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

June O'Dell, Mavis Barstow, stood on the set as if it were really her home. In slippers, she barely came up to
the mantelpiece, but still seemed to fill any spare space. Richard fancied she looked younger tonight, with a
little colour in her cheeks that might come from digesting Emma. Ghost-eaters could do that, often without
even knowing how they retained their youthful blush. She wore a filmy muu-muu with mandarin sleeves,
diamonds at her ears and around her throat. Mama-Lou was with June, wearing a white bikini bottom
augmented by a mass of necklaces, armlets, anklets, bracelets, and a three-pointed tiara surmounted with
the skulls of a shrew, a crow, and a pike. Maybe she was more than just a believer.
The Twins faded into the shadows.
"I've been thinking about what you suggested to me the other day about Marcus' sideline, Mr. Jeperson," said
June. "It was hard to believe."
"Was?"
"It answers so many questions. I knew Marcus was up to something sneaky. I just didn't imagine it could be
so unusual. Such a betrayal of the sacred trust between creative artist and the audience."
"It's dangerous to use the Saturday Man," said Mama-Lou. "Betimes, the Saturday Man wind up usin' you."
"Don't make excuses for the wretched clot, Louise. He was always a worm!"
Richard took off the cap Mama-Lou had given him.
"Ugh. Ghastly thing," said June.
Mama-Lou took the cap back reverentially. It had to become a sacred object.
Richard went to the mantelpiece. All the framed photographs and trinkets had been distributed across the set
by the poltergeist, save for Da Barstow's urnтАФwhich issued green smoke when it became obvious who the
Bogey was. The eyes of the portrait had burned like hot coals. Richard saw where red bulbs had been set
into the picture.
He took the urn and twisted off the top.
Screwed up inside were dozens of used cue cards.
"Marcus' words," said June. "This is where he gets to choke on them."
The Twins came back, stepping cautiously. They had fetched a rusty barbeque from the props vault. It usually
sat on the obviously indoor set of Ben Barstow's back garden.
Richard lifted the grille and poured the cue cards into the pan.
"You bring what I tol' you," Mama-Lou said to June.
June snapped her fingers and a Twin handed over a brown paper bag.
Mama-Lou looked inside and smiled.
She emptied the bag onto the crumpled cards. Nail-clippings, a still-damp handkerchief, bristles shaved off a
toothbrush, blood-dotted Kleenex.
"Obviously, you can't get hair from a bald man," said June. "But Marcus never learned to shave. I think his
mummy did it until he married me, and he expected I would take over. No wonder it didn't last. Blood is better
than hair, you said?"
"Blood is good, Miss June," said Mama-Lou.
"Will you do the honours, Mama-Lou?" said Richard, bowing.
"Indeed I will. This is my religion, an' I despise what's been done wit' it."
She had a box of Swan Vesta matches caught between her thigh and the tie of her bikini-bottom. She took
the box and rattled the matches.
"Erzulie Freda, we call you to the flame," she said, looking up.
Mama-Lou was dancing to unheard music. Her necklacesтАФwhich were strung with beads, feathers, items of
power, bones, and tiny carvingsтАФrattled and bounced against her dark, lithe torso.
The set lights went downтАФit wasn't magic: one of the Twins was at the dimmer switch. June snapped her
fingers, banishing her familiarsтАФwho had orders to stand guard outside. In the darkness, Mama-Lou struck a
match. The single flame grew, swelling around the matchhead, burning down the matchstick, almost to her
enamelled nails. She dropped the match onto the pile of combustibles, humming to herself. The flame
caught.
"Hocus pocus mucus Marcus," improvised June.