"Ken MacLeod - The Highway Men" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacLeod Ken)

the top deck of a bus.

“I’m Jase,” I said. “This is Murdo.”

“You’re not from here,” she said.

I could just about tell she was. Her accent was a bit like Euan’s.

“I’m from Glasgow,” I said. “Murdo’s from Stornoway.”

“The Highway comes from all over,” Murdo announced. “You don’t
look like a native yourself.”

“I was born in Strome,” she said. She jerked a thumb over her
shoulder. “Five miles down the road.”

“A white settler of the second generation,” said Murdo.

“You know a lot about me, don’t you?” she said.

“I do that,” said Murdo. “You have—“

I knew what he was going to say next. I was glad he was close
enough to give him the dig of my elbow.

“What?” he said.

“Don’t bug the lassie,” I said.

“I was just making conversation.”

“Aye, well make it different.” I kept my eyes on the road. “Sorry about
that, Ailiss.”

She flicked a hand. “No problem.” She turned to Murdo. “You’re right,
my parents were from down South. They were just so typical, they collected
pine resins for aromatherapy…” She went on about this for a bit.

But I could see where her hand went while she spoke, maybe without
her even thinking about it. It went to her knee, then crept to the top of her
boot.

“I live past Strathcarron,” she said, as I slowed at the turn-off.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll drop you at the site. You’ll have to walk or hitch
from there.”

“I’ll walk,” she said..

“Not far to go then?” said Murdo. Still prying.