A fresh morning, a March sun that had all the suspect vitality of a counterfeit coin newly minted; but somewhere there was spring, a sense of renewal. Of all the English seasons, Dubbs found spring the saddest. What else but rebirth could remind you so forcibly of the running down of your own seasons? He stepped out of the underground station in Chalk Farm, assailed at once by diesel fumes, the roar of hectic traffic, a kind of madness that suggested a headlong rush into various voids. He turned a corner, finding himself on a sleazy street of gray houses and small shops. On the opposite side of the street there was a bar called The Mother Goose, one of those brewery-owned horrors that spend half of their time trying to be discotheques. He shivered and went inside, smelling stale spilled beer, noticing an enormous jukebox standing silent in the corner. Grabowski, whose wardrobe seemingly consisted entirely of soiled raincoats, sat alone at the bar. He acknowledged Dubbs with a slight inclination of his hairless head.
