulging eyes and hands
crossed over replete belly, Saint Semillia of the Mercies: the five hahndahvi. I
trim wicks, tap ash from long curls of burned incense, pour small libations of
beer and urine. I may not believe that hahndahvi are the literal embodiments of
the character of the Universe, I have lived long enough among the goi to know
the Universe is characterless, faceless. But I do believe power resides in