"Guy N. Smith - Blood Circuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

Sheep, a few crops, nothing else. Boredom, but they accepted it, something which he would have to
learn to do also.

A nasty 'S' bend in the midst of a massive larch forest. He took it at ten m.p.h. His training had taught him
to go into a bend slowly, and come out of it fast. He simply drove slowly. To hell with techniques. They
counted for nothing up here.

Down past a couple of farms, the lane following a course between two barns. Rising even more sharply
now. He engaged bottom gear. He could see over the hedges in places, through gaps in others. Golden
fields led up to the lush dark green of Forestry Commission plantations. Stocked corn, so beautifully
primitive. These lanes were not wide enough to admit a combine-harvester, anyway. He wondered how
long it would remain that way before some progress-minded councillor put forward road-widening
schemes.

The lane had levelled out now. A towering forest on his right, an unrestricted view of distant mountain
peaks beyond the valley on his left, a perfect blend of green, purple, and brown, offset by infrequent
patches of golden stubble.

Life could be very good up here once one adapted. That was the only problem. To Slade it presented
even greater difficulties than winning the IROC. He was determined to make it somehow, though.

Then he saw his own place, standing on a kind of crossroads, the way he had come, the road leading
down to the nearest village straight ahead, a left turn that headed somewhere in the direction of those
distant mountains, and a rough unsurfaced track on the right up into the forestry. 'Crossways'. Mark
Slade was certainly at a crossroads.

Once it had been a farmworker's cottage. Probably before that it had been a barn or a stable. Various
extensions and renovations by the previous owner had transformed it into what the estate agent had
described as a 'cottage residence of exquisite beauty with panoramic views'. Low ceilings, oak beams,
recently whitewashed exterior walls, and a quarter of an acre of triangular-shaped garden, the latter in
need of some attention. Mark Slade had already contemplated taking up gardening. The idea did not
appeal, but, nevertheless, it was yet another challenge of the right kind. Escapism.

He did not drive straight into the lean-to garage, but instead left the Cortina parked on the adjacent
forestry track. In the three weeks during which he had sampled life as a recluse here he had never known
a vehicle to use that route. Two or three a day, maybe, on the surfaced roads, mostly tractors and Land
Rovers to and from the farms lower down.
As he switched off the engine he heard for the first time the mechanical whirring and clanking sound,
slowing down, then dying away. His experience located the source of the trouble at once. The heater fan
was on the verge of packing up. Good, Chevy Camaros designed for Formula One did not have heaters.
Anything, the slightest thing which was in contrast to his former life pleased him. Especially this
clapped-out Cortina.

It was as he was fitting his key into the front door that he heard the telephone ringing inside the house.
The unexpected harsh jangling caused him to stiffen momentarily. Telephones, too, had been a large part
of his world of so-called glamour. This one was already installed when he had moved in. He should have
instructed the GPO engineers to disconnect it. Anyway, who the hell knew he was living here? He had
taken steps to fade into obscurity. His name certainly wouldn't be in the directory.

The lock was stiff, or maybe it was the key that was bent. It took him a couple of minutes to gain entry,