[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
In desperation he crossed to Shapiro's desk to see if
the man had any other item that might be pressed into
service, and there tucked out of sight between desk and
wall, he found the axe. He pulled it from hiding. As
Shapiro had boasted, it was hefty, its weight the first
reassurance Harry had felt in too long. He returned to
the corridor. The steam from the fractured pipe had
thickened. Through its veils it was apparent that the
concert had taken on new fervour. The doleful wailing
rose and fell, punctuated by some flaccid percussion.
He braved the cloud of steam and hurried to the stairs.
As he put his foot on the bottom step the music seemed to
catch him by the back of the neck, and whisper: 'Listen'
in his ear. He had no desire to listen; the music was vile.
But somehow - while he was distracted by finding the
axe - it had wormed its way into his skull. It drained his
limbs of strength. In moments the axe began to seem an
impossible burden.
'Come on down,' the music coaxed him, 'come on down
and join the band.'
Though he tried to form the simple word 'No', the
music was gaining influence upon him with every note
played. He began to hear melodies in the caterwauling;
long circuitous themes that made his blood sluggish and
his thoughts idiot. He knew there was no pleasure to
above, he heard his name called, but he ignored the
summons. The music clutched him close, and now -
as he descended the next flight of stairs - the musicians
came into view.
They were brighter than he had anticipated, and
more various. More baroque in their configurations
(the manes, the multiple heads); more particular in their
decoration (the suit of flayed faces; the rouged anus);
and, his drugged eyes now stung to see, more atrocious
in their choice of instruments. Such instruments! Byron
was there, his bones sucked clean and drilled with
stops, his bladder and lungs teased through slashes
in his body as reservoirs for the piper's breath. He
was draped, inverted, across the musician's lap, and
even now was played upon - the sacs ballooning, the
tongueless head giving out a wheezing note. Dorothea
was slumped beside him, no less transformed, the strings
of her gut made taut between her splinted legs like an
obscene lyre; her breasts drummed upon. There were
other instruments too, men who had come off the street
and fallen prey to the band. Even Chaplin was there,
much of his flesh burned away, his rib-cage played upon
indifferently well.
'I didn't take you for a music lover,' Butterfield said,
drawing upon a cigarette, and smiling in welcome. 'Put
'She was an innocent too,' said the lawyer, 'until we
showed her some sights.'
Harry looked at the woman's body; at the terrible
changes that they had wrought upon her. Seeing them,
a tremor began in him, and something came between
him and the music; the imminence of tears blotted it
out.
'Put down the axe,' Butterfield told him.
But the sound of the concert could not compete with
the grief that was mounting in him. Butterfield seemed
to see the change in his eyes; the disgust and anger
growing there. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette
and signalled for the music-making to stop.
'Must it be death, then?' Butterfield said, but the
enquiry was scarcely voiced before Harry started down
the last few stairs towards him. He raised the axe and
swung it at the lawyer but the blow was misplaced. The
blade ploughed the plaster of the wall, missing its target
by a foot.
At this eruption of violence the musicians threw down
their instruments and began across the lobby, trailing
their coats and tails in blood and grease. Harry caught
their advance from the corner of his eye. Behind the
horde, still rooted in the shadows, was another form,
larger than the largest of the mustered demons, from
second time. The blow caught Butterfield's shoulder;
the arm was instantly severed. The lawyer shrieked;
blood sprayed the wall. There was no time for a third
blow, however. The demons were reaching for him,
smiles lethal.
He turned on the stairs, and began up them, taking
the steps two, three and four at a time. Butterfield
was still shrieking below; from the flight above he
heard Valentin calling his name. He had neither time
nor breath to answer.
They were on his heels, their ascent a din of grunts and
shouts and beating wings. And behind it all, the jack-
hammer thumped its way to the bottom of the flight,
its noise more intimidating by far than the chatterings
of the berserkers at his back. It was in his belly, that
thump; in his bowels. Like death's heartbeat, steady and
irrevocable.
On the second landing he heard a whirring sound
behind him, and half turned to see a human-headed
moth the size of a vulture climbing the air towards
him. He met it with the axe blade, and hacked it
down. There was a cry of excitement from below as
the body flapped down the stairs, its wings working
like paddles. Harry sped up the remaining flight to
where Valentin was standing, listening. It wasn't the
and had laid the magician out in the middle of the
67
corridor, his hands crossed on his chest. In some last
mysterious act of reverence he had set folded paper bowls
at Swann's head and feet, and laid a tiny origami flower at
his lips. Harry lingered only long enough to re-acquaint
himself with the sweetness of Swann's expression, and
then ran to the door and proceeded to hack at the chains.
It would be a long job. The assault did more damage to
the axe than to the steel links. He didn't dare give up, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl szkicerysunki.xlx.pl
In desperation he crossed to Shapiro's desk to see if
the man had any other item that might be pressed into
service, and there tucked out of sight between desk and
wall, he found the axe. He pulled it from hiding. As
Shapiro had boasted, it was hefty, its weight the first
reassurance Harry had felt in too long. He returned to
the corridor. The steam from the fractured pipe had
thickened. Through its veils it was apparent that the
concert had taken on new fervour. The doleful wailing
rose and fell, punctuated by some flaccid percussion.
He braved the cloud of steam and hurried to the stairs.
As he put his foot on the bottom step the music seemed to
catch him by the back of the neck, and whisper: 'Listen'
in his ear. He had no desire to listen; the music was vile.
But somehow - while he was distracted by finding the
axe - it had wormed its way into his skull. It drained his
limbs of strength. In moments the axe began to seem an
impossible burden.
'Come on down,' the music coaxed him, 'come on down
and join the band.'
Though he tried to form the simple word 'No', the
music was gaining influence upon him with every note
played. He began to hear melodies in the caterwauling;
long circuitous themes that made his blood sluggish and
his thoughts idiot. He knew there was no pleasure to
above, he heard his name called, but he ignored the
summons. The music clutched him close, and now -
as he descended the next flight of stairs - the musicians
came into view.
They were brighter than he had anticipated, and
more various. More baroque in their configurations
(the manes, the multiple heads); more particular in their
decoration (the suit of flayed faces; the rouged anus);
and, his drugged eyes now stung to see, more atrocious
in their choice of instruments. Such instruments! Byron
was there, his bones sucked clean and drilled with
stops, his bladder and lungs teased through slashes
in his body as reservoirs for the piper's breath. He
was draped, inverted, across the musician's lap, and
even now was played upon - the sacs ballooning, the
tongueless head giving out a wheezing note. Dorothea
was slumped beside him, no less transformed, the strings
of her gut made taut between her splinted legs like an
obscene lyre; her breasts drummed upon. There were
other instruments too, men who had come off the street
and fallen prey to the band. Even Chaplin was there,
much of his flesh burned away, his rib-cage played upon
indifferently well.
'I didn't take you for a music lover,' Butterfield said,
drawing upon a cigarette, and smiling in welcome. 'Put
'She was an innocent too,' said the lawyer, 'until we
showed her some sights.'
Harry looked at the woman's body; at the terrible
changes that they had wrought upon her. Seeing them,
a tremor began in him, and something came between
him and the music; the imminence of tears blotted it
out.
'Put down the axe,' Butterfield told him.
But the sound of the concert could not compete with
the grief that was mounting in him. Butterfield seemed
to see the change in his eyes; the disgust and anger
growing there. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette
and signalled for the music-making to stop.
'Must it be death, then?' Butterfield said, but the
enquiry was scarcely voiced before Harry started down
the last few stairs towards him. He raised the axe and
swung it at the lawyer but the blow was misplaced. The
blade ploughed the plaster of the wall, missing its target
by a foot.
At this eruption of violence the musicians threw down
their instruments and began across the lobby, trailing
their coats and tails in blood and grease. Harry caught
their advance from the corner of his eye. Behind the
horde, still rooted in the shadows, was another form,
larger than the largest of the mustered demons, from
second time. The blow caught Butterfield's shoulder;
the arm was instantly severed. The lawyer shrieked;
blood sprayed the wall. There was no time for a third
blow, however. The demons were reaching for him,
smiles lethal.
He turned on the stairs, and began up them, taking
the steps two, three and four at a time. Butterfield
was still shrieking below; from the flight above he
heard Valentin calling his name. He had neither time
nor breath to answer.
They were on his heels, their ascent a din of grunts and
shouts and beating wings. And behind it all, the jack-
hammer thumped its way to the bottom of the flight,
its noise more intimidating by far than the chatterings
of the berserkers at his back. It was in his belly, that
thump; in his bowels. Like death's heartbeat, steady and
irrevocable.
On the second landing he heard a whirring sound
behind him, and half turned to see a human-headed
moth the size of a vulture climbing the air towards
him. He met it with the axe blade, and hacked it
down. There was a cry of excitement from below as
the body flapped down the stairs, its wings working
like paddles. Harry sped up the remaining flight to
where Valentin was standing, listening. It wasn't the
and had laid the magician out in the middle of the
67
corridor, his hands crossed on his chest. In some last
mysterious act of reverence he had set folded paper bowls
at Swann's head and feet, and laid a tiny origami flower at
his lips. Harry lingered only long enough to re-acquaint
himself with the sweetness of Swann's expression, and
then ran to the door and proceeded to hack at the chains.
It would be a long job. The assault did more damage to
the axe than to the steel links. He didn't dare give up, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]