"Simon R. Green - Nightside 1 - Drinking Midnight Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Green Simon R)

between them. One had even made notes. The real money still came from the never-ending turnover of
brand-name best-sellers: Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, J. K. Rowling and whoever the hell it was
who wrote those marvellous children's fantasies about Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat.
The only thing Toby really disliked about his current occupation was having to get up so damned
early in the morning. He lived alone, in a characterless semi-detached he'd inherited from an
uncle, and most mornings his bed felt like a womb. He'd had to put his alarm clock on the other
side of the room, so he'd be forced to get up out of bed to turn it off. So; up at seven a.m. to
catch the train at eight, in order to get to work at nine. No doubt there were those who had to
get up even earlier, but Toby preferred not to think about them because it interfered with his
self-pity. Shit, shower and shave, not necessarily in that order, grab the nearest clothes and
then downstairs to breakfast. A quick bowl of All-Bran (motto: eat our cereal and the world will
fall out of your bottom), two large cups of black coffee, and then out of the house and down
through the town to the railway station, with eyes still defiantly half closed. The body might be
up and about, but the brain still wasn't ready to commit itself.
Though he'd never admit it, Toby quite liked walking through the town first thing in the morning.
Down the seemingly endless Trow-bridge Road, with its ranks of terraced houses with their bulging
bay windows and gabled roofs on one side and old stone houses on the other, each one almost
bursting with proud individuality. The street was mostly empty that early in the day, and there
was hardly any traffic as yet. The town was still waking up, and only early risers like Toby
Dexter got to see her with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth and no make-up on. Down the hill
and turn sharp left, past the old almshouses, and there was the railway station, supposedly
designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunei himself, on a day when he clearly had a lot of other things on
his mind. So far it had successfully resisted all attempts at modernisation, and the small monitor
screens offering up-to-date train information had been carefully tucked away in corners so as not
to detract from the building's ambience. The occasional 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


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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 shit than any
man could read in one lifetime. Gandalf's prided itself on catering for every taste and interest,
from the latest paperback best-sellers to obscure philosophical discourses bound in goatskin. From
science to mysticism, Gothic romances to celebrity biographies, from aromatherapy to creative
knitting to erotic feng shui, you could be sure of finding something unexpected in every genre, on
any subject.

The station's general elegance and smug solidity was entirely lost on Toby, who tended to stand on