"Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

it. Wash-your-mouth-with-soap stuff.'
'Juju? Barry frowned. 'But isn't that -' He was interrupted by the return of
Mrs Macksie, leaning on Clare's arm. She launched into a speech like a diver
off a high board. 'I want you, sah, to understand -about all this I know
nothin' - nothin' at all. But there was a time I see something of the sort
befoah. When my late husband he was a medical orderly back home in Trinidad,
the Lord's work call us to missions often. There was a bad time then, on other
island far away; all kinds of folk comin' away in feah of their lives - to
Jamaica, Trinidad, anywhere they could, Cuba even. We see a lot of them round
missions, we get to know their lives. Poor folk, bittah folk with bad blood
an' scores to pay; Things went on - She squirmed, as if the very thought made
her uncomfortable. 'Devil's work. Obeah. Ouanga, they call it in their fear.
We war against it as we could with love, but theah's some too steeped in
darkness to see the light. Theah we see things done ... like this. Never so
bad, though, even then. The signs I doan' remember, not at first, not till I
see that...'
She drew a deep shaky breath and pointed at the nasty speck of blood and
feathers on my screen. 'That ... You want to know what obeah is? That theah's
obeah. You take that and you burn it.'
I'll be glad to,' said Barry, a little shakily. 'But what is it?'
 'It's bad - you need to know more? Okay. It's called a cigle don-pedro,
and I don' know what that mean any more'n you and I don't ever want to know.
Sometimes the Mazanxa use it, sometime the Zobop or the VlinbUndingue. Use it
with signs like these, and for nothin' good. An' thass' all I'm telling you,
'cause thass' all I know.'
'Hold on a minute,' said the policeman hastily. 'Am I to understand -'
Ignoring him, she turned to Barry. 'And now, sah, if you'll kindly excuse
me, there's a heap of work heah, and I'm getting all behind.' With serene calm
she turned and walked out again. The CID man gaped after her, but he didn't
try to stop her. He turned to Dave instead.
'What the hell was all that about? Was she trying to tell me this was
done by these - what the hell did she call them? These refugee types? Where
were they refugees from, anyhow?'
'That's the kicker,' said Dave with ghoulish relish. 'You ask me - it
looks like we got turned over by some of those West Indian yobs from out South
Street way.'
'West Indian?' blinked Barry. 'Why so?'
'Well, I can't see there being that many Haiitians in town - can you?'
'Haiitians?'
*You heard the lady. That's where the refugees were coming from. Happy little
Haiiti. And obeah's just the local name for practices no respectable
Trinidadian would be caught dead in - if you'll pardon the expression. But
down thataway they're a lot more common.'
The CID man shut his notebook with a snap, and twanged a rubber band into
place around it. 'Good as computers, that, for me ... Yes. Well, it's a lead,
I suppose. Don't suppose we've been treading on any West Indian toes lately,
have we, sir? No Race Relations Board cases?'
Everyone laughed. Of course we hadn't; we were a respectable company, and
our business was international. Our standards were high, but an unusual or
exotic background was a positive plus; we hired people from all over, and