Chase the Morning

That seemed a daft idea – he was such a short man. But as he bore me up by my good arm I was astonished to realize he was hardly any shorter than me, and I am over six feet. It was next to the others he’d looked unusually small; so how tall were they?

This close, too, he didn’t look so ordinary. His face was bony, hard-jawed, but his features were open and regular; a bit Scandinavian, maybe, except that expressions played across them like shifting light. Lines appeared and disappeared, making his age hard to guess; early forties, maybe, by the lines about the eyes. Below them the remains of a tan welded together a great blaze of freckles across his cheekbones. His eyes were calm, wide and intelligent. The look in them seemed remote and far-seeing, till I caught the twinkle that matched the mercurial expressions and the wry smile. I rarely take to people on sight, men especially; but there was something instantly likeable about him. Which was pretty damn surprising, as I couldn’t have placed him in any way. Liking, of course, doesn’t have to mean trusting; but right then I’d very little choice in the matter.

Together, like a pair of companionable drunks, we staggered down towards the seaward end of the lane; but before we reached it my old mate Jyp, whoever he was, manoeuvred us across the road and down a dank and evil-smelling back alley to emerge into a much wider street, like all too many I had tramped down that night. In this one, though, was what I’d been looking for all along; a single building bright with lights, and the unmistakeable look of a pub, or perhaps even a proper restaurant, about it. Grimy diamond-leaded windows glowed a warm gold between peeling shutters, and above them a sign spanned the building, brightly painted even in the dim light of the flickering lamps on the wall below. My head was clearing in the cold air, and I stared at it, fascinated; this must be one of the little specialty places. The sign read TVERNA ILLYRIKO in tall letters, red upon black, and beneath them Illyrian Tavern – Old Style Delicacies – Dravic Myrko, Prop. On a board above the door I saw repeated Taverne Illyrique, Illyrisches Gasthof, the name in every language I could recognize, and a good few I couldn’t.

‘Come along, we’ll get you fixed up here!’ said Jyp cheerfully, and added something else I wasn’t sure I’d heard.

‘What was that?’

‘Not a bad place, I was saying, so long as you steer clear of the sea-slugs.’

I closed my eyes. ‘I’ll try to. Where are they? On the floor?’

‘On the menu.’

‘Christ!’

That did it; I had to stop and retch, painfully and unproductively, while Jyp watched with sympathetic amusement. ‘Guts empty?’ he enquired. ‘Pity; a good puke can help, when you’ve had a dunt on the head. Like with seasickness; if you’re going to throw up, at least get something inside you to throw, that’s what I always tell ’em. Ammunition, as it were.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ I promised, and he chuckled.

‘All right now? Mind the steps, they’re worn.’ He kicked open the faded red door with a ringing crash. ‘Hoi, Myrko! Malinka! Katjka!’ he shouted, and bundled me inside.

Half an hour earlier I might have welcomed the gust of smells that came boiling out. There were a hundred I couldn’t put a name to and a few I didn’t care to, but there was also garlic and paprika and beer and frying onions. Now, though, the mix made my aching stomach shrivel.

‘It’s you, is it, pylot?’ came a hoarse answer from inside. There was the sound of somebody shovelling coal into a stove. ‘Malinka’s out, you’ll just have to make do with me.’

‘Got a friend here, Myrko,’ Jyp shouted. ‘Hey, what’s your name, friend? Stephen? Myrko, this here’s Steve, he pulled some Wolves off my back and stopped a knock or two while he was about it. Needs something to set him up. Katjka! You’re in demand! And bring your puncture repair kit! Now, me old mate, just you sit down there …’