"Kim Newman - The Serial Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

natural for the Comet or Knight. But no, all the pissy reptiles care about is the sodding curse. They're all
running girlie shots of that horsey cow Della Devyne! All she's ever done is kill someone, and not in an
original way. I voted to sue her for plagiarism. It's getting to be a complete embarrassment. And guess who
Mavis Upstairs blames?"
Lionel thumbed at his own chest.
"Mavis Upstairs?"
"June O'Dell, luv. Round here, she's Mavis Upstairs. You can't get near her, I should warn you now. She's
leading artiste and is always in her own head-space. When she's not on set, she's in her 'trailer'тАФthat's a
bloody caravan to you, luvтАФsurrounded by joss sticks, chocolate assortments, and botty totty."
"I will need 'access all areas' if I'm to do any good."
"You can need all you want, sunshine. I'm just telling you Mavis Upstairs isn't covered by the law of the land.
She's a National Institution, though some round here who say she ought to be in one. Ooops, pardon, slip of
the tongue, naughty me."
Lionel extended a wrist, limp enough to count as a stereotype all of its own, and slapped himself.
"Lionel mustn't let his tongue flap like that. Slappy slap slap!"
Richard raised an eyebrow.
"You'll get used to it, luv," said Lionel. "We're all indiscreet round here. You don't get appointed to a job on
The Northern Barstards, you get sentenced to one. No time off for good behaviour, so don't expect to find
any."
Lionel turned and walked away. His Day-Glo green velvet trousers were too taut at the hip to allow circulation
to the legs but flared so widely at the ankle that he could only progress with a peculiar wading motion.
"Come on," he said, looking back over his shoulder, lowering his shades, "meet the Barstards тАж"
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V
Lionel took Richard and Barbara up to what looked like a zeppelin hangar and touched a black plastic
lozenge to a pad beside a regular-sized door, which sprung open for thirty seconds to let them in then
slammed shut and refastened like an air lock. The PR led them up a rickety staircase to an ill-lit nest of
desks and couches, where people were shouting at each other while talking on telephones to (presumably)
other people elsewhere.
"Welcome to the Bad Vibes Zone," said Lionel.
"Interesting expression," commented Richard.
"Came up with it on my own, luv. Now, don't take this wrong, but walk this way."
He flouncedтАФdeliberatelyтАФinto a labyrinth of partitions, leading Richard and Barbara along a twisting path,
hurrying them past perhaps-interesting individuals in their own cubicles.
"We need more space," admitted Lionel. "ART like to keep O'D-S in a tiny box. Stops us getting to big for our
boots. In theory. Guess what? Theory don't work. They don't make boots ginormous enough for how big this
lot think they are."
They came to an area where a small, bald, damp-cheeked middle-aged man in a cheesecloth sarong sat
cross-legged on a giant mauve cushion with appliqu├й sunflowers. The Buddha-like figure was surrounded by
long-haired youths of both sexes who were waving long strips of yellow paper like Taoist prayers. On the
strips were scrawled arcane symbols in biro.
"This is a script conference," whispered Lionel. "Hush hush, genius at work. That's Mucus Squiers. It's his
fault."
"For creating the programme?" asked Richard.
"For not throttling Mavis Upstairs in her sleep when he had the chance. They used to be married, though
that's not a picture anyone should have in their head, luv."
Richard looked again at Squiers. The writer-producer would be happier in a bowler hat, collar, and tie, carrying
a rolled-up umbrella. The guru look was the only way he could get respect from his staff writers. For a
moment, Richard thought the man was holding a blue security blanketтАФbut it was a large handkerchief which
he was using to mop his freely perspiring brow.