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.But at night, when everyone had gone home, the spirit of theold Smithfield returned.It was a dark place, a shadowy place, dedicated tokilling.The main square between Long Lane and Charterhouse Street was dominated bythe two-story building used to distribute meat throughout London.This hugemarket was the length of several city blocks and divided into sections by fourstreets.A modern Plexiglas awning ran around the circumference of thebuilding to protect truck drivers loading supplies in the rain, but the marketitself was a renovated example of Victorian confidence.The walls of themarket were constructed with white stone arches, the gaps filled in withLondon brick.Massive iron gates painted purple and green were at each end ofthe building.He circled the building once, then twice, looking for graffiti.It seemedabsurd to search for  hope in such a place.Why had the man in the butcher sapron told him to walk up the street? Exhausted, Gabriel sat down on aconcrete bench in a little square across the street from the market.He cuppedhis hands in front of his mouth and tried to warm his fingers with his breath,then gazed around the square.He was at the junction of Cowcross Street andSt.John s.The only business still open was a pub with a wooden façade abouttwenty feet away.Gabriel read the name on the sign and laughed for the first time in severaldays.Hope.It was the Hope Pub.Leaving the bench, he approached the warmlights that glowed through the beveled glass and studied the sign swingingover the entrance.It was a crude painting of two shipwrecked sailors clingingto a raft in a turbulent sea.A sailing ship had appeared in the distance andboth men were waving desperately.Another smaller sign indicated that arestaurant called the Sirloin was upstairs, but it had stopped serving an hourago.Page 53ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlHe entered the place half expecting a grand moment.You ve solved the puzzle,Gabriel.Welcome home.Instead, he found the landlord scratching himselfwhile a sullen barmaid wiped the counter with a rag.Little black tables wereat the front, and benches were in the back.A glass case displaying somestuffed pheasants sat on an upper shelf beside four dusty bottles ofchampagne.There were only three customers: a middle-aged married couple having awhispered argument and a weary old man who was staring at his empty glass.Gabriel bought a pint of beer with a few of his remaining coins and retreatedto an alcove with cushioned benches and dark wood paneling.The alcohol wasabsorbed by his empty stomach and dulled his hunger.Gabriel closed hiseyes.Just for a minute , he told himself.That s all.But he gave in to hisweariness and fell asleep.His body felt the change.An hour ago, the room was cold and static.Now itwas filled with energy.As Gabriel began to wake up, he heard the sound oflaughter and voices, felt a draft of cold air as the door squeaked back andforth.He opened his eyes.The pub was crowded with men and women about his agegreeting one another as if they hadn t met for several weeks.Occasionally oneperson would argue in a good-natured way with someone else, and then both ofthem would hand money to a tall man who wore wraparound sunglasses.Were they football fans? Gabriel thought.He knew that the English werepassionate about football.The men in the pub wore hooded sweatshirts andjeans.A few had tattoos elaborate designs that emerged from their T-shirtsand curled around their necks.None of the women wore a dress or a skirt;their hair was cut very short or tied back as if they were Amazon warriors.He studied several people standing near the bar and realized that they hadonly one specific thing in common their shoes.The athletic shoes weren t theconventional styles designed for basketball or jogging through the park; theyhad flashy colors, elaborate lacing, and the kind of treaded sole you d needfor all-terrain running.Another blast of cold air and a new customer entered.He was louder,friendlier, and definitely fatter than the rest of the people there.Hisgreasy black hair was partially covered by a wool cap with a ridiculous whitepom-pom on the top.His nylon jacket was open, revealing a prominent belly andT-shirt with a silk-screen drawing of a surveillance camera with a red barslashed across it.The man with the cap bought a pint and made a quick circuit of the bar,slapping backs and shaking hands like an alderman running for office.Watchingclosely, Gabriel could see a hint of tension in his eyes [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]