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....
‘We’re up on a mountain top in South London, Gwillam, and you’re showing me all the kingdoms of the world. Now guess what I have to say to you?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Retro me, Satanas.’
‘I said—’
‘You’re serious. So am I. Get your hand out of my pants, you God-bothering bastard. I’m on your side for as long as this takes, but don’t think for a moment that I won’t beat the living shit out of you the next time I meet you without your muscle.’
He touched his bruised cheek. ‘Well,’ he said calmly, ‘I had to try.
‘You think disciples are the same thing as friends?’ I demanded. ‘Try asking Jesus.’
The walkway ahead of us was eerily silent, but the rubble and broken glass that littered it made it clear that the silence was a relatively recent development. Dark, irregular splashes and streaks on the walkway’s cracked concrete showed black in the actinic glare of the police spotlights, but from closer up, I was willing to bet, would turn out to be the rust-brown of dried blood.
Facing us was Boateng Tower, and beyond that was Weston. Maybe fifty yards, across no man’s land and into the valley of death.
We’d had it easy up until now. Gwillam’s magic paper and the police escort it conjured up had got us up the stairs at Marston Tower and through the police barricade - passing along the way a very large number of tense young constables waiting for the riot squad to arrive and scared shitless that they were going to have to go back into the breach before that happened.
But now here we were, on the front line. Behind the smashed windows overhead, vague shadows moved: and between us and Boateng, rearing up to precarious heights as though someone was trying to rebuild the Tower of Babel out of smashed furniture, was the rioters’ barricade. Nobody was manning it that I could see: but a couple of hours’ attrition would have removed the thrill-seekers who were prepared to stick their heads up for a look around and take a rubber bullet or a tear-gas canister in the chops.
‘YÃont, aou can leave us,’ Gwillam told the uniformed sergeant who’d been our escort up to this point. ‘My people can handle it from here.
