"Christopher Priest - The Prestige" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

a centre of slate mining, now heavily dependent on day trippers. There was a National Trust shop
in the centre of the village, a pony trekking club, several gift shops and an hotel. As I drove
through, the chill rain was drizzling through the valley, obscuring the rocky heights on each side.
I stopped in the village for a cup of tea, thinking I might talk to some of the locals about the
Rapturous Church, but apart from me the caf├й was empty, and the woman who worked behind
the counter said she drove in daily from Chesterfield.
While I was sitting there, wondering whether to take the opportunity to grab some lunch
before going on, my brother unexpectedly made contact with me. The sensation was so distinct,
so urgent, that I turned my head in surprise, thinking for a moment that someone in the room had
addressed me. I closed my eyes, lowered my face, and listened for more.
No words. Nothing explicit. Nothing I could answer or write down or even put into words for
myself. But it amounted to anticipation, happiness, excitement, pleasure, encouragement.
I tried to send back: what is this for? Why was I being welcomed? What are you encouraging
me to do? Is it something about this religious community?
I waited, knowing that these experiences never took the form of a dialogue, so that raising
questions would not receive any kind of answer, but I was hoping another signal would come
from him. I tried to reach out mentally to him, thinking perhaps his contact with me was a way of
getting me to communicate with him, but in this sense I could feel nothing of him there.
My expression must have revealed something of my churned-up inner feelings, because the
woman behind the counter was staring at me curiously. I swallowed the rest of my tea, returned
the cup and saucer to the counter, smiled politely, then hurried out to the car. As I sat down and
slammed the door, a second message came from my brother. It was the same as the first, a
direct urging of me to arrive, to be there with him. It was still impossible to put it into words.


The entrance to the Rapturous Church was a steep driveway slanting off the main road, but
barred by a pair of wrought-iron gates and a gatehouse. There was a second gate to one side,
also closed, marked Private. The two entrances formed an extra space, so I parked my car there
and walked across to the gatehouse. Inside the wooden porch a modern bell push had been
attached to the wall, and beneath this was a laser-printed notice:

RAPTUROUS CHURCH OF CHRIST JESUS WELCOMES YOU


5
 NO VISITORS WITHOUT APPOINTMENT

FOR APPOINTMENTS RING CALDLOW 393960

TRADESMEN AND OTHERS PRESS BELL TWICE

JESUS LOVES YOU


I pressed the bell twice, without audible effect.
Some leaflets were standing in a semi-enclosed holder, and beneath them was a padlocked
metal box with a coin slot in the top, screwed firmly to the wall. I took one of the leaflets, slipped a
fifty-pence piece into the box, then went back to the car and rested my backside against the
nearside wing while I read it. The front page was a brief history of the sect, and carried a
photograph of Father Franklin. The remaining three pages had a selection of Biblical quotes.