Читать книгу The Zima Confession - Iain M Rodgers - Страница 4

(Moscow – 2012)

Years of nothingness had passed. The promises, the beliefs, the hopes, had turned to numbness.

Richard paused in the middle of pulling his left sock off and stared – confusion oscillating between fascination and horror. There were awful dark indigo bulges on the top of his foot in the flesh just beneath the skin. It seemed that parasitic worms of some sort had hatched out in his bloodstream.

Tentatively, he traced a finger over the bulbous nodes where their translucent, tubular bodies overlaid one another, half expecting to see them begin to writhe and twist deeper into his foot, or burst out leaving trails of filthy, contaminated blood. But as he examined them he knew they wouldn’t. For they were not parasitic worms – they were something even worse – more portentous.

Varicose veins. He was starting to get varicose veins now! He sighed. Of course! Of course – this was just one more thing he was going to get as he got older. Varicose bloody veins! He shuddered at the ugliness of it – and sighed again. The inevitable was happening; as the inevitable always would. He removed the other sock.

And now he would have to face it. Another day had ended. Another night of sleeping alone in a strange bed would bring it to a close, leaving him to trust his subconscious mind to guide him to the next dawn, through whatever voyage of darkness or dreams that sleep would bring.

He glanced over to the far end of the room. The pale, naked creature he saw there made him flinch momentarily. But he consoled himself that being an unremarkable middle-aged man with mousey hair was a strength. It was a form of camouflage

The glance into the mirror had been unintentional. At home there would have been no mirror to glance into, intentionally or not. But, as usual, thanks to VirtuBank, he was staying in a hotel. This time he was spending a few days in Moscow, though for no particular reason, because the technical problem their client had reported had turned out to be trivial.

And this was how his adult life had been measured out – moving from one hotel to another, sometimes returning briefly home (if his flat near Baker Street could be called home) to seek out a few acquaintances to get drunk with.

But he was lucky. He was still here, and his life still had purpose too. The period of numbness was over. Now, at VirtuBank he had a glimmer of hope. He had stumbled into a job which gave him a real chance of achieving his dream.

He hadn’t been in touch with his friends from college for years. The only people he had known since that time were workmates that came and went as he changed job. Even so, he was lucky. He was well aware that, by now, many of his lost or forgotten friends would already be dead. He knew that for certain. It was both surprising and obvious.

For example, he was aware, from the media, that so many of his teen idols had passed away already. Admittedly, film and rock stars seem likely to die younger than normal due to suicide or substance abuse. Nevertheless, a good proportion of them had also died in accidents or of natural causes, indicating that a similar fate would have befallen some, or perhaps by now, many, of the people he had ever known in the past.

So he was lucky. If he had been John Lennon he would have been dead long ago. But time was running out for him too. Had he cut himself off from any kind of normal life, that fateful day in 1977, for nothing?

The cause he had sacrificed his life for was worth more than the life of one man, but somehow he was not ready to accept his contribution to that cause would amount to nothing. He still wanted his place in history. He climbed into bed, weary and close to tears, trying to convince himself there was still a chance; that the promise he had made all those years ago was worth the misery and loneliness.