"Child Of The Stones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

The man, still completely oblivious to the drama, believed that I was menacing him, and said heТd give me a right good kicking if I didnТt fuck off. His girlfriend pulled at his arm and told him to leave it; after a moment he spat at his feet, said that if he saw me again heТd make me eat my fucking sword, and, honour satisfied, allowed himself to be led away.

The revenant lunged at the cutpurse with jaws that were now as wide as a sharkТs. I caught her wrist, broke off the knotted remnant of the impТs tail, and threw it at the monster, which snapped up the trifle and withdrew as swiftly as thought. I ran to the crown of the bridge, looked over the parapet and saw something faintly luminous and very long pour into the canalТs black water.

The cutpurse sat in the middle of the road, watching me walk back to her. My nose had started to bleed when the thing had briefly inhabited my head. I mopped up the blood with my handkerchief, folded it away, held out a hand, and told the girl that she had best come with me.
* * * *
Although she had suffered a bad shock, the girl was blessed with youthТs resilience, and soon began to recover what I had to suppose was her usual sullen defiance. From her more or less monosyllabic answers to my questions I learnt that her name was Miranda, that she was sixteen, that she lived with her mother in a nearby council flat, and that she and the other girl, Liz, were neighbours, and had both been left to fend for themselves because their mothers had gone away on holiday together.

УThat bloke she was with only wants her for one thing,Ф Miranda said. УThatТs why . . .Ф

УYou wished to help her. ThereТs no shame in that. To care for others is an admirable quality.Ф

УI was stupid,Ф she muttered. УI could have got my head kicked in.Ф

УAnd you lost your familiar, but IТm sure you can find another easily enough.Ф

She glanced up at me from beneath the brim of her baseball cap. She was small and skinny, and already hardened to the ways of the world; hers was a type that had not changed since the Romans had first made London the capital of the northernmost tip of their empire, a child Сbrought up on the stonesТ, armoured with soul-scabs and premature cynicism.

УHow long have you been able to see things that others cannot?Ф I said.

УDonТt know what youТre on about. DonТt even know who you are.Ф

УI am Mr Carlyle. I have the honour of being a consultant in the matter of the dead.Ф

УLike a bloke that buries people?Ф

УIn a way. And something like a private detective, too.Ф

УYeah, you look a bit like whatТs-his-name. Sherlock Holmes. Was that a real sword? Where are we going?Ф

УMy blade is Damascus steel, and very old. Some say that its kind were quenched after their final forging by being run through the body of a slave, although I myself do not believe this fancy. In any case, it derives its strength from more than its steel, which is why I was able to help you. I won it a hundred years ago - you donТt believe me, but it is true. As to where we are going, why, here we are.Ф

We stood at the head of a short paved alley. When London had been no more than a huddle of herdersТ huts in a clearing on the hill now called Ludsgate, this spot had been the beginning of a path that had linked two sacred groves. Now it was blocked by a crooked little house whose ground floor was given over to a cafe. Warm light fell from its plate-glass window onto the plastic tables and chairs on the flagstones in front of it. A neon sign boasted that it was open all hours.

УI havenТt been here for a long time,Ф I said, Уbut tonight itТs the nearest haven. Even if you donТt want any refreshment, we can at least sit comfortably while we talk.Ф

* * * *

УWhat have we got to talk about?Ф

УI can see everything that you can see. We can talk about that, to begin with,Ф I said, and stepped inside the cafe. After a moment, to my immense relief, the girl followed me.

Fluorescent light shone on worn wooden tables and chapel chairs, the glass-fronted counter and its polished steel top. A man in a grey suit sat in one corner, toying with an espresso in a dollТs-house-sized china cup; in another, a taxi driver studied an old copy of the financial Times, his laminated licence on a chain around the neck of his short-sleeved shirt.

Rose, the pleasant, round-faced woman of indeterminate age who had owned this place for more than a century, materialized from the shadows behind the massive coffee machine. Her silver hair was caught up in a bun with a pencil stuck through it. Her lipstick was bright red. Her smile was wide and warm and welcoming. УMr C! What a pleasant surprise. Will you be having your usual? And what about your friend? You both look in need of a refresher.Ф

УWe ran into a little local difficulty.Ф

УDown by the canal, I expect,Ф Rose said, as she bustled behind the counter, slapping bacon rashers on a griddle, buttering two slices of white bread.