"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 3 - Cannibal Cult" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

do the next best thing, urging him to confess his past secret pleasures.

Sabat's voice seemed to echo in the darkness to the accompaniment of hollow
whispered laughter which might have been Catriona's. Or Vince Lealan's. Or
Royston Spode's.

Or Quentin's!

Sabat told them everything they wanted to hear. They knew it already, so it
didn't matter. They just wanted to listen to it coming from his own lips. He
told them of that occasion in his adolescence when he had let another of his
own sex do what he'd wanted to do. How he had enjoyed it. He'd felt guilty
afterwards because convention had dominated, driven him in a fit of cowardice
to seek refuge in priesthood. Sabat cringed at the memory, blasphemed. The SAS
had been his salvation, taught him the real pleasures of life ... taught him
how to kill amongst other things.

Have you ever taken human life, Sabat?

You know fucking well I have. That terrorist... Sabat winced, heard the
deafening reports of his own pistol in the confined space, the screams of his
victim as he writhed like a helpless landed fish, arms and legs shattered,
pleading for death and being denied it. Laughter again ... Sabat's.

Women. Jealous naked bodies materialising out of the past, fighting amongst
themselves, clamouring for him, displaying themselves lewdly. Fuck me, Sabat,
the way you used to. Fingers that were not his own taking over, speeding up, a
million sensations blending into one mind-blowing explosion of mind and body.

Sabat was convulsing, floating in a void, but they wouldn't let up on him, a
forest of frenzied arms and legs that grabbed and pulled and squeezed him
until he was crying out for them to stop. The laughter was louder now, hurting
his throbbing head. He tore his hands free, pressed them to his ears but he
could not shut out the noise. You're too weak to resist, Sabat.

He was back on the bed in a splayed heap, shivering uncontrollably, groping
blindly for the bedclothes but they were gone. So cold, so frightening
Cringing. There's nothing to be afraid of. You're not Mark Sabat - you 're
Quentin. One of us!

The dreaded reversal, one soul overcoming another after weeks and months of
awaiting its opportunity. Sabat was still trying to fight, an autumnal leaf
attempting to resist a gale, being swept away. Sobbing, something he had not
done since ... since when1* He couldn't remember crying, not even in
childhood; his frustrations had always built up into something more vicious,
revenge at any cost. Oh God, he'd have his revenge on them, make them pay
dearly for this. He had to fight!

Crawling, slumping down, fingers that trembled with cold and terror searching
the darkness, touching something that toppled and fell; the handset of the