"Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

shift in the light, perhaps, transformed it. Nothing looked different; but it
glowed like a gloomy painting suddenly well lit. Somehow the whole grim
tableau came alive with an atmosphere that transcended its grime and
depression, made it seem almost welcoming, comfortable, secure, the centre of
its own small community. It was as if I was seeing it through the old men's
eyes. 'Bound t'be around somewhere, he is!'
'Down Durban Walk, maybe -'
'Seen him up by old Leo's yesterday -'
They were transformed too, coming alive, chipping in cheerfully with tips and
directions to places I might try. It wasn't only me who noticed; the skinheads
were gaping at the old men as if they'd gone berserk - and at me as well.
Finally a consensus emerged; Jyp would almost certainly be having his dinner
at the Mermaid. But I'd have to run if I wanted to catch him before he went
off to work. That I certainly did; and I tore out of that pub faster than
anyone can have in years, though not before I'd settled for the scotch.
Their directions were mercifully clear, and I had the sense not to go
back for the car. I tore around alley and lane until I found myself skidding
over some of the worst and filthiest cobbles ever, and saw in the narrow
street before me an ancient-looking pile that could hardly be less like the
pub I'd just left; its irregular three-storey frontage was genuine
half-timbering, none of your stockbroker's Tudor. The sea-breeze was
freshening - if that was the word to use of something which stirred up so many
remarkable stenches. On the creaking signboard swung a crude painting of a
mermaid, bare-breasted and long-haired as usual, but with a sharp-peaked crown
and twin curving tails. No name, but who needed one?
I went to the door, found it opened outwards, and down some wooden steps into
a smoky room crammed with tables, lit, it seemed, only by the marvellous open
fireplace at the back. It was pretty rough-looking, but ten times more alive
than the other fleapit. The long tables were crowded with drinkers, mostly
arty-looking long-hairs, weirdly got up and arguing noisily, chucking dice,
dealing cards and tilting what looked like earthenware mugs - a real-ale
place, evidently. Not to mention haggling over mysterious heaps of leaves on
the table, or stuffing long pipes with them, reading aloud to each other from
handwritten pages or crudely printed sheets - all this along with, and
sometimes accompanying, some pretty heavy necking and groping with the few
women visible - sometimes remarkably visible, but I restrained my interest.
Too many of their gentlemen friends openly wore remarkably wicked-looking
knives on their belts. Just the sort of place Jyp would like, I thought,
shuddering slightly; but there was no sign of him, and the only service
visible was one fiery-nosed oaf in a leather apron slouching around about four
tables away, deaf to louder shouts than mine. I wound my way through to the
back by the fireplace, a more respectable enclave with marvellous old
high-backed cushioned settles. A couple of middle-aged hippy types were
monopolizing the ones nearest the fire as if they owned them. One was short,
rotund and piggy, the other middle-sized and balding, with a close-trimmed
moustache and goatee. I thought one might be the landlord, but heard them
arguing uproariously about literature in flat yokel burrs. I put them down for
Open University tutors, but asked them all the same, and was surprised when
the taller one very politely directed me to the snug at the side. And there,
sure enough, with his lean nose buried in a huge pot of beer, sat the man