Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning

VIP免费

2024-12-22 0 0 498.23KB 164 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Chase the Morning

Michael Scott Rohan

CHAPTER ONE

I BRAKED HARD and pulled up; but the car in front of me shot through the

lights just as they changed. I sat cursing myself as I watched those

tail-lights dwindle away into the gathering gloom, and the other endless lanes

of traffic come swarming out after them. The idiot in the flash German sport

behind me beeped his horn, but I was too irritated with myself to pay any

attention to him. There had been time, the half-second or so before the other

lights changed; I could have put my foot flat down and raced through. I'd been

close enough to the lights to get away with it, but this was a difficult,

twisty junction, with lousy visibility on all four sides. All it would need

was somebody else as impatient as me ... Damn it to hell, I'd done the safe

thing! But then that was me all over, wasn't it? Safe driver; safe car; safe

job; safe life ...

Then why was I so furious? At work it hadn't been the sort of day that

leaves you snarling; it rarely was. Momentarily, idiotically, I found myself

wishing it had been, that I'd had something to snarl at, to tussle with, to

put a sharper flavour into the day. I raised my eyes to the skies, and at once

forgot all my irritation. The sun had already left the ground in gloom, but it

was lighting up a whole new landscape among the lowering clouds, one of those

rare fantastic sunset coasts of rolling hills, deep bays, stretches of tidal

sands, endless archipelagoes of islands in a calm estuary of molten gold. This

one was made even more convincing by the shallow slope of the road; I might

have been looking down from some steeper hill onto the real estuary. Except

that that was far less picturesque, a flat, grim industrial riverside first

laid waste when ships and shipbuilding boomed, then stricken a second time

when they collapsed. None of the goods I dealt with passed through the docks

here now; they were as dead as that skyscape was alive. A horrible blaring

discord of horns jolted me out of my dream. The lights had changed again, and

I was holding up the queue. With a touch of malice I stabbed my foot down and

shot across the gap so fast the glittering brute behind me was left standing.

But the ring-road opened out into two lanes here, and in seconds he'd

overhauled me and gone purring past with ruthless ease. I had a terrible urge

to chase him, to dice and duel with him for pride of place, but I refused to

give in to it. What was the matter with me? I'd always loathed the kind of

moron who played stock-car on overcrowded commuter routes; I still did, come

to that. No question of cowardice - it was other people that sort put at risk.

Anyway, we were coming back into speed limits again. Another car whined past

me, the same make, model, year as mine, the same colour even. I had to look

closely to be sure it really wasn't mine - and swore at myself again. Was I

feeling the strain, or something? It had leopard-skin seats, anyway, and a

nodding dog on the parcel shelf. At least mine didn't; but right then it might

as well have had, the way I felt about it, and about myself. Christ, I ought

to be driving a Porsche too! Or something less crass - a Range Rover, a

vintage MG even, something to stir cold blood a bit more than my neat sports

saloon. It wasn't as if I couldn't afford to. If I was the real high-flyer

everyone said I was, the wonder boy, shouldn't I at least be getting a little

more fun out of it - instead of stashing all my cash away in gilt-edge and

blue-chip and just a little under-the-counter gold?

I pulled off at the exit - the same, the usual exit, the fastest way home.

Home to what? The prospect of my flat loomed up at me, my neat, empty,

expensive little designer garret, warming up as the heating came on. The idea

of cooking dinner suddenly sickened me, the prospect of eating something

heated up from the freezer even more so; I changed gear sharply, signalled

only just in time that I was changing lanes. I was going to eat out; and not

in any of my usual places. I might regret it in the morning, but I was going

to find somewhere more exotic, even if it wasn't as well-scrubbed. Thinking of

the docks had started me on that tack; I remembered there'd been lots of crazy

little places there, when I'd last passed through - and lord, how long ago was

that? I'd been in my teens; it might have been ten years ago, even. And that

was just on a bus, looking out on my way to somewhere else. I'd been a child

when last I'd trodden those pavements, the times when my father had taken me

down to see the ships unloading. I'd loved the ships; but the docks themselves

had always seemed rather sad to me, with weeds growing up between the worn

flagstones and the crane rails rusting. Even then they'd been dying. I

remembered dimly that there'd been attempts recently to tart up parts of them

for tourism, as somewhere picturesque; but how, or with what success, escaped

me.

Why had I never been back? There'd been no time, not with the job, not

with the social life and the sport, all the other excitements and ambitions.

Things that got me somewhere. I hadn't actually set out to bury my taste for

useless mooching about, but I'd had to let it slip away. Like a lot of other

things. There was no choice, really, if I wanted to keep on the ball, to get

ahead. And yet those trips to the docks, the sight of all those cases and

containers with their mysterious foreign labels - they'd sparked off something

in me, hadn't they?

Not exactly steered me into my career; I'd thought that choice out very

carefully, back at college. But they'd added something extra, a touch of

living colour other likely jobs didn't quite have. That hadn't lasted, of

course. You wouldn't expect it to survive the rigours of routine, the dry

daily round of forms and bills and credits. I hadn't missed it much. Other

satisfactions had taken its place, more realistic ones. But thinking about the

docks just now, when I was feeling a bit adventurous, a bit rebellious, had

woken a queer, nagging sort of regret. Maybe that was what had really sparked

off this craving to go and eat there - the urge to rediscover the original

excitement, the inspiration, of what I was doing. I did feel rather empty

without it - hollow, almost.

I frowned. That brought back a less comfortable memory, something Jacquie had

thrown at me years ago, in those last sullen rows. Typical; one of those daft

images she was always coming up with, something about the delicate Singapore

painted eggs on her mantelpiece. How they'd drained the yolk to make the paint

... 'You'd be good at that! You should take it up! Suck out the heart to paint

up the shell! All nice an' bright on the outside, never mind it's empty

inside! Never mind it won't hatch! Appearances, they're what you're so fond of

I snorted. I shouldn't have expected her to see things the way they were.

But all the same ... The turn-off wasn't far, just at the bottom of the hill

here was - what was it called? I knew the turn, I didn't need the name, but I

saw it on the wall as 1 turned off the roundabout. Danube Street.

All the street names were like that round here, as far as I remembered.

Danube Street; Baltic Street; Norway Street - all the far-off places which had

once seemed as familiar as home to the people who lived and worked here, even

if they never saw them. It was from them their prosperity came, from them the

money that paid for these looming walls of stone, once imposing in light

sandstone, now blackened with caked grime. Herring and spices and timber,

amber and furs and silks, all manner of strange and exotic stuffs had paid for

the cobbles that drummed beneath my tyres now, at a time when the town's prime

street was a rutted wallow of mud and horse-dung. Some of the smaller

side-streets had really arcane names -Sereth Street, Penobscot Lane; it was in

Tampere Street I stopped finally and parked.

I hoped the name didn't reflect the local habits, and that the car would be

all right; but I couldn't face being shut in it any longer. I wanted to

explore on foot, smelling the sea in the wind. I felt a few drops of rain in

it instead, turned back a moment, then looked up at the sky and caught my

breath. Over the warehouse rooftop opposite blazed the last streaks of the

glorious sunset; and against them, stark and black as trees in winter, loomed

a network of mastheads. Not the simple mastheads of modern yachts, nor the

glorified radar rigs of the larger ships; these were the mastheads of a

square-rigged sailing ship, and a huge one at that, the sort of things you

would expect on the Victory or the Cutty Sark. The last time I'd seen anything

like them was when a Tall Ships rally had put in, and that only on local TV.

Had the tourist bods moored one here, or something really old? This I had to

see. I pulled my light anorak closer about me and walked on into the deep

shadows between the wide-set streetlights. The hell with the weather, the hell

with everything! I was a bit surprised at myself. No doubt about it, rebellion

had me in its grip.

An hour and a half later, of course, I was regretting it bitterly. My

hair was plastered flat to my wind-chilled scalp, my soaking collar was sawing

at my neck, and I was desperate for my dinner. All those odd little places I

remembered were just boarded holes in the high walls now, or seedy little

cafes with fading pop posters and plastic tables barely visible through the

grimy glass; and every one of them was closed, and might have been for years.

The sea was within earshot, but never in sight; and there was no trace of

masts, or of the signs you'd expect to a tourist attraction either. I would

have been happy enough now with something microwaved at home, if I could only

get back to my car; but just to cap everything, I'd lost my way, taken a wrong

turn somewhere around those featureless warehouse walls, and now everywhere

was strange. Or simply invisible; either some of the streets had no lighting,

or it had failed. And there wasn't a soul about, nor even a sound except my

own footsteps on the cobbles and the distant breath of the ocean. I felt like

a lost child.

Then I heard voices. They seemed to be echoing out around the corner of the

street ahead, and so desperate was I that I'd gone rushing round before I'd

realized that they didn't sound at all friendly; more like a brawl. And that,

in fact, was what was going on. At the street's end was the sea, with only a

dim glimmer to distinguish it from the sky above; but I hardly noticed it.

There was a single light in the street, over the arched doorway of a large

warehouse, now half-open; and before it, on a weed-grown forecourt, a tight

knot of men were struggling this way and that. One tore himself loose and

staggered free, and 1 saw that the remaining three - all huge - were after

him. One swung at him, he ducked back, stumbling among the weeds and litter,

and with a twinge of horror I saw metal gleam in the fist as it swung, and in

the others as they feinted at him. They had knives, long ones; and that slash,

if it had connected, would have opened his throat from ear to ear. They were

out to kill.

I stood horrified, hesitant, unable to link up what I was seeing with

reality, with the need to act. I had a mad urge to run away, to shout for the

police-, it was their business, after all, not my fight. If I hadn't baulked

at that stop light, perhaps, I might have done just that, and probably

suffered for it. But something inside me - that spirit of rebellion I'd raised

- knew better; it wasn't seeking help I was after, it was an excuse to run

away, to avoid getting involved, to pass by on the other side. And this was a

life at stake, far more important than a stupid trick like running a light -

far more important even than any question of courage or cowardice. I had to

help ... but how?

I took a hesitant step forward. Maybe just running at them, shouting,

would scare them enough; but what if it didn't? I hadn't hit anybody since I

had left school, and there were three of them. Then in the faint gleam my eyes

lit on a pile of metal tubes lying at the roadside, beside a builder's sign,

remnants of dismantled scaffolding. They were slippery with filth and rain,

but with a heave that made my shoulders crack I got one about seven feet long

loose, heaved it over my head and ran down the slippery cobbles.

None of them saw me at first; the victim slipped and fell, and they were on

him. I meant to shout, but at first only a ridiculous strangulated hey! came

out; in the middle it cracked and became a banshee howl. Then they noticed me,

all right. And to my horror they didn't run, but rounded on me all three. I

was past turning back now; I swung the tube at the first one, and missed by a

mile. He leapt at me, and in a fit of panic 1 just clipped his outstretched

arm on the backswing. He fell with a howl, and I saw a knife fly up glittering

into the air. Another feinted at me, jumped back as I swung the tube, then

flung himself forward as it passed. But it was slippery enough to slide

through my hands; the end poked him in the belly and stretched him on his back

on the cobbles. Hardly believing what I was doing, I swung on the third -and

my feet skidded from under me on the wet smooth stones, and I sat down with an

agonizing jar. He loomed up, a hulking shadow against the halo of light; I

glimpsed white teeth in a contorted snarl, the knife lifting and slashing

down.

Then something flashed over me, feet crashed on the cobbles, and the shadow

drew back. It was the man they'd been attacking, a hunched, taut figure with a

shock of red-brown hair, bounding and bouncing forward, dodging the clumsy

slashes the bigger man aimed at him with an ease that looked effortless.

Suddenly his own arms lashed out; there was a gleam of metal and a terrible

tearing sound. They whirled into the light for a moment, and I saw long

slashes in the tall man's rough coat, and blood spurting from them. I

struggled up, then flinched back in fright as the darkness seemed to burst out

at me; I flung out a punch, and felt a stab of agony in my upper arm. I yelled

with the sudden pain, and louder with the anger that hissed up like a rocket

in my head. A leering, slobbbering face, greyish and sickly in the dim light,

shone out suddenly in front of me, capped by a cockatoo crest of green, a mass

of gold ear-rings jangling. I smashed at it with my good arm, felt the blow

connect and exulted -till the rocket burst, or so it felt, and my teeth

slammed together with the force of the impact. I doubled over, clutching my

head, unable to see or even think straight, my mind crazed across like a

mirror by the blow. I heard a yell beside me, a burst of noise and expected

the worst, the sharp agony of the knife or the blunt bite of boots. But my

back bumped against a wall and I straightened up, grateful for its support,

and forced my eyes open in time to see the three shadows go clattering away

for their lives down the street towards the sea, one limping badly, another

clutching his chest; the third they were dragging between them, his feet

scrabbling helplessly at the rounded stones. A black trail like a snail's

glistened where he had passed.

The man they'd been after was crouched down against the wall to my right,

by the doorpost, clutching his ribs and breathing heavily. I thought at first

he was injured, but he looked up and grinned. An ordinary enough grin, on a

lean, mobile face. 'Now that's what I call timing!' he said, and chuckled.

'Who were they?' I managed to croak out.

'Them? Just Wolves, as usual. Out for anything that's not nailed down,

and a good few things that are - you know!' He looked up suddenly. 'Hey - you

don't know, do you? You're not from this side of town, are you?'

I shook my head, forgetting, and dissolved the world into needles of

blinding pain. I swayed, stunned and sick, and he sprang up and caught me.

'What's the matter? Didn't stop one, did you? Ach ... not from this side.' The

questioning in his voice had turned to certainty without any answer from me.

'Not a local. Might've known, the way you came barreling in like that.' He

propped me against the doorpost and searched my scalp with blunt fingers,

causing me more bouts of agony. 'Well, that's nothing!' he concluded, with

infuriating briskness.

'You try it awhile and say that!' 1 croaked at him, and he grinned

again.

'No offense, friend. Just relieved your dome's not cracked, that's all.

A bump and a little blood, no sweat. But that arm of yours, that's different.'

'Doesn't hurt as much -'

'Aye, maybe; but it's a blade in the muscle. Could be dirty, if no worse. Hold

on a moment ...' The blade he himself had used to such effect flashed in his

hand, and I was astonished to see it was no knife, but a fully-fledged sword,

a sabre of some kind; he twitched it adroitly into a scabbard on his belt,

unhooked from beside it a ring of huge old-fashioned keys and locked the

warehouse door behind him with one of them, muttering to himself the while.

'C'mon now, nothing to worry about; I'll see you right. Just lean on your old

mate Jyp - that's it! Just round the corner a few steps - lean on me if you

like!'

That seemed a daft idea - he was such a short man. But as he bore me up

by my good arm I was astonished to realize he was hardly any shorter than me,

and I am over six feet. It was next to the others he'd looked unusually small;

so how tall were they?

This close, too, he didn't look so ordinary. His face was bony,

hard-jawed, but his features were open and regular; a bit Scandinavian, maybe,

except that expressions played across them like shifting light. Lines appeared

and disappeared, making his age hard to guess; early forties, maybe, by the

lines about the eyes. Below them the remains of a tan welded together a great

blaze of freckles across his cheekbones. His eyes were calm, wide and

intelligent. The look in them seemed remote and far-seeing, till I caught the

twinkle that matched the mercurial expressions and the wry smile. I rarely

take to people on sight, men especially; but there was something instantly

likeable about him. Which was pretty damn surprising, as I couldn't have

placed him in any way. Liking, of course, doesn't have to mean trusting; but

right then I'd very little choice in the matter.

Together, like a pair of companionable drunks, we staggered down towards the

seaward end of the lane; but before we reached it my old mate Jyp, whoever he

was, manouevred us across the road and down a dank and evil-smelling back

alley to emerge into a much wider street, like all too many I had tramped down

that night. In this one, though, was what I'd been looking for all along; a

single building bright with lights, and the unmistakeable look of a pub, or

perhaps even a proper restaurant, about it. Grimy diamond-leaded windows

glowed a warm gold between peeling shutters, and above them a sign spanned the

building, brightly painted even in the dim light of the flickering lamps on

the wall below. My head was clearing in the cold air, and I stared at it,

fascinated; this must be one of the little specialty places. The sign read

TVERNA ILLYRIKO in tall letters, red upon black, and beneath them lllyrian

Tavern - Old Style Delicacies - Dravic Myrko, Prop. On a board above the door

I saw repeated Taverne Illyrique, Illyrisches Gasthof, the name in every

language I could recognize, and a good few I couldn't.

'Come along, we'll get you fixed up here!' said Jyp cheerfully, and added

something else I wasn't sure I'd heard.

'What was that?'

'Not a bad place, I was saying, so long as you steer clear of the

sea-slugs.'

I closed my eyes. 'I'll try to. Where are they? On the floor?'

'On the menu.'

'Christ!'

That did it; I had to stop and retch, painfully and unproductively, while

Jyp watched with sympathetic amusement. 'Guts empty?' he enquired. 'Pity; a

good puke can help, when you've had a dunt on the head. Like with seasickness;

if you're going to throw up, at least get something inside you to throw,

that's what I always tell 'em. Ammunition, as it were.'

'I'll remember that,' I promised, and he chuckled.

'All right now? Mind the steps, they're worn.' He kicked open the faded

red door with a ringing crash. 'Hoi, Myrko! Malinka! Katjka!' he shouted, and

bundled me inside.

Half an hour earlier I might have welcomed the gust of smells that came

boiling out. There were a hundred I couldn't put a name to and a few I didn't

care to, but there was also garlic and paprika and beer and frying onions.

Now, though, the mix made my aching stomach shrivel.

'It's you, is it, pylotV came a hoarse answer from inside. There was the

sound of somebody shovelling coal into a stove. 'Malinka's out, you'll just

have to make do with me.'

'Got a friend here, Myrko,' Jyp shouted. 'Hey, what's your name, friend?

Stephen? Myrko, this here's Steve, he pulled some Wolves off my back and

stopped a knock or two while he was about it. Needs something to set him up.

Katjka! You're in demand! And bring your puncture repair kit! Now, me old

mate, just you sit down there ...' I slumped onto a high-backed wooden settle,

trying hard not to jolt my head or my arm, and stared around at the room. I'd

seen touristy Greek bars trying for this kind of look. Now I realized what

they'd been imitating. Here, though, the bunches of dried herbs and sausages

dangling from the rafters, hams in sacking, huge slabs of salt cod, octopi

looking like mummified hands, bloat-bellied wine-flasks with crude labels of

dancing peasants, and shapes less identifiable, weren't plastic; their

fragrance hung heavy on the air, and the faintly trembling light of the

lanterns that hung between them gave their shadows a strange animation. They

were real lanterns, oil lanterns; you could smell them, too. I glanced around,

and saw no sign of switches or power points anywhere on the walls; and come to

that, the outside lights had been lanterns too. Their light was strictly

local, and bright only in the centre of the room; the tables there were empty,

but from the more shadowed ones in the corners I could hear the low buzz of

voices, male and female, and the music of glasses and cutlery well wielded.

A tray clattered on the table in front of me, a bottle full of some pale

liquid and a little narrow-necked flask of the same, no glass. A squat,

rounded little man with the face of an amiable toad leaned over me and

grunted. 'On the house, friend! Anyone who takes a crack at Volfes does us all

a favourrr!' He had an accent as heavy as the spices in the air, heavy and

guttural. There was a rumble of agreement from the shadowy depths of the room,

and I was astonished to see the glint of glasses being lifted.

'You should've seen him, Myrko!' enthused Jyp. 'They'd got me down, got

my little sticker away, and he comes for 'em with a goddamn great iron bar!

Three of 'em, and he fells two, the third gets a crack in before I get my

blade back and open him up a bit! Went for 'em bald-headed, he did, just like

that!'

Myrko nodded soberly. 'Wish I had ssseen it! That was bravely done, my

lad. Now get that down you, it's for drrrinking, isn't it? Sovereign

rrremedy!' I grasped the little flask gingerly, and tilted it to my lips.

There was a trick to the shape of it; it shot the whole lot at the back of my

throat. If you want to know what It felt like, tie a plum to a rocket and fire

it down your gullet, preferably during an earthquake. I breathed out heavily,

expecting to see the air glow, and Myrko poured me another while the flask was

still in my hand. Suddenly the chill inside me lessened, my shivering stopped;

I felt the blood pulsating in my veins, and the pounding in my head became

bearable. I downed the second flaskful, and let him fill another before I held

the bottle to see the label. 'Tujika,' I said, with sudden understanding.

'Slivovitz. But about three times as strong as any I've tasted before!'

Myrko grinned, looking ready to catch a fly any moment. 'Shliwowitch,

yess, if that's what you want to call it. Rrreal upland stuff, best this side

of the Karrpatny. Hoi, here's Katjka!' I blinked. Out of the aromatic gloom a

girl appeared - quite a girl. In that gaudy costume she went with the decor of

the place; she might have stepped down off one of the wine labels, a

picturebook peasant girl from somewhere on the upper Danube. Perhaps not a

girl; a second glance put her in her late twenties. And perhaps not a peasant

either; the embroidery on the flared red skirt and black stomacher was just

too gilt and gaudy, the cut of the white blouse over her full breasts just a

little too low, too strained. Her blonde hair looked natural, but the face

beneath it was lean and foxy, not quite pretty, and the deep hard grooves

either side of her mouth betrayed the kind of experience peasants don't

usually come by. Apart from that astonishing cleavage her eyes were the best

of her, wide and grey and anxious.

'What is it?' she demanded urgently, her voice start-lingly deep, her accent

less noticeable than Myrko's. 'Who's hurt, Jyp? Oh -' Before anyone could

answer she had swooped on me, clucking like a mother-hen and cursing the

others for not calling her sooner. She had my anorak off my shoulders so

swiftly and gently I hardly felt a twinge, and the buttons of my shirt seemed

to fly apart as her nimble fingers flew down my chest; she slid that off too,

leaving me shrivelling with embarrassment. But if anyone was staring I

couldn't see them, and there was no change in the buzz of voices; anyway, it

didn't seem to worry this Katjka girl. She pulled my head down to rest between

her breasts without the least inhibition, and when Myrko came puffing up with

the hot water she'd sent him for she began to clean and search my throbbing

scalp with incredibly delicate fingers, and smooth on something pungent and

seaweedy from a jar. 'Relax ...' she crooned, but on that particular pillow it

was both difficult and only too easy; in the end I just accepted the

situation, and sagged.

It seemed to please her, but I wasn't quite so sure; nice creature though

she was, from my vantage I couldn't help but notice one thing about her. It

wasn't that unpleasant, not the kind of rank stink you associate with

squash-court changing rooms, but all the same it was there, and pretty strong.

No worse than our ancestors, our great-grandparents even must have been, or

folk in countries where baths were still a luxury. I remembered an Eastern

Bloc coal export official complaining that girls back home never bathed enough

because of constant fuel shortages; he should've talked. But in our

enlightened land of Lifebuoy and hot water on tap there wasn't any excuse; it

wasn't necessary, that was why it put me off. Or wasn't it? I glanced up at

the lights again. Maybe they weren't just decoration, atmosphere; maybe this

place genuinely didn't have electricity or even gas. In which case she might

well have the same problem. But what sort of place didn't have one or the

other, these days? Even Highland crofts could get bottled gas. And how could

any kind of eating-house survive the hygiene inspectors without them?

With slivovitz and other things I was still a bit lightheaded, thoughts like

that buzzing aimlessly around, getting nowhere. But gradually I found my head

was clearing, and, wonder of wonders, that it was hardly throbbing any more.

Katjka seemed to sense this, because she pushed me gently upright and with

careful fingers set to work on my punctured arm. I glanced at it once, then

away; it looked worse than I'd guessed, a fearful mess of clotted blood.

Besides, I preferred looking at her; beautiful or not, she was a nice-looking

creature. And now she was clasping my arm to that bosom of hers, and leaving

my hand dangling loose in her lap; quite a distraction. Beside us I heard Jyp

and Myrko talking, but what they were saying only filtered through to me

gradually.

'So say to me, pylot, how's this all happen, then? How'd a fly lad like

you let a few mangy Volfs get you down, anyhow?'

'Just careless, I guess. Decoyed me to the door and jumped me. Kind of

subtle, by their lights.'

'Daj. Let's hope they not learrning brains. But why so much trouble?

What's in that warrehouse, anyhow?'

'Just the usual.' Jyp sounded puzzled. 'A few old loads that've lain

there months now, and the stuff out of the Iskander, docked this morning from

out West. Nothing unusual in that. Black lotus for Patchie's, a couple of

gross merhorse skins that Mendoza's shipped up from Te Arahoa on spec and died

on the market. A load of flamewood planks for the trade, indigo, peppers and

coffee from Huy Brazeal, auk down - twenty bales of it! - and a few tons of

dried Conqueror Root and Night-eye for the shops on Damballah Alley. Not the

sort of stuff a man can pilfer to any profit; it'd take more'n three to carry

off any worthwhile pickings. There was a load of black-devil rum, fifty

hogsheads, but Sutler Dick picked that up not four hours after it come in.'

'Maybe nobody tells the Volfs,' puffed Myrko.

'Maybe ...' echoed Jyp, but he didn't sound convinced. I was just about

to ask him what all those daft-sounding commodities were meant to be when

Katjka distracted me - with a vengeance. I jerked rigid with agony, and all

but kicked over the table. It felt exactly as if, having cleaned the wound off

gently, she'd suddenly pulled it sharply open, sunk her teeth in it and sucked

hard. I looked down and saw that that was exactly what she had done. What's

more, she was still doing it. I sank back trembling, unable to speak, and saw

Jyp grinning at me.

'Could be dirt in the wound, remember? Filthy things, Wolf blades, you never

know. That's how Katjka's folk deal with it, and I can vouch for it working,

b'lieve me. Mind you, they're all vampires in her corner of the world,

anyhow!'

Katjka looked up, and spat my blood accurately onto his trousers, which

looked like glossy leather; he wiped it off with a snort.

'The company you keep, you shouldn't be so high and mighty, pylot! Not

too painful now, no, my Stefan?'

I managed a grin of sorts, as she picked up the slivovitz bottle and

began to wash the wound with the blazing spirit. 'Can't think of anyone I'd

rather be eaten by,' I managed, and she giggled.

'Especially marinado? Okay! Then I put a little more salve on this, so,

and bandage it up, and in a day or so you are right as rain - all right, dajT

I breathed out hard, and managed half a smile. Jyp handed me the bottle,

but I shook my head. 'Thanks, but I've had enough. Got to drive home.'

'With that arm? Think you'll be all right? Better you doss down here for

the night. Try Myrko's robber steak, with french fries and a demi of old Vara

Orsino - put hair on your chest and lead in your pencil, that! And for your

afters a tumble with Katjka - set you up a wonder, she will! And you give him

the very best, you hear, lass, the real sailor's holiday! My treat, right?

It's Wolf-meat I'd be if it wasn't for my old mate Steve -'

I blinked a bit and stole a glance at Katjka. Jyp's casually commercial

attitude didn't seem to bother her, if anything it flattered her. 'Well ...' I

said, and she turned those large grey eyes on me. I had a suspicion they'd

stripped many a seaman of his inhibitions, if nothing worse. But I reached for

my shirt.

Tou're not goink? she enquired in hurt disbelief. It was obviously a

routine line, but she seemed to mean it. Or was that the routine as well? But

Jyp and Myrko were looking just as crestfallen.

'Hey, c'mon,' protested Jyp, creasing up his young-old face. T was goin'

to give you a party - I owe you, remember? Can't leave me feeling like an

ungrateful louse, can you? And Katjka all limbering up for it, too! Sit down!

Stay! You're among friends!' That almost got me, that last word. Among friends

-I was, I felt it, as I hardly ever had all my life. I faltered. Ahead of me

that light was changing again, and all of me longed to put my foot down and

race through it - away, out, into that dreaming sunset, chasing some new dream

of my own. Some kind of fulfilment I couldn't imagine -something to fill up

the shell ...

But I felt the twinge in my arm as I drew on my shirt, and my own blood

stuck it clammily against my skin. I stamped on the brake. No more rushing in,

not tonight. 'I know. I'm sorry. Another time, maybe, but -I've got to go. If

I can find my car, that is. I parked it in Tampere Street, wherever that is

from here.'

For a moment I was horribly afraid they would all ask what a car was. But

Jyp, though he was obviously hurt and disappointed, said casually, 'Okay,

Steve. I understand. Another time it is. Suppose I should be getting back to

the warehouse myself. Tampere, right, that's back behind here, round the

corner ahead, past the big old bonded store, first left then right, right

again and straight down; at the end you'll see it. Got that? I'll come show

you the way.'

'If it's that simple, I'll manage, thanks. You get back to your work. I

don't want to make things hard for you. And thanks - thanks for the puncture

repair, Katjka. And - and the drink, Myrko ... Thanks, all of you -' I was

sounding like an idiot. I was nervous, I didn't want to offend these weird,

warm people. Myrko just grunted, but Katjka smiled.

'All right, Stefan. Make it soon, hah?'

'Yah,' laughed Jyp, 'while I've still got some dough!'

'Whether he has or not,' said Katjka calmly.

Jyp turned on her with his bony jaw dropping; she menaced him with her fist,

and he turned back to me. He looked me up and down a moment, as if sizing me

up anew. 'Yah, you come back, you hear? One way or t'other I'll bet you will.

And hey, be you looking for me, you can't find me, you ask for Jyp the Pilot,

right? Just that. Jyp the Pilot. Ask anyone, they all know me. Anyone, right!

Be seeing you, Steve.' He leaped up and wrung my hand with startling strength.

'And thanks, man; thanks!'

I stopped at the door, and looked back, reluctant. It seemed dark and

cold out there, and I didn't want to let this fragile shred of life and colour

go so easily forever. What chance is there you'll ever come back to a dream?

Myrko had vanished into the shadows, Jyp had his head in Katjka's lap, but it

was me she was watching. She smiled, and inhaled slowly. I looked down, and

lifted the latch. The door creaked twice, and I was exiled into the sea-wind,

bitterly cold and heavy with harbour stenches and the last few drops of rain.

Hastily I raised my collar, and it whipped the points about my ears in

mockery. The cobbles glistened and glittered now under a newly clear moon, and

I had no trouble seeing my way. I turned once to look back, but the wind

dashed stinging salt into my eyes and hurried me on with invisible hands.

Jyp's directions were straightforward enough. Which was just as well, for

there was nobody else to ask; the streets still seemed to be deserted. I saw

the bonded warehouse ahead the moment I rounded the corner, a louring mountain

of a place that had once been imposing; now eyepatches of rusty corrugated

iron filled its lower windows, and barbed wire crawled about the broken

crenellations of its outer walls. First left was obvious enough, too, but it

didn't look - or smell - very prepossessing; even as alleys went this was the

dregs. I hesitated, could he have forgotten this, and meant some broader way

further on? But when I stepped back to look I saw there wasn't one; the road

curved around to the right. Holding my breath, I was just about to take the

plunge when I heard a slight scrape, and a flicker of motion caught my eye,

back at the corner I'd just turned. But when I looked around there was

nothing, and I thought no more about it. The alley was as foul as I'd

expected, the water that plashed around my hapless shoes awash with pale

shapeless things half floating, its muddy shallows releasing a terrible stench

as I disturbed them. Fortunately it wasn't long. When the puddle ended I

stopped for a moment to tip the foulness out of my shoes and scrape them

clean. But as I leant one-handed against the grimy bricks I heard that sound

again, echoing slightly down the alley. Forgetting my squishy feet, I turned

and looked suddenly back almost frozen to the spot. There came just a whisper

of movement, no more than a flicker; but it seemed as if for one moment some

huge bulky shadow had filled the alley's other end, blocking off the light.

Though it was gone almost at once, there was no way I could deny it, search

though I might for such a shadow among the broken cobbles. I swallowed.

Somebody didn't want me to see them. Why? Because they were following me, that

was why; it had to be. But who? Jyp, maybe, seeing his guest safe - no,

hardly. But I could find out easily enough. All I had to do walk right back

around that corner and confront - him? Them? Or ... what?

Except, fortunately, that I wasn't quite that stupid. I thought of

Wolves; but there was no scaffolding here, hardly even an unbroken brickbat,

let alone Jyp with his sword. I turned and hurried as quietly as I could out

of the other end of the alley. In the street beyond, turning right, I stopped

a moment, listening for the splash of that inescapable puddle. There was

nothing - which meant they either weren't coming, or they were coming with

greater stealth. I swallowed and strode on. Just as I reached the next corner,

another right turn, I dared to glance back again. Nothing - except -

A sudden tremendous splashing erupted from the alley, as if something was

charging headlong through that puddle, charging with heedless ferocity.

Perhaps I yelled; certainly I fled. Down the street I pounded, noticing only

that it was mercifully wide and short on shadows, and had smooth cinder

pavements that scuffed muddily under my feet. My breath seemed to go shallow

very suddenly, and bands of agony sprang up around my head; my injuries were

beginning to tell. Where now? Where next? I couldn't even remember. I stopped,

bewildered, panting, and looked up at the skies. And what I saw there drove

out all other thoughts, even of what might any moment round that corner behind

me.

The moon was afloat, it seemed, sailing above a sea of cloud. By its light the

clouds were transformed, spread out beneath it into a landscape of shimmering

night-bound beauty, low hills and the sea beyond, the sea and islands. But

that alone could not have held me, in the state I was. What bound me to the

spot was the almost tangible shock of recognition. Beyond all possibility, yet

equally beyond all doubt, it was the same landscape the sunset had shown me,

at least three hours earlier. The same, yet - as you might expect - seen from

a slightly different angle. I began to shake; had the blow affected my brain?

Yet I'd never felt more sure of anything; both visions burned together in my

brain, the seas of gold and silver. Bewildered, I looked down, and saw, above

that landscape mirrored in a stagnant gutter, a sign on the grimy wall.

Beneath the gutterings of spray paint it read, quite clearly, Tampere Street.

I ran forward wildly, and there, not a hundred yards from the corner, was my

car.

Forgetting all else, I bolted for it. But now, somehow, the wind was in

my face, whirling up cinder dust to sting my eyes, buffeting me on the

slippery cobbles; it felt like a hand holding me back, barring me from my

refuge, my escape. A filthy rag of polythene hissed out of the gutter and

tangled itself lovingly around my ankles; I kicked it free and trampled on it

like some living menace. But I was there, my hand fell on the wing, its steel

cold beneath the smooth paintwork. I fumbled for my keys, barely catching them

as the wind sought to whisk them from my numbed fingers into the drain

beneath, yanked the door open and plunged in.

It was slow to start; I almost flooded the carburettor in my impatience. I

forced myself to sit still a moment while the wind buffeted the car, staring

into my rear-view mirror at the darkness I'd come out of. Then I tried again,

my foot light upon the pedal, and heard the blessed cough and rumble of the

engine, felt its vibrations stronger than the wind. I slipped it into gear,

twisted the wheel and all but threw the car out from the kerb, growling across

the cobbles. Only once I looked back, but the street's end was in deeper

shadow still; anything or nothing might have been lurking there. Then I turned

out into the main road, into Danube Street where there was lighting that

worked, cold and orange though it was, and the prospect at least of the noise

and colour and company, the safety of the city I knew. It came crazily into my

head how for the ancient Romans the Danube was a barrier of civilization,

holding barbarism at bay; but it was not a comforting thought, for at the end

that barbarism had come rolling across the Danube in an overwhelming wave. I

slowed, waited at the junction and turned, and there it all was. Noise,

colour, company, safety - but all of it strange, all men about me strangers.

Safe, but strangers. Suddenly the trade didn't seem so good, the escape less

of an escape. Had that light really been red? Or had I just been afraid to see

it was amber? I couldn't answer. I was tired, sore, and I hadn't eaten.

I went home, and threw something into the microwave. Hard. CHAPTER TWO

1 UULi OFFICE NEXT MORNING pulled me sharply back. Everything seemed solid

and familiar, everything was bright and sunlit and unmysterious, from the

squeak of the fake-mosaic tiles under my shoes to the sweet smile from Judy

behind the switchboard. This morning, too, it was nicely flavoured with

sympathy.

'Hallo, Steve - how's the arm?'

'Oh, it's okay, thanks. Settling down.'

There was nothing mysterious about these corridors, all light-flooding

windows and cool daffodil-yellow walls, no dark corners, no strange

atmospheres. After last night they felt businesslike, bracing, reassuring. The

only smells in the conditioned air were fresh polish and coffee and the warm

tang that surrounds VDUs and other office electronics, with an acetonal whiff

of nail varnish and menthol cigarettes as I passed the typists' room; clean

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

ChasetheMorningMichaelScottRohanCHAPTERONEIBRAKEDHARDandpulledup;butthecarinfrontofmeshotthroughthelightsjustastheychanged.IsatcursingmyselfasIwatchedthosetail-lightsdwindleawayintothegatheringgloom,andtheotherendlesslanesoftrafficcomeswarmingoutafterthem.TheidiotintheflashGermansportbehindmebeepedh...

展开>> 收起<<

Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning.pdf

共164页,预览33页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: