"Guy N. Smith - Throwback" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

up in the hills thirty miles away from all this madness. Jon, her husband,
would be there, totally oblivious to all of this. Maybe he wouldn't even care
if he did know because their marriage was finished and no doubt he had that
Atkinson girl with him. A kind of mutual agreement that you came to when there
was nothing else left between you. You both had lovers, made a pretence of
keeping it a secret from each other but it was all a waste of time because you
both knew anyway. A facade, a game you played. Go and enjoy your day's
shopping, dear, I'll be OK (because Sylvia will get my lunch and I'll be able
to screw her). Stop on late if you want and go to Tiffany's because you know I
don't like dancing. I know you'll jive all by yourself. (If you find yourself
a man for the night please don't tell me because it'll spoil our little game.)

But I want to go home! Maybe under normal circumstances she would have given
way to hysteria. Women were crying and screaming all around her. Damn it, I'm
going home!

She stood up again. Funny, she should have been weak, legs threatening to
buckle under her, throw her back down to the ground. But she felt strong; ill
but strong. It was illogical, too complicated for her to work out.
She held her bare arms out in front of her, gazed at them in revulsion. It was
as though she had dipped them in a bath of scalding water, the skin peeling
yet hardening, knitting together again in a strange kind of plastic coating.
So rough, they didn't hurt half so much now.

Check your reflection again in that shop window. No, I don't want to see.
Well, you can't stop here.

She found herself running, a crazy zig-zag sprint that took her across the
road, weaving in and out of cavorting, stumbling men and women, reached the
opposite pavement. A hand closed over her arm, grasped her wrist, but she
threw it off. Keep going, up those steps to the church above. Don't stop.

It wasn't a church. She knew that only too well, had been in here often
enough, every week in fact. St Julian's Craft Centre, much of the church
edifice untouched, stalls where once there had been pews, the altar removed
during the process of deconsecration. Stained glass windows that flickered
brightly, had her turning her head away because her eyes hurt. So cool and
refreshing, she could stop in here forever; die here!

No, you're not going to die. Pull yourself together. A man, the only occupant
of the interior, features she recognised in spite of the awful disfigurement,
but she had never known his name. He was to be found in here most weeks, a
browser who wore a long frayed black coat, summer and winter alike, a long
straggling beard giving him a bohemian appearance. Today he looked wild-eyed
at her, acknowledged her with a smile that had spittle stringing down his
hairy chin.

"They ... did ... this . . .'He had difficulty getting the words out, a
physical effort like one who stammered, wrenching the sounds out of his
throat.