Читать книгу Dead Lines - Greg Bear - Страница 13

Lydia looked tired and pale but vital, and she certainly behaved as if nothing untoward had happened. She introduced the guests to Peter. Two he had met long ago, writers from a group Phil had belonged to for almost thirty years, the Mysterians. Peter had attended several meetings and liked them well enough. Mystery writers, reporters, a couple of cops. The two Mysterians that Lydia had invited were both male, portly, and in their sixties. Peter had the impression they were gay and lived together.

Two women Peter did not know – matronly, in their early forties – carried Tupperware bowls of potato salad and green salad and a foiled tray of lasagna up the walk and into the kitchen. Four other unfamiliar faces drifted by and were introduced, all male and in their mid to late fifties. The guests shook hands with Peter, stood awkwardly in the living room, and circulated past the bronze plastic urn, giving it sidelong glances.

‘I’m glad Phil showed up,’ Lydia whispered to Peter in the kitchen. Peter watched her closely. ‘They had him for two days before they called me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why they didn’t call you.’

‘You kept his last name,’ Peter said. Lydia brushed his shoulder with her arm. She smelled cool and nervous, beneath the haze of tobacco. If she had not smoked for thirty years she might still be beautiful. She faced him square and her expression turned to concern. ‘You look bad, Peter. Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed here last night.’

‘It was not a comfortable evening,’ Peter admitted.

‘Spooky?’ she asked, piquant.

He awarded her a thin smile for the jab.

‘I doubt it was Phil,’ Lydia said. ‘He’s long gone. This world never did suit him. I didn’t suit him. But you know, even so, I kind of lost it yesterday,’ she suddenly confessed, her eyes bright. ‘I had a little fit. I started shouting his name, in the empty house. Isn’t that strange? Just blew out my grief. I felt better after. I didn’t know I still gave a damn.’