"James Herbert - 48" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)James Herbert: '48
v1.0 20-nov-01 OCR'd 600DPI b/w with Finereader 5.0, layout with W2K and full proof by 4i Publications. This document should be 99% error free, give or take a few missing quotation marks. If you proofread or change this document, please retain the existing version information. Also indicate what has been improved (proofreading, layout etc). Just reformatting to RTF and changing the version number doesn't mean that the actual text has been improved. For Kitty, who knew more than one Tyne Street. Love and appreciation from us all... 1 WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? My eyes snapped open and my head lifted an inch or so from the floor; a mess of thoughts stalled any sense. I pushed the quilt I'd borrowed off my chest and an empty beer bottle rolled across the dusty carpet when my booted foot (I'd learned to sleep with my boots on) knocked it over. The glass made a dull clunk as it struck a tiny centre table. I raised my head another inch, my body tense, hearing now acute; I looked right, I looked left, I even looked up at the fancy ceiling. Early-morning sunlight flooded through the open half of the balcony doors, butting in on a gloom caused by boarded windows. A slight breeze tainted with the musk of decay drifted through with the light. I listened. Cagney, who'd found a dark corner to nest in - he liked the shadows; survival came with low profile - gave a mean growl, a soft rumbling that was warning rather than alarm. I brought up a hand to silence him and he obeyed; I could just make out the shine of his eyes as he watched me. The quilt slid away when I leaned on an elbow and a sharp knife punctured the general ache inside my head, punishing me for the insobriety of the night before. There were plenty more brown bottles littering the floor around me, empty soulmates to the one I'd kicked over and counter-testimony to my long dislike of English beer. Skin scraped against jaw bristle as I wiped the back of my hand across dry lips. Full consciousness arrived in a rush and then I was up, moving swiftly towards the light, crouched and quiet, ears and eyes alert for the slightest disturbance. I skirted the little round table and paused beside the open door to the balcony, keeping out of sight behind glass darkened by rotting blackout boards. Despite the early hour a dry summer heat maundered through the opening, its soft breeze carrying dust motes from the damaged city outside along with its sourness. I snatched a quick look into the sunlight, |
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