"a_taste_of_heaven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lovegrove James)

phone rang, and the voice of one of the damned
croaked my name.

The tiny portion of my brain that never goes to sleep
knew who it was straight away, but the bit that thinks
it does the thinking needed longer to place the
identity of the caller, so, playing for time, I muttered
something about the ungodliness of the hour and told
whoever it was that he had better have a bloody
good reason for waking me up. There was a long
silence at the other end of the line, but even though I
thought the connection had been cut, something
prevented me from putting down the receiver. Then
the voice spoke again. It sounded as though each
word was being forged only with great effort and
pain.

"I saw your note on the board. I must speak with
you."

My conscious brain finally engaged gear with my
subconscious. "Harold? Jesus, is that you, Harold?"

"It is."

"Well, I mean... What's happened? Where have you
been? Are you all right? No, OK, listen, you're at the
shelter, right? I'll be right over. Man, I really thought
I was never going to hear from you again. Wow. OK,
Harold, stay put. I'll be right there."

"Listen," Harold said and, from the effort of
concentrating so much energy into the command, left
himself speechless again. There was breathing --
sore, laboured breathing -- and then the pips went. I
shouted at Harold to give me the number of the
payphone so that I could call him back, but he
managed to insert a coin in time.

"This is how it is, Mark," he said. "I'm not at the
shelter now. I've been there and I got your number
there, but I didn't stay long -- I didn't want anyone
seeing me. I'm coming round to call on you at your
place. I need the address."

"OK." I gave it to him and said I'd have a hot cup of
tea waiting for him when he arrived.

Either he didn't hear or he didn't care. "I'll be about
an hour," he said, and hung up.