Читать книгу Wall of Fire - Pam Stavropoulos - Страница 13

7. Dominic

For some reason (I am still grasping at reason) my anxieties have crystallised into the figure of a lone skier. A skier such as delighted us at those long ago Winter Olympics.

Only it is not delight that he (or is it she?) inspires now. It is terror. Or rather, the intimation of terror. Which seems immeasurably worse.

This skier is remote and resplendent. Encased in the armour of invulnerability.

And has somehow become fused in my mind with the figure of a sniper.

Skier or sniper; it is increasingly difficult to tell them apart. They are indistinguishable.

Inscrutable behind dark glasses, the figure is lithe in a black snowsuit. S/he radiates self-containment.

And hostility.

Without warning, the ski pole becomes a slimline shotgun, both lethal and elegant. Silhouetted against the skyline, the figure pauses momentarily as if for maximum effect.

And then executes a leap.

Into the void, into infinity. Leaving nothing but absence in its wake.