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- Ричард Морган
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"
Whoa
.
"
Trepp
caught
me
as
I
fell
,
laughing
.
"
What
you
looking
for
up
there
,
grasshopper
?
"
Not
my
sky
.
It
’
s
getting
bad
.
In
another
toilet
,
painfully
brightly
lit
,
I
’
m
trying
to
stuff
some
powder
Trepp
gave
me
up
my
nose
.
My
nasal
passages
are
already
seared
dry
and
it
keeps
falling
back
down
,
as
if
this
body
has
definitively
had
enough
.
A
cubicle
flushes
behind
me
and
I
glance
up
into
the
big
mirror
.
Jimmy
de
Soto
emerges
from
the
cubicle
,
combat
fatigues
smudged
with
Innenin
mud
.
In
the
hard
bathroom
light
his
face
is
looking
particularly
bad
.
"
All
right
,
pal
?
"
"
Not
especially
.
"
I
scratch
at
the
inside
of
my
nose
,
which
is
beginning
to
feel
inflamed
.
"
You
?
"
He
makes
a
mustn
’
t
-
grumble
gesture
and
moves
forward
in
the
mirror
to
stand
beside
me
.
Water
fountains
from
the
light
-
sensitive
tap
as
he
leans
over
the
basin
,
and
he
begins
to
rinse
his
hands
.
Mud
and
gore
dissolve
off
his
skin
and
form
a
rich
soup
,
pouring
away
down
the
tiny
maelstrom
of
the
plughole
.
I
can
sense
his
bulk
at
my
shoulder
,
but
his
one
remaining
eye
has
me
pinned
to
the
image
in
the
mirror
and
I
cannot
,
or
don
’
t
want
to
,
turn
.
"
Is
this
a
dream
?
"
