"Child Of The Stones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

Like Rainer SueТs house, MirandaТs flat possessed an eerie, empty quiet. There were no wards or traps; apart from a single nest of imps, it had been swept clean. No one came to the door when I knocked. The window beside it was blanked with a lace curtain; inside, the ledge was thick with the husks of flies, which have the same mindless attraction to certain residues as to excrement, rotten food, and corpses.

The door was armed with three cheap locks that took only a couple of minutes to pick. It was hot inside, the air thickened by a stale human smell. The kitchen counter was piled with fast-food containers, pizza boxes, cartons of a generic protein powder, and crushed soft-drink cans; the living room was stacked with loot. Small televisions and portable stereos; video and DVD players; microwaves and laptop computers; dozens of boxes of trainers. The sofa glittered with drifts of CDs and DVDs. A shoebox heavy with loose jewellery and wristwatches sat on top of a pile of neatly folded tracksuits. I imagined Miranda waiting outside a house while a tame imp inspected every room; I imagined her interrogating imps or even ghosts cast off by householders, discovering where spare sets of keys were cached, the codes for alarms.

I steeled myself for the worst, and went towards the place where the little nest of imps was lodged. The door to one bedroom - MirandaТs - was sealed with a padlocked metal bar. The door to the other stood open. It was very dark inside, and smelt worse than the stairwell. Someone lay on the bed, breathing with a steady rasping snore.

I assumed that it was MirandaТs mother, but when I cracked the curtains I saw that it was a man, very thin, heavily bearded, and naked apart from a pair of urine-sodden underpants. Imps of delirium clustered thickly around his head. They were like fat, pale grubs, satiated, sluggish, and as vulnerable as newborn kittens, but it cost me much to disperse them. I had to sit on the edge of the bed afterwards, feeling my blood moving through me, slow and thick. The man was as pale as paper, all bone and sinew, and he stank like a corpse. His hair tangled in greasy ropes around his face. His skin was tight on the bones of his skull. His shallow breath rasped in the black slot of his mouth. As I stared at him, he made a small movement, averting his face as if in shame.

I rinsed grey fur from a coffee mug in the kitchen, fed the man sips of water with my wetted handkerchief. I asked him gently how long he had been held like this. He could not or would not speak, but when I told him the date, tears leaked from his sunken eyes. The insides of his forearms were raw with track marks. Disposable hypodermic syringes in clear plastic envelopes and disposable needles in brown plastic sleeves lay on the bedside table. There was a cellophane wrap of gritty white powder, a bent, blackened spoon, several disposable cigarette lighters, a babyТs bottle. Miranda had kept this man prisoner a long time, quietening him with heroin and the attentions of the imps, feeding him on protein mix. I had a pretty good idea who he must be, and wondered what he had done to her (or what she thought he had done to her) to deserve such a dreadful punishment.

I found a working mobile phone on the kitchen table and used it to make two calls, then made inquiries amongst the neighbouring flats, explaining that I was a private investigator trying to trace Miranda on behalf of lawyers who were administering a small bequest due to her. A garrulous old woman in a bright red wig said that she felt sorry for the girl - her mother had disappeared, and her father was a nasty piece of work. A no-nonsense black woman who stood in her doorway with a small girl embracing her knees and a delicious smell of baking wafting around her, told me she thought that Miranda was living alone, confirmed that her father possessed the skull tattoo I had seen on the shoulder of the man on the bed, and said that she had not seen him for six months, good riddance as far as she was concerned. She leaned closer and whispered that I should be careful of his daughter, she was a duppy girl. УSpooky little creature. Give you a look like she want to try stop your heart, you know?Ф

I said that I did, and thanked her. As I descended the noisome stairs, I saw a familiar head of auburn hair climbing towards me: it was Liz, the girl Miranda had followed two nights ago. She fled when I called her name, unlocked the door of a flat and slid through it and slammed it in my face. I called through the letter box and told her that I wanted to ask her about Miranda; she said that if I didnТt go away sheТd call the police. I reached out and combed away her fear. I told her that I knew now that I had been wrong about the other night, and wanted to make amends. I said, УI will make sure that she does not trouble you again.Ф

There was a long silence, and then Liz said, УSheТs mad, she is. Someone should do something about her.Ф

УI intend to. Perhaps you can help me, young lady. Perhaps you can tell me about MirandaТs father.Ф

УHim? HeТs a right devil. Used to beat up her mother something awful, until she had enough and ran back to Ireland. Then he started on Miranda. HeТd hit her with the telephone book, or his belt. Police would come round sometimes, but they didnТt do anything. I used to feel sorry for her, but then her dad ran off too, and she went funny. She changed.Ф

Liz told me that Miranda had stopped going to school six months ago, that she had been hurting herself ever since her mother ran off.

УShe said it was the only thing that made her feel real. But then she started trying to hurt other people.Ф

Liz was crying on the other side of the door, half-suppressed sobs like hiccups.

I said, УWhen did you last see her father?Ф

УAbout the same time. Miranda said he went to look for her mother. SheТs been living on her own ever since. The social people came snooping around once, but they left her alone. Everyone leaves her alone now. She scares them. Who are you, mister? Are you with the social, or the police?Ф

УI am trying to find out how I can help Miranda,Ф I said. I was thinking of the man on the bed. I suspected that she had been punishing her father for something a good deal nastier than a few beatings.

УShe follows people around,Ф Liz whispered through the letter box. УLike she followed me, the other night. SheТs jealous, I reckon. DoesnТt like people who have ordinary lives. Someone should make her stop it, but everyoneТs frightened of her.Ф

УWhere does she spend her time, during the day?Ф

УI told you, she doesnТt go to school any more. Got suspended, didnТt she? She hangs around here, pops up when you donТt expect her . . .Ф

УIf she said to you, СIТll be at the usual place,Т where would that be?Ф

УYou know the pub in the market where they sell the antiques and stuff? She nicks stuff, and she sells some of it there. DoesnТt care who knows it, either. Gets drunk on beer she pays this old wino to buy for her.Ф

УThank you, Elizabeth. You have been most helpful.Ф

УShe wants putting away somewhere. Somewhere where she can get better. Is that what youТre going to do?Ф

УI am going to try to help her,Ф I said.
* * * *
As Rainer Sue drove me away in his Mini, an ambulance twinkled past in the other direction, towards the block of flats. One of the calls I had made had been to the emergency services; the other had been to MirandaТs mobile phone, in which I had cached an imp during my demonstration of my pickpocketing skills. It was a very small and very stupid imp, but after Miranda had spat a swear word into my silence and rung off, it had maintained the connection and recited the various conversations it had overheard. There had been several bits of business about the disposal of stolen property and the purchase of heroin, and there had been this: