"Michael Marshall Smith - The Man Who Drew Cats" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Michael Marshall)

sound and then there was no movement or sound anymore.
Like they were on a string our heads turned together and we saw Tom still standing there, his coat flapping in the
wind. He had a hand on Billy’s shoulder and as we looked we could see that Mary was there too now and he had one
arm round her as she sobbed into his coat.
I don’t know how long we just sat there staring but then with one mind we were ejected off our seats and out of the
bar. Pete and Ned ran to Tom but Jack and I went to where Sam had fallen and we stood and stared down and I tell
you the rest of my life now seems like a build-up to and a climb-down from that moment.
We were standing in front of a chalk drawing of a tiger. Even now my scalp seems to tighten when I think of it, and
my chest feels like someone punched a hole in it and tipped a gallon of iced water inside. I’ll just tell you the facts:
Jack was there and he knows what we saw and what we didn’t see.
What we didn’t see was Sam McNeill. He just wasn’t there, you know? We saw a drawing of a tiger in purples and
greens, a little bit scuffed, and there was a lot more red around the mouth of that tiger than there had been that
afternoon and I’m sure that if either of us could have dreamed of reaching out and touching it it would have been warm
too.
And the hardest part to tell is this. I’d seen that drawing in the afternoon, and Jack had too, and we knew that
when it was done it was lean and thin. And I swear to God that tiger wasn’t thin anymore. What Jack and I were
looking at was one fat tiger.
After a while I looked up and across at Tom. He was still standing with Mary and Billy, but they weren’t crying
any more. Mary was hugging Billy so tight he squawked and Tom’s face looked calm and alive and creased with a
smile. And as we stood there the skies opened for the first time in months and a cool rain hammered down. At my feet
colours began to run and lines became less distinct. Jack and I stood and watched till there was just pools of
meaningless colours and then we walked slowly over to the others not even looking at the bottle lying on the ground
and we all stood there a long time in the rain, facing each other, not saying a word.
Well that was ten years ago, near enough. After a while Mary took Billy home and they turned to give us a little
wave before they turned the corner. The cuts on Billy’s face healed real quick, and he’s a good looking boy now: he
looks a lot like his dad and he’s already fooling about in cars. Helps me in the store sometimes. His mom ain’t aged a
day and looks wonderful. She never married again, but she looks real happy the way she is.
The rest of us just said a simple goodnight. Goodnight was all we could muster and maybe that’s all there was to
say. Then we walked off home in the directions of our wives. Tom gave me a small smile before he turned and walked
off alone. I almost followed him, I wanted to say something, but in the end I just stood and watched him go. And
that’s how I’ll always remember him best, because for a moment there was a spark in his eyes and I knew that some
pain had been lifted deep down inside there somewhere. Then he walked and no one has seen him since, and like I
said it’s been about ten years now. He wasn’t there in the square the next morning and he didn’t come in for a beer.
Like he’d never been, he just wasn’t there. Except for the hole in our hearts: it’s funny how much you can miss a quiet
man.
We’re all still here, of course, Jack, Ned, Pete and the boys, and all the same, if even older and greyer. Pete lost his
wife and Ned retired but things go on the same. The tourists come in the summer and we sit on the stools and drink
our cold beers and shoot the breeze about ballgames and families and how the world’s going to shit and sometimes
we’ll draw close and talk about a night a long time ago and about paintings and cats and about the quietest man we
ever knew, wondering where he is, and what he’s doing. And we’ve had a six-pack in the back of the fridge for ten
years now, and the minute he walks through that door and pulls up a stool, that’s his.