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

perfect mouth in the world. Not too wide and not too small, not too thin and not full with the
artificial plumpness of injected collagen or surgically implanted tissues from cows' buttocks.
Just a wonderfully warm and inviting mouth, exactly the right shade of deep red that made the
fuller lower lip look soft and tender and touchable. Toby Dexter wasn't usually preoccupied
with mouths, as opposed to the more prominent curves of a woman's body, but there was
something special about this one, and he liked to look at it and wonder what it might sound
like, if he ever worked up the courage to introduce himself and start up a conversation.
Toby was travelling home from work on the 18.05 train, heading back to Bradford-on-
Avon after a hard day's work in the famous Georgian city of Bath. It was a tribute to that
city's relentless public relations machine that he always added the prefix Georgian whenever
he thought of Bath, though the city was of course much older. The Romans built their famous
baths there, that still stand today. They did other things there too, some of them quite
appalling, in the name of the Serpent's Son; but you won't hear about those from the tourist
board. Georgian society made visiting the baths the very height of fashion, and that was what
people preferred to remember now. The past is what we make it, if we know what's good for
us. Now, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, Bath is a busy, bustling, prosperous
modern city, and Toby was always glad to see the back of it.
The early-evening train was crowded as always, all the seats occupied and all the aisles
blocked, carrying tired commuters home to Freshford, Avoncliff, Bradford-on-Avon and
Trowbridge. Packed shoulder to shoulder, perched on hard seats or leaning against the closed
automatic doors, men and women forced into physical proximity concentrated on reading
their books and magazines and evening papers, so they wouldn't have to talk to each other.
The seats were fiendishly uncomfortable: there was no room to stretch your legs, and anyone
who felt like swinging a cat would have clubbed half a dozen people to death before he'd
even managed a decent wind-up. It was a hot and sweaty summer evening, and the interior of
the long carriage was like a steam bath. Toby didn't think he'd mention it to Great Western
Railways. They'd just call it a design feature, and charge him extra for the privilege.
Toby was pretending to read an unauthorised X-Files tie-in edition of dubious veracity and
unconcealed paranoia, while secretly studying the woman with the perfect mouth who sat
opposite him. He didn't have the energy to concentrate on the book anyway. He'd been on his
feet all day, and the constant rocking back and forth of the carriage was almost enough to lull
him to sleep, safe in the arms of the train, but he fought it off. Dozing on a train always left
him with a stiff neck and a dry mouth, and there was always the danger he'd sleep past his
stop. And you couldn't rely on any of this bunch to wake you up. Toby looked briefly around
him at the neat men in their neat suits, with bulging briefcases and tightly knotted ties, no
doubt listlessly considering another endless day of shuffling papers from one pile to another .
. . and sometimes back again. Deadly dull people leading deadly dull lives . . . Toby envied
all of them because at least they had some kind of purpose.
Toby worked at Gandalf's bookshop, right in the busy centre of Bath. He was officially in
charge of the Crime & Thrillers section, but really he was just a shop assistant with a few
extra duties. It wasn't a bad place to work. The other assistants were pleasant company, and
the shop itself was full of interesting nooks and crannies and intriguing out-of-print treasures.
Gandalf's consisted of four sprawling floors, connected by old, twisting stairways and the
occasional hidden passage. It was an old building, possibly even Georgian, with many
unexpected draughts, and floors that creaked loudly as you walked on them, despite the thick
carpeting. And everywhere you went, there was the comforting smell of books; of paper and
glue and musky leather bindings, of history and dreams compressed into handy volumes.
Every wall was covered with shelves, packed tightly with books on every subject under the
sun, and a few best not mentioned in polite company. There were standing displays and dump
bins and revolving wire stands, filled with more knowledge, entertainment and general weird