"Mark Morris - The Other One" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morris Mark)

As ever, he could not leave the kitchen without first inspecting the waste
disposal unit. The two stainless steel sinks, side by side, looked brand
new, a fact which again disturbed him though he couldn't define why. When
he turned on the tap with the blue lid in the first sink (the real sink,
for washing things in), water came out more powerfully than he had
anticipated. It spattered up off the stainless steel and covered his
clothes in droplets that instantly turned to small dark patches, like
little shadows. Some droplets speckled his face, sudden and cold and wet
as shaving cuts. He closed his eyes and turned the tap off. They would be
laughing at his little accident now, and so he smiled to show he didn't
care.
The waste disposal unit was in sink number two which had no taps above it.
He opened his eyes and leaned forward a little, aware of the sudden
intensity of his heartbeat which made his body feel like nothing more than
a living pump. He peered into the metal tube, an exposed throat tapering
to darkness. The throat was lined with a tight prickly spiral of blades
like steel teeth which made him anxious and excited at the same time. He
was relieved to see that the waste disposal unit was as new-looking as
everything else, that there were no...shreds, clinging to the teeth. What
fascinated and appalled him was the fact that the blades were at their
most lethal when you couldn't see them. As if to demonstrate the thought
to himself, he turned the machine on.
For a fraction of an instant nothing happened; the waste disposal unit
remained in stasis. Anyone could have put their finger into the throat in
that milli-second and then taken it out again and they would have been
fine. But then with a whir the blades began to rotate, and were almost
immediately spinning at full speed. Now you could no longer see the
blades. They resembled nothing so much as a swirling white mist which
looked cool and slow and inviting.
He couldn't help it. He was so entranced by the paradox that he grinned,
revealing all his teeth. He knew it was a weakness which they would
exploit, and so he folded his lips around the grin and turned off the
machine, angry inside.
Abruptly he left the kitchen, hoping to convey the impression that the
waste disposal unit had been nothing more than a diversion with which he
was now bored. He decided to see whether his food had arrived. Back he
went down the narrow corridor, concealing his nervousness, passing the
bathroom on the right without so much as a glance.
At the end of the corridor, facing him, was a door. He opened the door
onto a gloomy landing, steps leading downwards on his right. Echoing up
the stairwell were sounds that worried him. Bumps, slitherings, sometimes
even what sounded like voices that broke up into indeterminate echoes
before they could form words.
There was no food. He was so eager that he almost saw the box sitting
there before realising it was an illusion created by the angles of walls
and floor and the strange shadows that formed from these. He shrugged in
an attempt to hide his disappointment. Even here he was certain that they
were watching him and gloating. Their methods, unlike them, were very
sophisticated.
He went back into his flat and rearranged his furniture for the third time