"James Herbert - 48" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)

ducking back again straight away. Then I took another, extended look.

The last barrage balloons hovered over the battered landscape like bloated sentinels. Much closer,
directly opposite, the grey and grimed trio on the memorial plinth bowed their heads as if in shame, the
words Truth, Charity and Justice now irrelevant. Save for metal litter, the broad, tree-lined avenue behind
them was deserted.

What then? I'd chosen this billet because the balcony room offered a good view of anyone approaching
the main entrance; it also gave me plenty of places to play hide 'n' seek in. The building was a warren of
rooms, halls and corridors, a honeycomb of hideaways. It suited me fine.

But someone had discovered my sanctuary; the mutt wouldn't have growled for no reason. Maybe it
was rats, skulking through the passageways, hardly afraid of humans any more. Or another dog, a cat
maybe. But I didn't think so. Instinct told me it was something else. Instinct and Cagney I'd learned to
rely on.

I didn't waste any more time.

The motorcycle was where I'd left it last night, carpet rucked up around its wheels. That was another
thing I could rely on: a single-cylinder Matchless G3L, this one painted buff for desert warfare, only never
shipped out. A survivor. Like me and the dog.

I moved fast, scooping up my fly-jacket from the floor and shrugging it on as I went. The added weight
in the lining provided a small comfort. Out the corner of my eye I saw that Cagney was on his feet, ready
for action, but waiting for me. His stubby mongrel tail was erect, expectant. Within seconds I'd pushed
the bike off its stand, mounted it and was switching on. I kicked down on the starter, hard but smooth,
sensing the machine the way you can if you 'know' them, if you love every working part, and the engine
roared into life first go (I'd given this baby a lot of care and attention).

The wheels burned carpet as I took off, heading for the closed set of doors at the end of the room,
doors that were just beginning to open.

I hit them hard and someone on the other side squawked blue hell as the heavy wood struck him. Paws
grabbed at me as I shot through, but the Matchless was already too fast and all they found was empty
air. Now I could smell 'em and believe me, it wasn't pleasant. One fool standing further back in the room
jumped in front of me waving his arms like some demented traffic cop, so I swerved the bike and raised
a boot. Groin or hip, I'm not sure which I made contact with, but he doubled up and swung round like a
top, his whooshy grunt affording me some pleasure. Short-lived though, because the angle of the bike
caused it to slide along the room's big rug, ruffling it up in thick waves. A few years' dust powdered the
air as I fought to control the skid.

I lost it, though. The machine slicked away from me and I let it go, afraid of catching a leg underneath if
we both went down together. I rolled with the fall, tucking in a shoulder and staying loose the way I'd
been trained. I was up, crouched and ready before the bike had slithered into a fancy chest of drawers
halfway down the chamber, ruining painted panels and gold carvings.

One of the intruders, his face ugly with dirt and aggression, came lurching towards me while his two pals
behind the crashed doors tended their hurts. Cagney trotted into view and stood in the doorway,
interested in how things were working out.