دانلود رمان انگلیسی “راپین”

The November damp had seeped into London, clinging to the grimy brickwork of the buildings, the puddles iced in the alleyways and gutters. That dampness matched the air inside Amelia Bagby’s café, which had a cloying humidity in it, something she did on purpose. She kept the place too warm and put bowls of water in various places so the windows were always fogged with condensation. She didn’t want certain people seeing inside. The police. The twins. She’d been running the place for far too long. Decades. In her seventies now, she’d seen London move through the ages, and a lot of the time she’d been desperately unhappy, pretending everything was okay when it most certainly wasn’t. Now that she was older and could look back on her life through a different lens, she wished she’d had more courage to stand up for what was right. But society back then was nothing like it is now; during her most trapped period, women had to do as they were told. Such a shame that she’d let those rules continue throughout the years. It was as if she was stuck back there, unable to move past it. Not to say that she was happy now either. Most of the time these days, she didn’t like what she saw; modern criminals weren’t a patch on those in her heyday. And most of the time, she didn’t like how she felt. Still trapped, but she had no one to blame for it this time round except herself. Her café had no name. No sign out the front. Most people didn’t even know coffee and sandwiches were served inside. Normal people were discouraged. Amelia kept the place tatty on purpose so that if someone off the street walked in, they’d see the dirty tables and floor and back away quickly. She’d run this criminal establishment for years without any leaders poking their noses in, and she didn’t intend for that to change. The men who came in knew not to say a word about what went on here. They’d be stupid if they did—they’d lose their safe space to chat. She charged them a fee to do so, which included all the hot drinks they wanted, plus a sandwich. If she wasn’t here, then they all helped themselves, or her friend, Shank, kept things running for her. She’d only ever be in the flat above anyway, close enough that if someone called, she’d be there in a jiffy. The one hundred pounds a day each person paid her was worth its weight in gold to them. It was private here, or as private as they made it, considering the tables were usually always full and every single ‘customer’ had ears. Most conversations went on in whispers. This was no place for polite society. Men huddled at the tables—some of them with hard eyes and sharp suits, although the new breed coming up had tracksuit bottoms and hoodies, their laughter too loud, their smiles too wide, their privilege shining. She couldn’t stand the little bastards if she were honest, but money was money, and she had a living to earn. Or an escape fund to build up.