Galatea23: переводы

→Caught in the flickering glow of a fire, thick black smoke billowing around it, its expression had changed to a snarl of hunger. Its lips had drawn back to reveal rows of sharp fangs, like those of a bat. It reached towards her with outstretched hands, its long fingernails like talons. But this was impossible, Rebecca thought. It wasn't moving. It wasn't moving

→It now stood only two metres away. It filled her view, looming over her.

→There was the darkness again. Then the orange light. The statue had moved closer now. Still staring at her with it's impassive, stony eyes. Its mouth was now slightly open, as though drawing in breath to speak. Darkness. Orange light.

→The light blinked off, returning Rebecca to blackness. She thought briefly of bonfires, of Guy Fawkes Night and toffee apples. Why was she thinking about bonfires? And then she realised she could smell burning. The orange light blinked on again. Rebecca couldn't be sure, but hadn't the statue been holding its head in its hands? Because now it was looking towards her with blank, pupil-less eyes.

→Outside the car, the orange light blinked back on. Now that was weird. About six metres away, in the field, stood a statue, like might be found in a graveyard or a Roman museum. The statue was of a young woman with coiled hair wearing a flowing robe. It had two wings. An angel. The statue stood hunched, burying it's head in it's hands as though crying. To add to the effect, rain trickled from between it's fingers.

→But if she was OK, why couldn't she move? Rebecca tried wriggling in her seat; her seatbelt was so tight she could hardly breathe. But nothing happened. She wanted to wipe the rain out of here eyes, but for some reason her hands didn't respond. She began to wonder if she might've been hurt after all.

→Rebecca cursed herself. How many times had her mother moaned on the telephone about lorries using the village as a shortcut, even though the council had installed speed cameras? It was an accident waiting to happen, she'd said. Turned out she'd been right. Rebecca wondered why everything in the field had an orange hue, as though lit by a street lamp. A second later, everything went dark, before lighting up again with the same orange hue. The lorry must have activated it's warning lights. What had happened to the lorry driver For a moment, Rebecca hoped that he'd been hurt, it would serve him right, before banishing the thought. She'd been very lucky not to be injured.

→Her only other thought was to observe with wry amusement that this was like something out of Casualty. The next thing she knew, she was lying in her seat, gazing across a muddy field. Lying in her seat? Her seat had been upturned and her weight rested on her back. But if she was still inside the car, why could she feel the rain upon her face? She couldn't feel any pain, though, which was a relief.

→second later, Rebecca found herself being thrown to the side as her car rolled over. Rebecca had a brief sense memory of being on a theme park roller-coaster ride. She had never liked roller-coaster rides.

→The front of her car smashed into the grille of the lorry and the windscreen shattered into a million beads of glass. The impact threw Rebecca forward, her seatbelt tightening so much it crushed the wind out of her lungs. Barely a

→A horn blared out like a monster's roar. Instinctively, Rebecca wrenched the steering wheel to the left to avoid the oncoming heavy goods lorry. The left-hand side of her car went into the hedge, leaves and brambles scraping along the side. Her heart pounding, Rebecca remembered, too late, to apply the brakes.

→Approaching a sharp left turn, Rebecca changed down to second gear. She turned the corner, to be suddenly confronted by two brilliant shining lights bearing down upon her.

→Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!

→Rebecca twisted the dial for Radio 1. A plaintive piano riff emerged from the speakers, introducing Beautiful by Christina Aguilera. Rebecca left the song playing; it suited her mood and wouldn't distract her from driving.

→Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!

→Today's big story had been about American soldiers pulling down a statue of Saddam Hussein in some dusty town square while the reporter burbled excitedly about it being a momentous event in history. Seeing the footage of the conquering heroes draping their flag over the fallen statue, Rebecca had felt sick and ashamed. They'd be handing out chocolate bars next.

→The radio hissed as it lost the signal for The World Tonight. It didn't matter, Rebecca already knew what the news would be. It would be all about the invasion of Iraq. The television news had been full of nothing else for weeks; journalists in flak jackets reporting live from hotel rooms, interspersed with infra-red footage of green blobs flashing back and forth over a burning city. It was like watching someone commentating on a computer game.

→Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!

→Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!

→Rebecca felt a flush of anger. Mark should be with her now, paying the traditional bi-monthly visit to her parents in Chilbury. He had an excuse, of course; he always had an excuse. There was a crisis at work and he had volunteered to work late to sort it out, as usual.