"Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

Lund said, "Oh, all right." He put the box on the floor. "I didn't really think it'd be anything to do
with Blake. If you're sure there's no mention of him. . ."
"I'm fairly certain there's not, but I'll check in the biographies if you'll wait a moment."
When he came downstairs again, a few minutes later, carrying five books, Lund was sitting down
on the windowsill. He said, "You assumed they were sex crimes, did you?"
"In a way," Reade said. He was glancing at the index in each book. "It's an obvious assumption
to make, don't you think? A sort of Jack the Ripper?" He closed the last of the books. "No, I'm sorry, no
John Cox. But tell me -- what was this man wearing?"
"I haven't got a note of it, but I believe it was a raincoat and trousers."
"He wasn't dismembered, then?"
"He'd been disemboweled." He watched the expression on Reade's face, and asked, "Why does
it interest you?"
"It's. . . stranger than I thought."
"In what way?"
Reade shrugged. "It's not too difficult to understand a sadist killing women. . ."
"Isn't it?"
"I think not. Sexual frustration building up until it becomes morbid. Blake said:
 'When thought is closed in caves
Then love shall show its root in deepest hell.'

But a man who kills men and women indifferently. . ."
He stopped, feeling a wave of tiredness and depression washing over him, surprising him by its
suddenness. He wanted Lund to go; every additional minute with him was sucking away his vitality. Lund
stood, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Reade deliberately made no attempt to finish it, letting the
silence between them lengthen, until Lund said awkwardly, "I daresay you're right. But I'd better be
getting back."
"It is rather late," Reade said.


He watched Lund turn through the gate and into the lane. Jeff Bowden was passing, his long hair
plastered in rat tails around his eyes and ears. He stood aside to let Lund pass, although there was plenty
of room in the lane; then he stood and glared after him. Lund turned to wave goodbye to Reade, caught
the scowl, and paused for a moment, his face hardening, as if about to return. Then he shrugged and
walked on. This interlude made Reade feel more depressed than ever. As he closed the door, he found
himself saying aloud, "God, how I detest fools."
He put the kettle on the fire and emptied the cold tea from the teapot. Then he turned the chair to
the fire and sat down, closing his eyes, trying to dispel the feeling of gloom by reflecting on it. But when
he examined it, he realized that it had nothing to do with Lund. It was the thought of the murderer, and
everything associated with him: the idea of boredom, neurosis, materialism, willful stupidity.
He emptied his mind of all ideas and feelings, thinking of darkness and emptiness. Then he
brought it back to the thought of Blake, of a man sitting alone on the beach at Felpham, watching the
sunlight on the sea and becoming aware of wider horizons of meaning, a consciousness of some immense,
universal source of purpose. For a moment the fatigue vanished; power came back to his brain like a
current of electricity. Then it faded again as he thought of a dismembered body lying on the foreshore of
the Thames.
He made the tea, thinking: It is a mistake to be alone all the time. Thoughts that could be
dispelled in a moment cling like leeches when you're alone.
He went to the window. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining on the smooth rock face
behind the cottage. The few dark clouds in the sky were drifting eastward. To the west, the sky was
clear. The idea of returning to Keswick came to him, and the thought made him feel more cheerful. It was