Читать книгу A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride - Страница 23

‘I know it’s not nice, but you need to eat it. It’s good for you.’

The spoon is cold against his cracked lips, its contents hard and gritty.

He’d raise his hands and bat the spoon away, but his arms don’t work any more. They don’t even float in the water, just sink into its filthy depths to lie against the steel tank. Nothing works.

Can’t even hold his own head up.

So the Priest holds it up for him, a warm hand on the back of his neck.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll help.’

The other hand forces his mouth open, then pours the grit inside.

It sits there, in his mouth, like tiny stones. Sticking to his tongue and cheeks. Making him gag and cough. But there’s not enough breath left to shift anything.

The walls are louder now, singing at the top of their splintered lungs: ‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god. They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’

Their voices send a tremor rattling through him, shaking his teeth, making his ribs ache.

‘Shhh …’ A hand strokes his forehead. ‘Shhh …’

Then a kiss.

‘I think it’s time, don’t you?’

Oh God please let it be time to die. Time for the pain to go away. Please.

‘They’ll worship you, They’ll worship you …’

‘Come on.’

The water falls away and he’s being carried, arms and legs swinging in the cool air, rivulets of brackish water falling to the floor. There’s almost nothing left of him now. Nothing but skin and bone.

‘They’ll worship you: you’ll be a god.’

The singing walls swim and pulse around him, worshipping. And finally he makes the transition into the other room. The one where the fish hang in silent prayer.

Even the walls are quiet in here. Reverential. Waiting for the blessed relief.

Soon he’ll be dead and all this will be over.

‘Here we go.’ Gentle hands lay him on the stone floor.

High up above, a sliver of grey sunlight dances with dust motes. Spiralling and swirling.

There’s a pressure on his ankles, but not much more than that.

Then the squeal of wood on wood and his legs raise themselves off the ground, then his hips, his back, and finally his head leaves the earth. He sways gently, ascending to heaven with his arms dangling either side of his ears.

Swaying and rising.

Up and up into the darkness.

Up and up into death’s comforting embrace.

He opens his mouth to say thank you, but all that comes out is a cascade of little gritty pellets.

The Priest smiles up at him, a thick rope held in one hand. ‘You’ll be a god …’

A god of skin and bone.