"Dave Hutchinson - Discreet Phenomena" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hutchinson Dave)

There were signs on the Seldon turnoff that pointed to "Local Services"-me, in other words-but most
drivers expect their services to be at the end of a fairly short slip-road. People turning off the A303 just sort of
drove around for a couple of minutes looking puzzled before getting back onto the main road and going in
search of a real service station. I'd put up a sign of my own that read "Seldon Services-2 miles" but the
Highways Agency had told me to take it down.
"Your prices are too high, too," Domino went on. "The last few weeks should have quadrupled your
takings, at least, but everybody's going to the big service station up the road."
"I can't afford to cut prices," I said.
"It's not your fault." He looked at me with what appeared to be a real expresion of sympathy. "This place
was dying on its feet years before you came along." He looked at the books again. "I give you another six
months. A year, perhaps."
"Do you want a drink?" I asked.

The lounge bar of The Black Bull was full of journalists and technicians and support staff and scientists. We
looked into the snug, and it was more of the same. We went into the public bar, and found a couple of locals
neatly corralled along with the fruit machines and the pool table and the Space Invaders machine.
I sat at a corner table, thinking about Domino's assessment of my business future, while he went to buy
drinks. I remembered Andy Hayward's little smile when we finalised the sale of the garage. I wondered what I
was going to do, and I discovered that I didn't care very much.
Seven years ago, Karen and I had been living on the top floor of an Islington townhouse that had been
converted, not very expertly, into three flats. The couple immediately below us had been going through the
world's noisiest divorce, and the ground floor flat belonged to a young woman who had mentioned, just in
passing, that she was a practicing Satanist. I was working late shifts at Reuter's, and Karen was just making
a name for herself illustrating childrens' books. We saw each other, if we were lucky, one evening in four.
And one Bank Holiday we drove down to Exeter to visit some friends of Karen's, and on the way back she
noticed we were getting a bit light on petrol, so she pulled off the A303 and followed the "Local Services"
sign, and eventually we found ourselves pulling into a little garage with a For Sale notice in the office window.
And while Andy Hayward topped up the car I got out to stretch my legs and was confronted by one of the
most peaceful, idyllic village scenes I had ever encountered.
And I lost my mind.
"I hate to see a man drink alone," said Harvey, standing at the other side of the table and grinning down at
me.
"I'm not drinking yet."
"I hate to see a man not drinking yet alone," he said.
I smiled. "Everyone says that about you." I watched him pull up a chair and sprawl into it. "How are you?"
"Wonderful," he said with some irony, searching his pockets and finally coming up with a lighter and a tin
of small cigars. "I spent this morning shovelling frogs."
"You too?" My part of the village had only caught the edge of the squall, but I'd still had to hose the front
path clear of burst little bodies.
He lit a cigar and sat back in his chair. "Still, beats snow, I guess." Harvey was from a little town outside
Oshkosh, in Northern Wisconsin, and if he'd had enough beer to get nostalgic he would wax lyrical about his
late father having to use a snow-blower just to reach his garage during the winter.
"Or cats and dogs," I reminded him
His eyes widened. "Yeah," he said. "That was bad, wasn't it?"
"It was an unusual couple of days," I admitted.
"Had that guy on the roof again last night, too," he told me.
I shrugged. Springheel Jack was, quite frankly, getting boring. By now most of the village had experienced
the joy of being woken abruptly by the sound of long fingernails rattling on their slates in the wee small hours.

"At least he's harmless," I said. "People have started leaving a bottle of beer and a plate of sandwiches