Название: Sacrament
Автор: Clive Barker
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Героическая фантастика
isbn: 9780007358298
isbn:
The sting was really throbbing now, the discomfort fuelling his rage. He went back up to the bathroom, found some ointment for insect bites in the medicine cabinet and gingerly applied it to the sting. Then he washed his face, removing any evidence of tears. He was never going to cry again, he told his reflection; it was stupid. It didn’t make anybody listen.
Feeling not in the least happier, he headed back downstairs. Little had changed. Craig was lounging in the kitchen, his mouth stuffed with something Adele had cooked up; Eleanor was sitting with her pills; and Hugo had taken his argument with Donald – who looked bull-headed enough to give as good as he got – out into the front garden, where they were talking at each other in a red rage. Nobody noticed Will stamp off towards the village; or if they did, nobody cared sufficiently to stop him.
The streets of Burnt Yarley were virtually deserted, the shops all closed. Even the little sweet-shop, where Will had hoped he might soothe his frustration and his dry throat with an ice-cream, was locked up. He peered in through the window, cupping his hands around his face. The interior was as small as the façade suggested, but packed to the rafters with goods, some dearly targeted at the ramblers and hikers who passed through the town: postcards, maps, even knapsacks. Curiosity satisfied, Will wandered on to the bridge. It wasn’t large – a span of maybe twelve feet – and built of the same grey stone as the tiny cottages in its immediate vicinity. He sat on the low wall and peered down into the river. The summer had been dry, and there was presently little more than a stream creeping between the rocks below, but the banks were fringed with marsh marigolds and dumps of balsam. There were bees around the balsam in their dozens. Will watched them warily, ready to retreat if one winged its way towards him.
‘It’s all stupid,’ he muttered.
‘What is?’ said somebody at his back.
He turned round, and found not one but two pairs of eyes upon him. The speaker, a fair-haired, fair-skinned and presently heavily-freckled girl a little older than himself, was standing at the rise of the bridge, while her companion squatted against the wall opposite Will and picked his nose. The boy was plainly her brother; they had common broad, plain features and grave, grey eyes. But while she still looked to be in her Sunday best, her sibling was a mess, his clothes wrinkled and grimy, his mouth stained with berry juice. He stared at Will with a scowl.
‘What’s stupid?’ the girl said again.
This place.’
‘ ‘Tisn’t,’ said the boy. ‘You’re stupid.’
‘Hush, Sherwood,’ the girl said.
‘Sherwood?’ said Will.
‘Yeah, Sherwood,’ came the boy’s defiant reply. He scrambled to his feet as if ready for a fight, his legs scabby with old scrapes. His belligerence lasted ten seconds. Then he said: ‘I want to go and play somewhere else.’ His interest in the stranger had plainly already waned. ‘Come on, Frannie.’
That’s not my real name,’ the girl put in, before Will could remark upon it. ‘It’s Frances.’
‘Sherwood’s a daft name,’ Will said.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Sherwood.
‘Yeah.’
‘So who are you?’ Frannie wanted to know.
‘He’s the Rabjohns kid,’ scabby-kneed Sherwood said.
‘How’d you know that?’ Will demanded.
Sherwood shrugged. ‘I heard,’ he said with a mischievous little smile, ‘ ‘cause I listen.’
Frannie laughed. The things you hear,’ she said.
Sherwood giggled, pleased to be appreciated. The things I hear,’ he said, his voice sing-song, as he repeated the phrase. The things I hear, the things I hear.’
‘Knowing somebody’s name isn’t so clever,’ Will replied.
‘I know more than that.’
‘Like?’
‘Like you came from Manchester, and you had a brother only he’s dead.’ He spoke the d-word with relish. ‘And your dad’s a teacher.’ He glanced at his sister. ‘Frannie says she hates teachers.’
‘Well he’s not a teacher,’ Will shot back.
‘What is he then?’ Frannie wanted to know.
‘He’s…he’s a Doctor of Philosophy.’
It sounded like a fine boast, and for a moment it silenced his audience. Then Frannie said: ‘Is he really a doctor?’
She had unerringly gone to the part of his father’s nomenclature Will had never really understood. He put a brave face on his incomprehension. ‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘He makes people better by…by writing books.’
‘That’s stupid,’ Sherwood said, crowing the word that had begun their whole exchange. He started to laugh at how ridiculous this was.
‘I don’t care what you think,’ Will said, putting on his best sneer. ‘Anybody who lives in this dump has got to be the biggest stupid person I ever saw. That’s what you are—‘
Sherwood had turned his back on Will and was spitting over the bridge. Will gave up on him and marched off back towards the house.
‘Wait—’ he heard Frannie say.
‘Frannie,’ Sherwood whined, ‘leave him alone.’
But Frannie was already at Will’s side. ‘Sometimes Sherwood gets silly,’ she said, almost primly. ‘But he’s my brother, so I have to watch out for him.’
‘Somebody’s going to bash him one of these days. Bash him hard. And it might be me.’
‘He gets bashed all the time,’ Frannie said,’ ‘cause people think he’s not quite…’ she halted, drew a breath, then went on: ‘…not quite right in the head.’
‘Fraaaannnnie…’ Sherwood was yelling.
‘You’d better go back to him, in case he falls off the bridge.’
Frannie gave her brother a fretful backward glance. ‘He’s okay. You know, it’s not so bad here,’ she said.
‘I don’t care,’ Will replied. ‘I’m going to be running away.’
‘Are you?’
‘I just said, didn’t I?’
‘Where to?’
‘I haven’t made up my mind.’
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