"Tim Lebbon - Naming of Parts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lebbon Tim)

window, and with less to hear, there was more to be afraid of. Against the silence every snapped twig
sounded louder, each rustle of fur across masonry was singled out for particular attention by his galloping
imagination. It meant that there was something out there to frighten everything else into muteness.

And then the careful caress of fingertips across cold glass.
Jack sat up in bed and held his breath. Weak moonlight filtered through the curtains, but other than that
his room was filled with darkness. He clutched at his blankets to retain the heat. Something hooted in the
distance, but the call was cut off sharply, leaving the following moments painfully empty.

Click click click. Fingernails picking at old, dried glazing putty, perhaps? It sounded like it was coming
from outside and below, but it could just as easily have originated within his room, behind the flowing
curtains, something frantically trying to get out rather than break in.

He tried naming his fears, this time unsuccessfully; he was not entirely sure what was scaring him.

A floorboard creaked on the landing, the one just outside the bathroom door. Three creaks down, three
back up. Jack’s heart beat faster and louder and he let out a gasp, waiting for more movement, listening
for the subtle scratch of fingernails at his bedroom door. He could not see the handle, it was too dark, it
may even be turning now?

Another creak from outside, and then he heard his mother’s voice and his father hissing back at her.

“Dad!” Jack croaked. There were other sounds now: the soft thud of something tapping windows; a
whispering sound, like a breeze flowing through the ivy on the side of the house, though the air was dead
calm tonight.

“Dad!” He called louder this time, fear giving his voice a sharp edge to cut through the dark.

The door opened and a shadow entered, silhouetted against the landing light. It moved towards him,
unseen feet creaking more boards. “It’s okay, son,” his father whispered, “just stay in bed. Mum will be
in with you now. Won’t you, Janey?”

Jack’s mother edged into the room and crossed to the bed, cursing as she stumbled on something he’d
left on the floor. There was always stuff on the floor in Jack’s room. His dad called itJack debris .

“What’s going on, Dad?” he asked. “What’s outside?”

“There’s nothing outside,” his father said. His voice was a monotone that Jack recognised, the one he
used to tell fatherly untruths. And then Jack noticed, for the first time, that he was carrying his shotgun.

“Dad?” Jack said uncertainly. Cool fingers seemed to touch his neck, and they were not his mother’s.

She hugged him to her. “Gray, you’re scaring him.”

“Janey?“

“Whatever…just be careful. Be calm.”

Jack did not understand any of this. His mother hugged him and in her warmth he found the familiar
comfort, though tonight it felt like a lie. He did not want this comfort, this warmth, not when there was