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

however, the silence ended. Crawling from the receiver like an insect came
a dry and hideous sound, like bones chuckling. Even now, with the muscle
spasms in his arms becoming ever more frequent, he couldn't replace the
receiver, couldn't face the consequences of what might happen if he did.
Fortunately the decision was taken for him. There was a sound like a heavy
dice being rolled and then a flat electric hum.
He replaced the receiver slowly and carefully. It took a great deal of
control to prevent it leaping from his hand like a frightened kitten. He
was cold, but when he looked down was surprised to see sweat glistening on
his chest. His penis was now white and shrivelled as a whelk.
It took him a long time to empty his bladder. The piss, bright yellow and
cloudy, gave off a strong-smelling steam when it hit the water. He was
almost finished, the piss coming in intermittent spurts, when he heard the
clatter of the letterbox. Immediately a trembling started at the back of
his legs, travelled up to his buttocks and then pushed through into his
stomach.
No matter how much control he tried to assert, this new intrusion could
not prevent his body from shaking. The last few drops of his piss hit the
toilet seat and speckled the carpet; his stomach lurched, making him gasp,
making him lean over the toilet bowl and open his mouth, certain he was
about to be sick. It made him realise how little control he actually had.
If they decided to really turn the screw they could reduce him to a
gibbering wreck in minutes.
The knowledge depressed and infuriated him. Helplessness encompassed his
entire body like a wave of black ink. Saliva flowed into his mouth to aid
the passage of burning vomit from his stomach. He spat the saliva into the
bowl in a long frothy string and then jammed his hand down on the flush
lever. Water roared and seethed in the toilet bowl. He made himself
straighten up and breathe deeply and slowly, filling his lungs and then
letting it go.
At last the urge to vomit passed, though his stomach and his bladder still
ached. He was not sure he would have the strength to walk until he tried
it and found that he could. As soon as he stepped into the hall he saw the
envelope on the doormat. Trying to convey defiance in his expression and
in the way he moved, he walked over and picked it up.
He did not open it until he was sitting on his bed, one leg bent beneath
him. The envelope was white and cheap and had nothing written on it. He
could tell by feeling it that the object inside was about three inches
long and shaped like a pen or a twig or a piece of chalk. There was a dark
brown stain on the back of the envelope that reminded him of a tiny
butterfly. He tore the envelope jerkily open and tipped out what was
inside.
It was a human finger, severed raggedly just above the third knuckle. It
was very white, as if whoever had sent it had taken great care to drain as
much blood from it as possible before putting it in the envelope.
Nevertheless, the splinter of bone that protruded from the stump of
stringy pinkish-brown meat was encrusted with dried lumps of blackened
blood. It was the finger of a woman, the nail curved and long and painted
with dark pink nail varnish, slightly chipped. It still wore a ring, a
thin gold band inset with three tiny red stones.