"Simon R. Green - Drinking Midnight Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

called his name, in a voice that could not be ignored.
Saturday morning. He always looked forward to Saturdays, especially at the beginning of
the week, when the days and the hours and the minutes at work seemed just to crawl past,
stretching endlessly away before him, and Saturday might as well have been another planet.
But what did he actually do, when Saturday and the weekend finally came around? He'd sleep
in. Get up only when he absolutely had to (usually forced out of bed by bladder pressure), and
stagger downstairs in his dressing gown to watch kids' cartoons on television, usually while
eating a big bowl of whatever cereal he was currently addicted to. All the while grousing,
sometimes aloud, that today's cartoons weren't a patch on the cartoons of his youth. Scooby
Doo in particular had deteriorated dreadfully. He wouldn't even watch the ones that contained
Scrappy Doo. (Once voted by the readers of a leading men's magazine as the cartoon
character they'd most like to punch in the head repeatedly. Even more than Jar Jar Binks.)
And where did the two good-looking kids always disappear to, while Shaggy and Thelma
were busy being chased by men in monster masks? They'd probably found a bedroom and
were rutting like crazed weasels.
 Come midday he'd get dressed and wander down into town for a drink, to see what was
happening and who was around. And it was always the same old faces, doing the same old
things. Which was sometimes comforting, but more often not. Then back home, to open a
packet and stick it in the oven, and that was lunch. Usually eaten straight from the plastic
container because that saved on washing-up. Then sit slumped in front of the television all
afternoon, watching the sports. Any sports - he wasn't fussy. And in the evening, call around
to see if anyone fancied a drink. And after drinking too much, in the company of people who
only counted as friends because he saw them every weekend, stagger home and try to get to
sleep with his bedroom revolving slowly around him.
Repeat on Sunday. Then back to work again. Not much of a life, really. Not much of a life
at all.
Toby tried really hard to get back to sleep again so he wouldn't have to think any more, but
his body was having none of it. His body felt decidedly restless. Like it needed to be up and
about, doing things . . . important things. Even though Toby had no idea what they might be.
He turned onto his side, pulling the blankets up around his neck, trying to get comfortable so
he could fool his body into dozing off, but the bed felt cold and hard and unwelcoming, as
though it knew he shouldn't be there. In the end, Toby swore briefly but feelingly, threw back
the covers and lurched out of bed. It was clearly going to be one of those days.
He pulled off his pyjamas and threw them roughly in the direction of the dirty laundry
basket, and got dressed. It didn't feel like a dressing-gown-and-cartoons day. He stomped
downstairs, yawning and scratching as the mood took him, collected the usual pile of junk
mail from his doormat and headed for the kitchen, trying to decide whether he could be
bothered to make himself a proper breakfast. One bowl of milky cereal and a compromise
glass of orange juice with added vitamin C later, he rinsed the bowl and glass under the hot
tap and put them on one side to dry. He sat down again at the kitchen table and considered the
morning's mail. Which turned out to be strange and weird enough to snap him fully awake.
A folded glossy pamphlet offered six foolproof ways to avoid elf-shot, proven cause of
most chills and fevers. The six ways included medicines and herbs he'd never heard of,
prayers to someone called Mannan Mac Lir, and a series of healthy exercises that made Toby
wince just to look at the illustrations. He turned the pamphlet over, to see if it was advertising
a book or a film, but there was just the usual form to fill in, and an address in Findhorn,
wherever that was. Toby blinked at the pamphlet a few times and then put it carefully to one
side.
Next up was a sober, businesslike letter from one of the big established pharmaceutical
companies, offering to supply him with the very latest in lust potions, suitable for all