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

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XV
"You're early," said Squiers.
"I thought we might not get the chance to chat later."
Squiers was surprised, calculated a moment, then chose to laugh.
Coolly, Richard sauntered down the aisle of the small, luxurious screening room, fingers brushing the
leatherette of the upholstered seats. Squiers stood in front of a wall of colour television sets turned on and
tuned to ITV but with the sound off, images repeated as if through insect eyes. A quiz programme was on,
the grinning host in a silver tuxedo dropping contestants into vats of gunk when they failed to answer
correctly, showgirls in spangly tights posed by washer-dryers and Triumph TR-7s, mutant puppets popping up
between the rounds to do silent slapstick. No wonder Richard preferred reading.
Squiers wore a different hat tonight, a large purple Stetson, with bootlace tie, orange ruffle shirt,
faux-buckskin tuxedo, and rawhide cowboy boots with stack heels and spurs. Richard intuited that the
ten-gallon titfer was the writer-producer's "party hat." Marcus Squiers saw himself as a gunslinger.
"Nice threads, Squiers."
"Thank you, Mr. Masterman."
"Jeperson. Masterman is your fellow. The one on TV."
"I was forgetting. It's easy to get mixed up."
"I suppose it is."
Richard was not what Squiers expected. In the producer's mind, Richard (and Barbara) ought to be getting
sweaty, nervous, close to panic, sensing the trap closing, feeling a frightful fiend's breath warming their
backs. They should be jitterily trying to evade the inescapable, pass mrjamesian runes on to some other
mug, get out of the way of safes and grand pianos fated to fall from the skies.
Disappointment roiled off Squiers, whoтАФas everтАФwas the sweaty one.
For him, this should have been a new pleasure. All his previous marks had been unaware of the gunsights
fixed on their foreheads. Richard knew what was happening and was powerless to dodge the bullet. This was
the first time Squiers could afford to let anyone know how clever he had been.
"It was Junie's fault," said Squiers. "That first serial, just six weeks of it, was damn good telly. Damn good
writing. Better than your Dennis Potter or Alan Plater any night of the week. Junie was good in it. She's
always been able to play Mavis. She was the one who pushed for the series. I wanted to go on to other
things. Plays, films, novels. I could have, you know. I had ideas, ready to go. But Junie tied me to the
Barstards. The things she did. You wouldn't believe. The first few years, I kept trying to quit and she'd wrestle
me back. There was never much money. Muggins here got stuck with his 196-flaming-4 salary, while the
Moo's fees climbed to the sky. Read the bloody small printтАФfirst rule of showbiz. There were other ways to
keep me on the hook. Even when we weren't married anymore, she'd find means. 'No one else can produce
the show,' she says. 'No one.' Who would want to? I mean, have you watched it?"
Richard nodded.
"I have to live with it. So there might as well be some use in it."
"Your discovery?"
"Yes," the bitterness turned sly. A petulant smile crept in, barely covering his teeth. "That's a good way of
putting it. The discovery."
"It must be galling to waste shots on Roget and Canberra. I mean, who's to pay for us?"
Squiers chuckled.
"Oh, there's a purpose to you. Nothing goes to waste in television. I have a select company joining us for this
party. But you and Professor Corri are my guests of honour. Where is she, by the way?"
"Present," said Barbara.
She wore a bias-cut tangerine evening gown, with matching blooms in her hair and on her shoulder. She
stood a moment in the doorway, then glided down. Squiers applauded. Richard kissed her.
"You make a lovely couple," said Squiers. "But you'll be lovelier without heads."
Richard felt an itch around the neck. It was becoming quite persistent.