Sleepwalker by Michael Cadnum Page B

wallet and climbed to his feet with the expression of a man being punished.
    Peter drank. The feeling would not go away, that rock in his stomach. It was a leaden lump, and it would not dissolve. Margaret and now Jane. And to think he had considered for a few days that he and Davis could work together. What a fool he had been.
    It was much later. Nearly all the Skeldergate team had gone. Alf stopped by Peter’s table and congratulated all of them, including himself, on getting Langton to buy a drink or two for once. “I think he hated doing it, too,” said Alf. He left, waving a snake-decorated arm as he departed into the night.
    Peter slouched in a corner. He had switched from bitter, but the Bell’s whiskey had taken no effect, except to make the coins he used to pay for the drink seem heavy, and coated with grease.
    Only Skip and Oliver remained of his team, although the pub was crowded, and hazy with smoke. Skip was waggling a finger in the face of a man with huge triceps and biceps. Peter had seen this man unloading carts of swedes and turnips at the market. The swede carrier did not agree with the fine points of what Skip was saying. Oliver glanced from one surly face to another.
    Davis deserved to be taught some sort of lesson, thought Peter heavily. Some sort of very definite lesson. Peter had worked his way up, out of Leeds, beginning as a boy in the cellar at Marks & Spencer, stacking boxes and working so hard his back hurt. He had always been thin. But he mustn’t remember those terrible times. Those very bad times. Those were finished forever.
    He had grown into an accent that he even, at times, could be proud of. He wasn’t one of these California scientists who get their faces in the magazines. His father had been a newsagent and a hard worker, quick and polite to every stranger, and his mother had lived in America for a time, typing for an insurance company. Good people, nothing to be ashamed of, ambitious, but not the background most scientists have. Davis didn’t have a crooked tooth in his mouth. They were all straight and even possibly capped.
    You don’t have to worry anymore, the doctor had said. The future is yours. The past is far away.
    There was a sound of unmistakably foul language coming from Skip’s direction.
    Just as it happened, Oliver caught Peter’s eye from across the room. Peter struggled past the table before him, and reached Skip just as he pushed the crate lifter, and the crate lifter pushed back.
    Skip bellowed. Peter and Oliver together manhandled Skip out of the pub, into the cold night.
    â€œI’ve left my coat!” cried Skip. “You can’t expect me to wander around without my coat in this freezing weather, can you?”
    Oliver darted back into the pub for Skip’s coat. As Peter opened his mouth to utter soothing small talk, Skip swore and threw a wide, arcing left hook at a figure lurching from the pub.
    The punch connected. Bodies grappled. Peter seized Skip’s leg, and dragged him out of the knot. Oliver joined him, and the two warriors panted, held apart by their mates.
    Blood glittered on the pavement, blue in the glare of the streetlight.
    â€œYou can’t fucking drink without fucking fighting, can you?” said Oliver, dragging Skip up into the dark. “If it wasn’t for Peter and myself you’d have the fucking police. Best give me a hand with him, Peter, if you would, he’s bloody-minded, and that’s all there is to it.”
    Skip swore and muttered, but went along between the two of them.
    â€œFucking heavyweight champion,” said Oliver.
    There was a bitter north wind, and they had to walk all the way to Burton Stone Lane. By the time they had reached Skip’s flat he was furious at himself, and hitting himself great punches in the head.
    â€œEasy, now, Skip,” said Oliver. “You’re pissed and you got into a bit of a fight, but you don’t have to go pounding