Читать книгу A Dark So Deadly - Stuart MacBride - Страница 9

The wall whispers to him with splintered wooden lips. ‘They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you …’

Its words fill the gloom, rolling around and around and through him, pulsing and pulling. ‘They’ll worship you.’

Why?

Why can’t he just die?

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

Is this what gods feel like? Thirsty. Aching.

Every muscle in his stomach throbs from the repeated heaving. Every breath tastes of bile.

Bile and dark, gritty wood smoke. Filling the low room with its stained wooden walls.

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

He slumps back, making the rusty links of chain rattle and clank against each other. Heavy around his throat. Heavier where it’s bolted into the wall. The wall that talks.

‘You’ll be a god.’

He can’t even answer it, his mouth is desert dry, tongue like a breezeblock, blood booming in his ears. Boom. Boom. Boom.

So thirsty … But if he drinks the foul brown water in the jug, he’ll be sick again.

‘A god.’

He turns his face to the wall. Finds a silent crack in the wood. And stares through into the other room.

‘They’ll worship you. They’ll worship you.’

Through there, it’s bright: a mix of light and shadow as someone stands on their tiptoes to slot another pole of fish into the rack. Herrings, splayed open, tied in pairs at the tail, their flattened sides like hands. Praying.

Help me …

He opens his mouth, but it’s too dry to make words. Too burned by the bile.

‘They’ll worship you.’

Why can’t he just die?

Up above, high above the poles of praying fish, eight fingertips brush a blade of sunlight. They run their tips along its sharp edge as the body they belong to sways in the darkness. Caught in the breeze from the open door. Head down – like the fish – arms dangling. Skin darkened to an ancient oak brown.

‘You’ll be a god.’

Then the person on the other side disappears. Comes back with a wheelbarrow piled up with sawdust and small chunks of wood. Dumps the lot in the middle of the room. Stoops to light it. Stands back as pale tendrils of smoke coil up into the air. Backs away and closes the door.

Now the only light is the faint orange glow of the smouldering wood.

‘You’ll be a god.’

He slides down against the wall. Too tired and thirsty to cry. Too tired to do anything but wait for the end to come.

‘They’ll worship you …’

Why can’t he just die?