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

of Bleeds. Whatever was going on here was transmitted through the mind of Marcus Squiers. Unlike some
people Richard had dealt with, he did not have invisible, evil entities perched on his shoulder. He might well
be mad, but it seemed that most folks in his business were.
"Just so long as they don't rattle the Moo cage."
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VI
After lunchтАФRichard had taken the precaution of bringing a Fortnum's hamper for Barbara and himself, thus
avoiding the O'D-S "hostilities" tableтАФLionel took them onto the studio floor, where the seduction scene
discussed at the script meeting was already being rehearsed in front of bulky television cameras. Lionel told
them the pages had been typed over the break. If a stenogs couldn't read her own shorthand, she was
empowered to make up whatever she thought would fit. It usually wasn't any worse than what came out of the
writing pack.
There was quite a bit of excitement at the entrance of Lovely Legs. Stage-hands, camera assistants, makeup
people, and cast members not in this scene all crowded around to get a look.
"See," said Lionel. "Star is born."
Lovely Legs wore only a shortie bathrobe and stockings. She did indeed have lovely legs.
"Odd stage name," Lionel admitted. "She's really called Victoria Plant."
The alias had been Fred's idea. Vanessa was a plant, so she might as well be called one.
"That girl knows you," Barbara said to Richard, perceptively. "She looked over here, then away. Really fast."
"What's that, ducks?" asked Lionel.
"Nothing that matters," said Richard. "She's a very pretty girl."
"Just watch what happens when Mavis Upstairs clocks her. She'll be out of that nightie and into floor-length
winceyette with mud on her face and her hair in curlers for the next scene. It's always the way. Still, enjoy the
view while it lasts, eh?"
Richard had an insight. "You're not even slightly homosexual are you, Lionel?"
"Shush, luv, think of my position if talk like that gets out. For shame. You can't get a job in telly PR unless
you're bent as a twelve-bob note. 'sides, I like the frocks."
He pantomimed another wrist slap.
Richard shook his head.
"Look, this really is how I talk, dearie. Can't help that. Blame Round the Horne."
Another victim of the media. When he'd first seen Barbara, Lionel hadn't been envying her blouse but trying to
peer down it.
"If you need a proper poof for some reason, apply to Dudley Finn over there, aka Beefy Ben Barstow. Forget
all those stories about him in nightclubs with models and pin-up girls. I planted them all personally. When
those long legs wrap round his middle, he's not going to enjoy this scene one bit. Dud the Dud and Geordie
the Security Guard make a lovely couple. Oh, slap my wrist and call me Mabel, I've done it again. Talking out
of school."
Richard had learned a valuable lesson. No one around here was who they pretended to be, and most of them
weren't even the people they seemed to be behind the obvious pretence at being someone else again. The
onion layers peeled off, and there were sour little cores in the middle.
As it turned out, watching The Northern Barstows be made was even duller than watching it on television.
Even the rapid pace of twice-a-week production meant an enormous amount of waiting around for things to
happen, while tedious tasks were repeated ad infinitum. Barbara, of course, was raptтАФlike a historian with a
personal time machine rubbernecking at the first read-through of Hamlet at the Globe or the huddle of
commanders around Alexander as he scratched out battle plans in Assyrian dirt.
He found a quiet space behind some flatsтАФpainted backdrops of Bleeds which hung outside windows on
several different sets as if every home and workplace in the city had the same viewтАФand let down his guard,
extending mental feelers, opening himself to the ebb and flow of immeasurable energies. This could be
dangerous, but he had to do a full psychic recce. It wasn't an exact science. The emotional turmoil around
regular humans at the studio was complicated enough to blot obvious traces of the supernatural. Many