Читать книгу February's Son - Alan Parks - Страница 9

He sits down, looks at what he’s done. Down to his trousers and vest now, hard work this thing he’s doing. Still an occasional moan from it, gurgle and cough as the blood runs back down its throat. He’s tired but he’s close to the end now. He stands back up, calls it a fucker again, spits at it. Tells it why he’s here even though it must know. Tells it again and again. No response. He takes a swinging kick at the side of its head. The moon emerges from the clouds, illuminates the scene in cold, heartless light.

He takes the Polaroid camera he’s bought himself out the holdall. Sticks a flashcube on the top and aims the camera at it. Familiar click as he squeezes the button, bulb fizzes, camera makes a grinding noise then the cardboard-backed photo slides out the back. He sticks it under his arm. Moves in, takes another one, closer this time, shoves that under his other arm and waits the two minutes just like it says on the packet. He peels the backs off, ghostly reverse image on the paper. He lets the wind take the paper out his hands, watches it fly up into the air then slowly descend over the side of the building. Nice little present for someone to find. The pictures are still sticky. He holds them by the corners, lays them on the ground, tries not to look at them too much, keep that for later.

Gurgling has stopped now, no more misty breath leaking out its mouth. Dead. He takes the ivory-handled razor out his pocket and moves in. He’s being a Good Boy not doing it while it’s alive. He smiles, not like he hasn’t done it before, maybe he’s getting soft in his old age. He says her name, tells her it’s all for her own good. Wishes she was here watching, knowing what he’d done. He lifts his arm and the razor comes down. An arc of dark red blood flies past his shoulder and splatters into the puddles on the ground.