The Crowmaster. Barry Hutchison

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ but in all the… excitement of the day, they’d got lost.

      The shelves of the fridge were almost bare. Tomorrow was shopping day – well, technically, since it was after midnight, today was shopping day, but since I hadn’t been to sleep yet I was still classing it as ‘tomorrow’. Pity. There was never anything decent in the fridge on the day before shopping day.

      The milk carton felt light when I picked it up and carried it across to the table. If I drank some there probably wouldn’t be enough left for cereal in the morning. I grabbed a glass from the draining board and half filled it anyway. Nan always said milky drinks were good for helping you get to sleep, and drinks don’t come much milkier than milk.

      On the wall above the microwave the plastic hands of the clock crept past 3 a.m. There were no ticks, no tocks, just the same flat silence that seemed to have fallen like a blanket across the world.

      I put the carton with its dribble of milk back in the fridge and closed the door. It gave a gurgle, but it was short and faint, and nowhere near its usual high standard.

      With glass in hand I wandered through to the living room, where the carpet slowly warmed the soles of my feet. The lamp post outside spilled light through a gap in the curtains – not much, but enough to help me avoid most of the room’s major obstacles.

      Lifting the remote control from the top of the TV I made for the couch. I wasn’t sure what television stations filled their night-time slots with, but it had to be more interesting than lying on my back staring at the ceiling until morning.

      Sipping my milk, I sat on the couch and curled my legs up beneath me. The TV came on at the first press of the remote, and the silence was suddenly shattered by a loud, nasal laugh. The sound made me jump, and a splosh of milk slid up the side of the glass and spilled down the sleeve of my pyjamas. The thumb of my other hand frantically searched for the mute switch.

      At last I found the button. The laughter was immediately cut short. I sat there with the remote still pointed at the television, breath held, listening for any sign that I’d woken anyone up.

      Not a bedspring groaned. Not a floorboard creaked. Gradually, my muscles began to relax and I leaned back against the cushions. The milk had trickled down past my elbow, but was now being absorbed into my PJs, so at least I didn’t have to worry about cleaning it up.

      On the TV, the laughing man was still guffawing away, only now I couldn’t hear him. I recognised him as a chef from one of the cookery programmes that Mum watches. He and another man were in a room filled with big wooden barrels and racks of wine bottles. Every so often they’d fill a glass, take a sip, spit it back out into a bucket, then start laughing again like a couple of maniacs. I’d tasted wine on Mum’s birthday a few months ago. It tasted like vinegar and left a horrible film on my tongue. No wonder the men on the telly were gobbing the stuff out rather than drinking it. I’d been tempted to do the same thing myself.

      In the bottom-right corner of the screen, a little woman was making a series of frantic hand gestures. I knew she was signing for the deaf, but I didn’t understand why whenever the men on screen laughed, she pretended to laugh too.

      What was the point in that? Surely deaf people could see the men were laughing? They didn’t need her shaking her belly and contorting her face into a big Santa-Claus-style chortle, did they?

      I flicked over to another channel. A skeleton-faced man with a long white beard was looking at an even longer mathematical equation on a whiteboard. I quickly hit a button on the remote and moved on.

      The next programme I found was about Egypt. The pyramids were a dead giveaway. Someone was signing for the deaf on this channel too. This time the person doing the sign language was a man. He looked very excited about being on telly. His face moved as if it was made of living Plasticine, and his hand gestures were so wild and frantic he looked in danger of slapping himself unconscious. Every movement and gesture he made was ridiculously exaggerated. I wondered if that was how deaf people shouted at each other.

      I watched the strange animated little man until I’d finished the rest of my milk. He was far more interesting than the actual programme and I could have kept watching him all night, but I was yawning now and it felt like sleep might be at least a vague possibility.

      I hit the red button on the remote and the picture on screen turned into a thin line of colour, then disappeared completely. Pushing with my legs I bounced up off the couch and took a few steps towards the kitchen.

      Something hidden by the gloom on the floor snagged my foot. I barely had time to realise it was one of Ameena’s boots before I stumbled, staggered, then started to fall.

      I managed to catch the edge of the coffee table, but still came down hard on my knees. The jolt of my abrupt stop shuddered through me, and I felt the wet glass slip from my fingers.

      Crash. The milky tumbler smashed against the wooden tabletop, showering it and the carpet in a hundred sharp crystalline slivers. The shattering sound shook me to the core, and not because I was worried about getting into trouble. It was because the sound had reminded me of something – something I’d been trying hard to forget.

      The last time I’d heard glass break had been here in this very room. That time it hadn’t been a drinking glass smashing, though. It had been the window, as my childhood imaginary friend, Mr Mumbles, came crashing through.

      Kneeling there on the floor I could remember it all so clearly. The panic as the window came in. The shock as Mr Mumbles fixed me with his beady glare. The sight of him. The smell of him. The feeling of his rough hands around my neck.

      My throat tightened as I pushed myself up on trembling legs. I could hear the faint murmurings of movement upstairs now. Someone had heard the glass breaking. A feeling of relief washed over me, easing the knot in my stomach. The memory of my all-too-real imaginary friend had disturbed me, and right at that moment I really didn’t feel like being alone.

      And then I realised.

      I wasn’t alone.

      He was standing there in front of the curtains, just as he had been last time. His wide-brimmed hat curved down, hiding his face in a mask of shadow. His heavy overcoat swished softly back and forth on a breeze I couldn’t feel or hear. His stench hit my nostrils; the familiar stink of filth and decay and of things long dead. It caught way back in my throat and made me gag.

      He tilted his head and the light from outside pulled the dark veil from his face. There was the cracked, papery skin. There were the narrowed eyes; the hooked nose, through which his foul breath came whistling in and out.

      And there, stretched into a humourless smile, were the lips – thick and bloated, and criss-crossed by a series of short grubby stitches that sealed his mouth tight shut.

      My head shook all by itself, trying to deny what my eyes were seeing. But there was no avoiding it. There was no other way of explaining away what I was looking at. I didn’t know he’d done it, but he had. Somehow he’d come back.

      Mr Mumbles was back.

      Again.

      ‘Kyle?’ I heard Mum’s voice at the same time the living-room light came on.

      ‘Mum, move, get out!’ I cried, spinning quickly to face her. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, dressing gown wrapped around her, a finger still on the light switch.

      ‘What?’ she frowned. СКАЧАТЬ