"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 02 - The Blood Merchants" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'I don't think he knew very much anyway. He was just a hired killer, a drug addict acting like a zombie. But at least we know what we're up against now.'

'What's your next move?' Secretly Ilona hoped that she wasn't going to have to act as a decoy again.

'Quite honestly 1 don't know,' Sabat shook his head slowly. 'If I went out every night of the week and knocked off one of the killers I'd not be achieving anything worthwhile. It's a fascist movement, certainly, a Liberation Front organisation calling themselves the Disciples of Lilith. They're obviously recruiting from the worst possible hooligan element of our society; dropouts, drug addicts, kids with a grudge against society. 1 need to get to the guys behind it if I'm going to do anything positive.' 'You killed him.' A statement not a question. 'And no regrets,' he smiled. 'Nobody will miss the likes of him. Don't worry, I shall remove the bloodless body from your premises. Perhaps the Disciples of Lilith will be surprised to find that they are not invincible after all.'

Ilona tried to smile but her lips quivered. Whatever Sabat had achieved tonight the threat, the fear that lurked in the ill-lit streets all around, was still there. Nobody was safe and surely these devils with their filthy blood sucking devices would not let this night go unavenged.

Thirty minutes later Sabat was back at the scene of Ilona1 s attack, carefully propping up the naked corpse in the same ruined bus shelter. Even in death the eyes appeared to stare balefully up at him, mouth clamped tightly shut in defiance from beyond the grave.

And as he walked swiftly and silently back to where his Daimler was parked, Sabat heard that owl hooting again; this time the sound had a note of urgency in it, eerily echoing and re-echoing through the empty houses.










CHAPTER FOUR



MANDY WICKHAM was proud of her seven-week-old son. The fact that he was illegitimate, his features and colouring depicting without doubt that Asian blood coursed through his veins, and the faet that her parents had virtually turned her out into the street, was more than compensated for by the happiness of her single parent council flat.

Mandy smiled as she pushed the second-hand pram down the High Street, the hood lowered so that paSsers-by might be given a full view of her offspring. She called him Davey because she thought there was a possibility that Big Dave might be the father. It was a toss up between him and Mike. She wondered about Johnny Ross, too, but he was Jamaican and little Davey's skin would have been much darker in that case, his features thicker. Dave it was then and maybe one day he'd call round to see his little son and there was always the possibility that he might do something about it. That was unlikely, though, because rumour had it that Sarah Milkenic had a baby by him also. But it didn't really matter, Mandy decided, and when the welfare lady had tried to question her about whom she had had sexual relationships with she'd told her to mind her own bloody business. Big Dave was the type who would get nasty if anybody shopped him, and on reflection she owed him a lot.

Mandy Wickham had a forlorn look about her as she parked the pram outside the general store and post office and wrestled with the brake. A good wash would have improved that straggling matted hair which even the slight breeze couldn't ruffle. Soap would have freshened her skin, and might even have removed that smell of BO which came from beneath the oversize coat which she had picked up at the jumble sale in the hall last Saturday. The coat itself had a faint lingering odour about it, she thought, but you couldn't complain at 15p.

It was no good trying to lose weight, she told herself, because once you started having kids you were bound to get fat. Her mother had constantly reminded the whole family of that and she should know because she'd had ten; eleven if you counted the miscarriage. Rolls of flab had nothing at all to do with a regular diet of chip butties.

Underneath the grime and the fat, Mandy Wickham had a vestige of prettiness that might have been accentuated by drastic action. But since Davey had been born she didn't care much about herself; that was the maternal instinct coming out in her, making her feel happy all over.

Everybody seemed to be looking at her baby today. Mandy was both proud and self-conscious, blushing as she made sure the blankets were tucked around the tiny form. A red Cortina was reversing into a recently vacated parking space, its tyres scuffing against the kerb, the female passenger seeming more intent on staring at little Davey than in assisting her companion to negotiate the gap between the other cars. Mandy glanced up, met her gaze for a second or two. Blonde haired, attractive, maybe a year or two older.

'Your mam won't be - long, my darling,' Mandy straightened up, addressed the sleeping form swathed in blue blankets and an oversized pink bonnet which she had picked up at the hall for 5p. 'Now just you wait there and be good.'

She paused in the doorway for one last look. Yes, everybody was admiring Davey. That woman had got out of the car; she was a lot taller than one would have thought, dressed in black from her head to the toes of her knee length boots as though she was just on her way to a funeral. The sort that Mandy didn't like, a real snob, but the stranger was temporarily excused her upper class status because of the way she stared and smiled with those striking clear blue eyes at little Davey.

Mandy pushed her way inside the shop, fumbled in the capacious pockets of her coat for her dog-eared and crumpled allowance book. Heads turned, glanced in her direction, turned away again, scornful looks that made her angry. She stared back but they weren't looking any more. Real catty bitches, jealous because their babies were pasty coloured, all looked the same like the rows of canned foodstuffs on the shelves. Did yer know Mandy Wickham's 'ad a baby out of wedlock? She 'as you know, and even 'er mum says they don't know who the father is? She's been askin' for it, though, ever since she left school, the dirty little sleeparound. You mark my words, afore long you'll see 'er 'angin' around the streets after dark. They reckon 'er sister's gone on the game.

Sod 'em, they daren't say it until she'd gone back outside. But it didn't matter, not a damn. Mandy pushed her allowance book under the bandit screen, didn't look at Mr Barnwell, the sub-postmaster, because he was as bad as the rest of them. Anybody would have thought he had to pay for her and Davey's upkeep out of his own pocket; he probably tried to make out he did, in a roundabout sort of way via the taxman.

Clumsily, Mandy picked up the book and the equally scruffy notes with her stubby fingers; she had never got out of the habit of biting her nails. Nerves, that was the trouble; she hated Tuesday mornings, it was like running the gauntlet coming in here. Well, she wasn't bloody well going to do her shopping in here any more. Sod Barnwell and his rows of 'special offers'. They were all several pence cheaper up at the big Tesco even if it was twenty minutes walk there and back. But it was a nice morning and Davey would enjoy the fresh air.

Head held high, looking neither right nor left, Mandy Wickham stamped her slippered feet towards the exit. She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out into the sunlit street which for some reason this morning didn't look drab.