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

"Return to thy Graveyard, return to thy Tomb!"
"Return to thy Graveyard, return to thy Tomb!"
The lid came off the urn, and flaming ashes sprinkled.
Squiers was severely affected now, jerking and gasping in seizure, ragged-brimmed hat bucking up and down
on his lap. The people sat around him noticed. Tara ripped open his shirt, scattering buttons, and pressed his
heaving chest.
On the screens, the ashes of Da BarstowтАФthe "doll" of Marcus SquiersтАФspewed out of the urn in a
human-shaped cloud, with trailing limbs and a thickness around the head that was unmistakably a flat cap.
It wasn't even special effectsтАФit was an illusion, a lighting trick.
June-as-Mavis held up a silver crucifix, forged by melting down Da's shove ha'penny champion sovereign.
Richard-as-Roget raised a fetish of Erzulie Freda, on loan from Mama-Lou. And Barbara-as-Canberra pulled
an old-fashioned toy gun which shot out a flag bearing the word "bang!"
"You were always bloody useless, Darius Barstow," said Mavis at full blast. "Now clear off out of it and leave
decent people alone."
"Dispel," said Richard, underplaying.
The cloud of ash exploded, pelting the entire setтАФit had taken longer to clean up than to shoot the
sceneтАФand then vanished.
Dawnlight filtered in on a dimmer switch. Tweeting bird sound effects laid over the settling dust.
The camera rolled toward Mavis, who gave a speech about how the nightmare was over and life in Bleeds
could get back to "normal."
There was a commotion around Squiers' seat. Squiers wasn't in it anymore. He wasn't in anything anymore.
All that was left was a hat on the floor, a fine scattering of grey ash, and an after-the-firework-display smell.
Tara's hands, which had been against Squiers' chest, were withered, like an arthritic eighty-year-old's. One of
her fingers snapped off, but she was too shocked to scream.
The end titles scrolled, and the screening room lights came up.
Richard thanked Lady Dee, without whom the substitution of master tapes could not have been managed.
The Board was pleased that the proper order of things had been restoredтАФlittle companies like O'Dell-Squiers
(soon to be O'Dell Holdings) might make television, but networks like Amalgamated Rediffusion owned the
airwaves and decided what was fed into the boxes. Squiers had focused on working magic in the making of
the show and taken transmission for granted, but Richard had understood the pins didn't skewer the doll until
the episode in question was watched by the believing millions.
Wilding and Skinner were gone. Not like Squiers, but leaving fewer traces behind. This hadn't worked out, but
they had other irons in the fireтАФwhich Richard, or someone like him, would have to deal with eventually.
Adam Onions wasn't in that class yet. He was a nuisance not a danger. The man from IPSIT bubbled around
excitedly, scratching at everything, diagnosing a new, unknown form of spontaneous combustion. Richard
was more than willing to cede the investigation to him. As he was scooping ash into a bag, Barbara stuck her
tongue out at his back. She successfully overcame the temptation to boot his rump, mostly because she
was wearing toeless spiked court shoes over sheer black silk stockings and reckoned permanent damage to
her wardrobe not worth the passing pleasure of denting Onions' negligible dignity.
Maltese and Topazio made themselves scarce, but Inspector Price would know where they lived.
"Well done, guv," said Fred.
"Tricky thing, voodoo," said Vanessa. "Not to be trifled with."
On the way out, Richard nodded to June O'Dell. She and Mama-Lou sat in their seats, ignoring the fuss
around Squiers' sudden exit from this world. Richard did not doubt that the show would go on. With June
wearing the producer's hat.
Richard walked with Barbara. Fred and Vanessa flanked them. Their way to the door was barred. By the
writers' pack.
They really looked like a pack now, fangs bared, hunched over, angry at the loss of their alpha, fingers curled
into claws. After all this hocus-pocus, Squiers' followers might opt for good old-fashioned violence and rip their
enemies to shreds.