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

was old enough. It was nasal, aristocratic, reedy with that Anglo-Irish affectation known as "West Brit."
Richard wondered if she had ever met Lady Damaris Gideon. If so, Lady Dee would probably have come
second in a peering-down-the-nose-with-disdain contest. Richard had previously reckoned the MP a likely
British champion in the event.
"The haunting?" he prompted. "Very topical."
June tittered, a tiny hand over her mouth. She fluttered long, feathery eyelashes.
"Must remain abreast of current events. It's part of the format. Keeps us all on our toes. Or, in my case,
wheels."
"Am I to have a writer tagging along as I work? Taking notes on my ghost-hunting activities."
"Not one of our writers, I trust. You wouldn't want any of those oiks about. I don't understand why we have to
have them. Some of us are quite capable of making it up as we go along."
"June has the utmost respect for our writing staff," put in Squiers. "She is being amusing. The poltergeist plot
has been thoroughly worked out by trained professionals."
June flicked a glance at her ex-husband, and he withered. Then she noticed Barbara.
"Professor Corri, how nice to see you again. Peachy."
Barbara had not mentioned that she'd met June O'Dell. She nodded in acknowledgement of peachiness but
did not attempt a curtsey.
"This curse has become infinitely tiresome and makes our blessed calling far more difficult than it need be.
We have a duty to our viewers. They depend on us to take them out of their drab, wretched lives for two brief
half-hours a week. Half-hours of entertainment, of education, of magic. It's a terrible responsibility. Many say
that the Northern Barstows are more real to them than their wives, husbands, and children. And for some who
live alone, the elderly and the loveless, we are the only family they have. It's for them that we do this,
undertake the endless struggle of the business we call show. I trust you will bring your investigation to a swift
and happy conclusion. Rid us of all ghosts, ghoulies, and ghastliness. You are, I understand, supported by
taxpayers' money."
"To an extent."
"Excellent. You are accountable, then. You will come to me tomorrow at tea-time and give a report of your
progress."
Richard kissed June's hand. "Of course."
"Alone," she said, eyes swivelling to Barbara.
He felt again the crackle he had experienced yesterday. This was a very powerful woman, perhaps a conduit
for a higher, greedier power. He tried to let June's hand go, but she pinched his fingers for a moment, hanging
on, then released him when she decided to.
"Now, I must rest. It's fearfully exhausting, you know. Being Mavis."
June pushed off and skated away, independent of the Twins, making Squiers cringe. She did a circuit of the
studio, whooshing through the shadowed areas away from the brightly lit lounge.
Richard watched her brush past Emma's cold, damp spot.
There was a sound in his head like a bubble being popped and June sped back, puffed out a little like a cat
with a mouthful of feathers. She zoomed across the set toward the door, which the Twins got open in time,
and whizzed out onto the car park.
Richard walked toward Emma's spot.
"What happened?" Barbara asked.
Richard opened himself up, trying to find yesterday's presence. Emma was gone, completely. Her psychic
substance had been consumed.
"That woman's a sponge," he told Barbara. "She just ate a ghost."
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IX
The Daily Comet, Britain's best-selling tabloid, led with the headline "TERROR STALKS
BARSTOWS"тАФbumping England's failure to qualify for the World Cup and another oil crisis to the inside
pages. The popular press had been filling their middles with trivial showbiz stories since the days of Marie