"Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 2 - Crabs Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

He wore a torn crimson shirt, the tails hanging loosely outside his faded
denim trousers. His feet were bare, the toes with their long broken black
nails all squashed together as though they were intent on defying their Maker
and forming into webbed limbs.

His face, oh God, his face was the most terrifying feature of all, partly
screened by creepers of long grey hair which fell forward as though intent on
hiding the horrific features from mankind. The eyes were large, bulging from
their sockets, set too close together so that surely his vision was impaired.
The nose was no more than twin nostrils in the centre, black encrusted minute
cavities that bubbled mucus as he breathed. And the mouth-a single slit in
which bobbed uneven lines of decayed tooth stumps, a sharp pointed central one
seeming to gouge the lip directly above it every time it moved.

'Who ... are you?' Irey marvelled at her own calm, the way she asked a
question instead of screaming hysterically.

'Bar-tholo-mew.' The name was strung out as though the other had difficulty in
pronouncing it. Perhaps nobody had ever asked him before.
'Bartholomew?'

He nodded. 'S'right. Everybody knows Bartholomew round here. I comes and goes
as I please. I sees things that other folks miss. You understand?'

Irey nodded and thought to herself, he's some local nutter. She eased her
thighs close together; he'd been staring in between them a few seconds ago. It
gave her a feeling of revulsion.

'Where's your man, lady?'

'He's . . . he's around.' At least I hope he is. Try and keep him talking and
get dressed at the same time. Maybe he's perfectly harmless but you can never
be sure.

'A lot o' young girls gets themselves fucked in these dunes,' he spoke
emotionlessly, a kind of recitation.

'Do they now?' She tried to sound haughty. 'Well, for your information, Mr
Bartholomew or whatever you call yourself, I was merely stripped off ready to
go for a swim. But I've changed my mind. I'm getting dressed and as soon as my
husband turns up we're going home. He should be here any second.'

'Don't you get goin' near the water, lady!' Suddenly his lisping voice took on
a new note, a low whisper broken only by the sound of loose phlegm in his
lungs. 'Whatever you do, don't go down to the sea. Not if you want to stay
alive!'

'I ... I beg your pardon.' Little icy ripples spread over her body, closed
over her heart. He's mad. Humour him.