"Greg Egan - Singleton" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

twenties in the crowd; if these weekend rugby players hadn't felt competent
to intervene, what chance did I have? I reached down for my backpack. If I
wasn't going to help, there was no point being here at all. I'd find out what
had happened on the evening news. I started to retrace my steps, sick with
self-loathing. This wasn't kristallnacht. There'd be no embarrassing
questions from my grandchildren. No one would ever reproach me. As if that
were the measure of everything. “Fuck it.” I dropped my backpack and ran down
the alley. I was close enough to smell the three sweating bodies over the
stench of rotting garbage before I was even noticed. The nearest of the
attackers glanced over his shoulder, affronted, then amused. He didn't bother
redeploying his weapon in mid-stroke; as I hooked an arm around his neck in
the hope of overbalancing him, he thrust his elbow into my chest, winding me.
I clung on desperately, maintaining the hold even though I couldn't tighten
it. As he tried to prise himself loose, I managed to kick his feet out from
under him. We both went down onto the asphalt; I ended up beneath him. The
man untangled himself and clambered to his feet. As I struggled to right
myself, picturing a metal hook swinging into my face, someone whistled. I
looked up to see the second man gesturing to his companion, and I followed
his gaze. A dozen men and women were coming down the alley, advancing
together at a brisk walk. It was not a particularly menacing sight — I'd seen
angrier crowds with peace signs painted on their faces — but the sheer
numbers were enough to guarantee some inconvenience. The first man hung back
long enough to kick me in the ribs. Then the two of them fled. I brought my
knees up, then raised my head and got into a crouch. I was still winded, but
for some reason it seemed vital not to remain flat on my back. One of the
office workers grinned down at me. “You fuckwit. You could have got
killed.” The kitchen hand shuddered, and snorted bloody mucus. His eyes were
swollen shut, and when he lay his hands down beside him, I could see the
bones of his knuckles through the torn skin. My own skin turned icy, at this
vision of the fate I'd courted for myself. But if it was a shock to realise
how I might have ended up, it was just as sobering to think that I'd almost
walked away and let them finish him off, when the intervention had actually
cost me nothing. I rose to my feet. People milled around the kitchen hand,
asking each other about first aid. I remembered the basics from a course I'd
done in high school, but the man was still breathing, and he wasn't losing
vast amounts of blood, so I couldn't think of anything helpful that an
amateur could do in the circumstances. I squeezed my way out of the gathering
and walked back to the street. My backpack was exactly where I'd left it; no
one had stolen my books. I heard sirens approaching; the police and the
ambulance would be there soon. My ribs were tender, but I wasn't in agony. I'd
cracked a rib falling off a trail bike on the farm when I was twelve, and I
was fairly sure that this was just bruising. For a while I walked bent over,
but by the time I reached the station I found I could adopt a normal gait. I
had some grazed skin on my arms, but I couldn't have appeared too battered,
because no one on the train looked at me twice. That night, I watched the
news. The kitchen hand was described as being in a stable condition. I
pictured him stepping out into the alley to empty a bucket of fish-heads into
the garbage, to find the two of them waiting for him. I'd probably never
learn what the attack had been about unless the case went to trial, and as
yet the police hadn't even named any suspects. If the man had been in a fit