В Thicker Than Water, каждое ново открывается шрамом более глубокой связи между людьми. Главные герои — это два близнеца, чья жизнь разбита одной коварной встречей. Начинается с простых моментов и остается неизменным мрачно-сюрреалистическим тоном, привлекающим внимание и заставляющим ждать следующего шага.
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I couldn’t shake off a sombre mood, though. I was thinking about kids: about Mark Seddon, and about Bic. Even about the cocky little bastard I’d just tangled with. I hadn’t picked the fight; and once I was in it, I’d won it in the only way I could think of. And he might even have survived, because loup-garous are as tough as weeds. If not, his spirit could find another animal host and start the make-over process all over again in its own sweet time.
I still felt like I’d just pulled a switchblade on a puppy dog. But then again, I hadn’t had the option of a rolled-up newspaper.
Pulling into Lime Street for the first time in so long gave me a peculiar kind of double vision.
Three years. Not so very long, really, if you count it in calendar terms: but in terms of what I’d lived through since, it was about two ice ages ago. The last time I’d walked out through those oversized doors and got the Mersey’s gusty, vinegary breath full in my face, it had been before Juliet. Before Rafi, even. Back when banishing the dead for fun and profit had seemed like a reasonable way of making a living.
Coming north had taken me a piddling two hundred miles closer to the Arctic circle, but the afternoon air had a slight chill in it all the same. A green double-decker in the livery of the MPTE rolled past me, and as I crossed the road I glimpsed first the tower of the Playhouse rising above Forster Square and then, off to the right, the heroic frontage of St George’s Hall. Amidst the welter of new roads and shitty poured-concrete frontages, they were like old friends standing on the fringes of a party where they didn’t know anybody.
I waited at the bus stop, out of sheer force of habit, for the number 93. I could have grabbed a cab, but I’d always gone in and out of town by bus. Neither of my parents had ever driven, and I hadn’t even taken lessons myself until I’d moved down to the Smoke.
I checked my itinerary off in my mind. I was looking for Anita, first and foremost: notwithstanding my own bad example, those born and bred in Liverpool 9 have a strong homing instinct, and this was my best guess as to where she would have come after life with Kenny lost its lustre. I was thinking that I’d shake down her brother Richard - Dick-Breath - and see if he knew where I could find her. If not, I’d get what I could by putting my questions to him instead.
I was also thinking of talking to some of the other Seddons if any of them had hung around in Walton.
