No Sorrow To Die

Начало книги

‘I am doing nothing wrong,’ Heather Brodie told herself, trying to silence the unwelcome voice in her head which was busy telling her that she certainly was − doing something shameful, in fact. A few bars of ‘Jerusalem’, hummed loudly, finally smothered it.

Craning towards the mirror she began to apply her lipstick, conscious, as she did so, of every flaw and imperfection on her careworn, middle-aged face. True, the blue of the irises was as deep as ever, but crows-feet had begun to clamber across her cheekbones and her brow was no longer smooth, one corrugated fold following another like sand on a beach at low tide. She smiled humourlessly at her own reflection, and as she did so taut lines appeared on either side of her mouth, extending from nose to chin, multiplying when the smile widened and producing a dimple on the left. An eyelash caught in the corner of her eye distracted her, making her blink convulsively until, with a fingertip, she was able to remove it. Relieved, she turned her attention back to her lips, dabbing them with a paper hankie to remove the outer layer of scarlet gloss in an attempt to make herself look less predatory, less like a hawk.

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