The landlord sighed, and glanced at the clock. There was no doubt that he was making a lot of money, especially since the stranger didn't seem inclined to worry about overcharging or short change. But it was getting late; in fact it was getting so late that it was getting early. There was also something about the solitary customer that unsettled him. People in The Mended Drum often drank as though there was no tomorrow, but this was the first time he'd actually felt they might be right.
I MEAN, WHAT HAVE I GOT TO LOOK FORWARD TO? WHERE'S THE SENSE IN IT ALL? WHAT IS IT REALLY ALL ABOUT?
'Can't say, my friend. I expect you'll feel better after a good night's sleep.'
SLEEP? SLEEP? I NEVER SLEEP. I'M WOSSNAME, PROVERBIAL FOR IT.
'Everyone needs their sleep. Even me,' he hinted.
THEY ALL HATE ME, YOU KNOW.
'Yes, you said. But it's a quarter to three.'
The stranger turned unsteadily and looked around the silent room.
THERE'S NO ONE IN THE PLACE BUT YOU AND I, he said.
The landlord lifted up the flap and came around the bar, helping the stranger down from his stool.
I HAVEN'T GOT A SINGLE FRIEND. EVEN CATS FIND ME AMUSING.
A hand shot out and grabbed a bottle of Amanita Liquor before the man managed to propel its owner to the door, wondering how someone so thin could be so heavy.
I DON'T HAVE TO BE DRUNK, I SAID. WHY DO PEOPLE LIKE TO BE DRUNK? IS IT FUN?
'Helps them forget about life, old chap. Now just you lean there while I get the door open —'
FORGET ABOUT LIFE. HA. HA.
'You come back any time you like, y'hear?'
YOU'D REALLY LIKE TO SEE ME AGAIN?
The landlord looked back at the small heap of coins on the bar. That was worth a little weirdness. At least this one was a quiet one, and seemed to be harmless.
'Oh, yes,' he said, propelling the stranger into the street and retrieving the bottle in one smooth movement. 'Drop in anytime.'
THAT'S THE NICEHEST THING —
The door slammed on the rest of the sentence.
Ysabell sat up in bed.
The knocking came again, soft and urgent. She pulled the covers up to her chin.
'Who is it?' she whispered.
'It's me, Mort,' came the hiss under the door. 'Let me in, please!'
'Wait!'
Ysabell scrambled frantically on the bedside table for the matches, knocking over a bottle of toilet water and dislodging a box of chocolates that was now mostly discarded wrappers. Once she'd got the candle alight she adjusted its position for maximum effect, tweaked the line of her nightdress into something more revealing, and said: 'It's not locked.'
Mort staggered into the room, smelling of horses and frost and scumble.
Вы читаете Mort
