"Smith, Guy N - Crabs 05 - Crabs' Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

A sudden noise like the snapping of a dry twig had her whirling around, her pulses starting to race instantly. A movement, like a foot being lowered gently on to a clump of dry grass. A faint cough.

Irey's mouth went instantly dry. She tried to tell herself that it was Keith returning but he would have no need for stealth. Unless he was a secret voyeur and hoped to catch her unawares, to study her from a secret vantage point. She had heard about men like that, the sort of things they got up to. She went a clammy cold in spite of the heat.

If Keith Baxter was intent on creeping up on her that was bad enough-but if it was anybody else then that was a thousand times worse! She had to get dressed whoever it was.

Her trembling fingers found a bra strap in the grass, lifted it; dropped it. And at the very second she went to retrieve it she saw the face peering out of the grass at her.

Irey Wall didn't scream. The sound somehow became stuck in her throat, died away in an ignominious gurgle. Her muscles refused to function, became jellified and useless. Only her eyes moved and saw, conveyed sheer terror to her numbed brain.

It certainly wasn't Keith Baxter who crouched there watching her with grey penetrating eyes. It was impossible even to guess at his age; he might have been as old as sixty or he could have been a drop-out in his mid-twenties whose body had aged prematurely. He seemed to be twisted from the waist downwards, with thin wasted legs that were deformed through some disease; perhaps he was a polio victim.

He wore a torn crimson shirt, the tails hanging loosely outside his faded denim trousers. His feet were bare, the toes with their long broken black nails all squashed together as though they were intent on defying their Maker and forming into webbed limbs.

His face, oh God, his face was the most terrifying feature of all, partly screened by creepers of long grey hair which fell forward as though intent on hiding the horrific features from mankind. The eyes were large, bulging from their sockets, set too close together so that surely his vision was impaired. The nose was no more than twin nostrils in the centre, black encrusted minute cavities that bubbled mucus as he breathed. And the mouth-a single slit in which bobbed uneven lines of decayed tooth stumps, a sharp pointed central one seeming to gouge the lip directly above it every time it moved.

'Who ... are you?' Irey marvelled at her own calm, the way she asked a question instead of screaming hysterically.

'Bar-tholo-mew.' The name was strung out as though the other had difficulty in pronouncing it. Perhaps nobody had ever asked him before.

'Bartholomew?'

He nodded. 'S'right. Everybody knows Bartholomew round here. I comes and goes as I please. I sees things that other folks miss. You understand?'

Irey nodded and thought to herself, he's some local nutter. She eased her thighs close together; he'd been staring in between them a few seconds ago. It gave her a feeling of revulsion.

'Where's your man, lady?'

'He's . . . he's around.' At least I hope he is. Try and keep him talking and get dressed at the same time. Maybe he's perfectly harmless but you can never be sure.

'A lot o' young girls gets themselves fucked in these dunes,' he spoke emotionlessly, a kind of recitation.

'Do they now?' She tried to sound haughty. 'Well, for your information, Mr Bartholomew or whatever you call yourself, I was merely stripped off ready to go for a swim. But I've changed my mind. I'm getting dressed and as soon as my husband turns up we're going home. He should be here any second.'

'Don't you get goin' near the water, lady!' Suddenly his lisping voice took on a new note, a low whisper broken only by the sound of loose phlegm in his lungs. 'Whatever you do, don't go down to the sea. Not if you want to stay alive!'

'I ... I beg your pardon.' Little icy ripples spread over her body, closed over her heart. He's mad. Humour him.

'I seen 'em shortly after dawn this mornin', lady,' he leaned closer, his eyes beginning to roll. 'A dozen of 'em, maybe more. I can't say 'cause I can't count if there's more'n a few. But they came up out of the tide, lookin' for food.'

'What came up out of the tide, Bartholomew?' Irey was feverishly trying to fasten the clasp of her bra but it was proving an impossible task. 'Sharks, like Jaws in the film?'

'Crabs!' Bartholomew spat the word out venomously.

'Crabs!' Irey repeated incredulously. 'But every stretch of coastline in Britain has crabs.'

'Not the likes o' these,' there was an expression of terror on his hairy features as he spread his arms wide, stretched to try and extend them even further. 'Big 'uns. Bigger'n sheep. Big as cows.'

Something stopped her from contradicting him. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes or maybe the way his voice died away to an unintelligible wheeze.