Dead Men's s Boots — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

‘That should be enough,’ said Juliet’s voice, from some unfathomable distance. ‘Use it wisely.’

With enormous reluctance, coming down from a height that was already fading out of my mind and leaving no traces, I turned to follow her. A brittle heat filled me now, and it was as dry as the air in a furnace. Otherwise I might have cried.

‘And now,’ said Moloch with ironic emphasis when we reached the bottom of the ladder, ‘if you’ve adjusted your dress-’ Juliet’s warning glare silenced him.

&#ã wi th8216;We’re the point men,’ I said to him. ‘We’re going in from the front. Juliet’s going to join us when she’s done what needs to be done here.’

He bowed, gesturing for me to take the lead. I looked around at Juliet one more time.

‘Luck,’ I said, for want of anything better to say.

‘There’s no such thing,’ she told me dispassionately, already walking away. ‘Trust in luck and you’ll die tonight.’

I headed for the entrance to the yard. The gate had been closed with a padlock when we turned up, but Moloch had twisted the lock between finger and thumb and it had snapped off clean: then he’d tossed it negligently away over his shoulder. There was nothing to slow us down now as we walked back out onto the street.

The front gates of the crematorium were a much heftier proposition. They were off on our left, fifty yards away at most. I hadn’t taken the time to admire them on the day of John’s cremation, but I could see now that they were built to withstand a serious siege. Where they touched they wore a massive chain and a clutch of padlocks like a giant’s charm bracelet.

We took our time, not wanting to get there too early. The impassive men inside stared out at us through the bars as we approached. There were three of them, all dressed in the sombre black uniforms of priests or security guards. But most priests don’t have that kind of physique. I stared back. No sign of small arms – only sidewinder nightsticks in holsters at their waists: but then, they wouldn’t want a chance passer-by to notice anything odd and dial 999. The rifles would put in an appearance soon enough if we gave them any excuse.

‘Evening, gents,’ I said, coming to a halt right in front of the gates. Juliet’s arcane energies were burning inside me. I felt slightly hysterical: it was hard not to laugh out loud.

The guy in the middle gave me a bored, neutral look. ‘Anything we can do for you?’ he asked, in a tone that emphatically didn’t expect a yes and wouldn’t be happy to hear one.

‘Yeah,’ I said equably. ‘We’ve come to see Uncle George. He’s in the memorial garden, right next to the stone cherub with the fascist graffiti on its arse. George Armstrong Castor. He was in the cavalry.’

The guard didn’t answer me right away: he gave us both a harder look, his eyebrows inverting themselves into a dark V of stony disapproval.

‘The memorial garden is closed,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.’

I shook my head firmly. ‘Tomorrow morning is no use,’ I said. ‘We’re grieving now. By tomorrow we could be feeling cynical and self-sufficient again. So would you mind opening up before I lose my temper?’

The words hung in the air. I was smiling as I said them: a slightly crazed smile that did nothing to take away the edge of threat. But the guard’s pained expression as he scratched his ear and squared his shoulders said very eloquently that the threat wasn’t a credible one – and that he’d had more than enough of being polite.

‘Fuck off out of it, pally,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you we’re closed.’

Moloch stepped past me and took a two-handed grip on the bars, arms at full stretch. He shook the gates on their hinges, testing their weight and heft. One of the guards on the flank gave a jeering laugh. But the guy in charge wasn&ãin str#8217;t seeing the funny side.

He took a step towards the gate, his hand going to the grip of his nightstick. And that, by a happy chance, was when the fun started. There was a rending crash from away to our right: the three guards, taken by surprise, all turned their heads to see what the noise was: we knew it was coming, so we didn’t.

I know Todd said that the Mount Grace collective liked to keep things in the family, so what happened next was no more than the pirate souls in possession of these men deserved. I couldn’t help remembering, though, that the flesh still belonged to someone else: that each of these human bodies had a prisoner locked in an oubliette somewhere screaming to be released. Moloch granted them their wish in a particularly hideous way.

He pushed the gates upwards and inwards, the hinges breaking open with sharp, metallic cracks like the blows of a hammer on an anvil. Then he swung them like a giant fly-swatter and brought them down on the three men, crushing them to the ground.