[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
bulk between his spine and the wall.
He sat up with a grunt. The hot spell had broken, a silvery rainstorm now dancing round
the tower. The shifting light gleamed dully on a thousand bits of broken glass smashed over
the kitchen s flagstones. He croaked, Jesus Christ, shoving himself upright. He put out a
hand to the dog. Belle. Paw.
She wasn t hurt, somehow. He checked each one of her feet, spreading the hairy pads.
Ordering her to stay, he scrambled up, finding out as he did so that he didn t share Belle s dis-
cretion or her tough soles. He d cut himself to ribbons, left a carnage of foot and handprints
everywhere. He made the safest track he could to the little utility room, pulled a broom from it
and began a swift, dry-mouthed clear-up, brushing the glass into shimmering heaps. The pain
in his feet was extraordinary. He took a clinical interest in it, moving back and forth, back and
forth, until every shard was swept up, bagged, wrapped in newspaper so the collection men
wouldn t do themselves an injury, and dumped in the outside bin. Then he took the vacuum
cleaner round. Powdered glass was worse than fragments; got into dog food and water, swal-
lowed, inhaled&
This much accomplished, he sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. He stretched out a hand
in a gesture which meant Belle could move, and felt a surge of guilty relief when she came to
him without hesitation. In her canine mind, then, everything forgiven and forgotten. She was
just hungry, waving her tail in long slow arcs, all sorrows passed.
In some strange way, Tom s were gone from him too. He fed her, then limped upstairs and
stood for a long time in the shower. He hadn t switched the tank on last night, and the water
flowed cold, but he barely noticed. He dressed, paused for long enough to disinfect and
plaster the worst of the cuts on his feet and his hands, then went out into the rain-washed
morning. The wind was fresh, rich, full of salt. Opening the Land Rover s door, he stood for a
moment, letting the air s damp turbulence rock him.
He was here. He was glad he d booked the locum, but he was here, on his feet in the
morning light, not dragging himself off the sofa with the black jaws of his hangover sunk deep
inside him. Not crawling out of the pit.
Getting into the truck, he started her up and headed for the road. The rain increased, and
he switched on her lights, watched the sweep of the windscreen wipers with a kind of peace-
ful satisfaction. Clear, he was clear. His mind stretched out like the headlamps, finding the
path ahead. He knew, after years of one drink won t hurt and I can deal with it, that he was
and always would be an addict, and that his only salvation not his cure, never that lay in
absolute sobriety. He knew that he was locked in mourning for one lover, that his efforts to ac-
cept another, with this grief unaddressed in his heart, had been hopeless from the beginning.
He knew that he d lost Flynn. Turning onto the lonely stretch that would take him past
Lanyon on the road to the Hawke Lake base, Tom took firm hold of the wheel against the
wind s buffeting, set a straight course. He d lost Flynn, but, God, Flynn didn t have to be lost,
not to the whole world, not to everything a man like that could have and do if he could be set
free. Taking Tremaine from him, turning him in, was not the answer, even if Tom had been
sure of his facts, and as time had gone by he was becoming increasingly uncertain. All he
could do was tell Flynn what he thought, what he feared, and leave it up to him.
The quoit this morning had hidden itself entirely. Tom shook his head, trying to squint
through the veils of the rain. No, there it was crouching low, looking ready to run. He re-
membered hot light and warm hands on his bare skin, guiding his movements, opening him
up. Pain went through him with a clarity that snatched his breath. God, not much hope for him
in a bottle now anyway, was there? He d drunk because he couldn t feel, and the numbness
of a skinful was preferable to that dead zone inside. It was all restored to him, the full bloody
human birthright from the stinging ache in his cuts to the tearing, oddly physical sensation of
loss in his heart. The piercing joy that lit him up in spite of everything, when he thought of
Flynn.
Headlights in the road ahead. Couldn t be, Tom thought calmly, beginning to brake any-
way. Too close, too fast, and on the wrong side. He started to pull over. The road curved
round to the right here not much escape for him, and the Rover s tyres were already boun-
cing and slipping on mud, but plenty of room on the far verge when the other driver saw him.
There was a blind crest ahead. Tom, out of evasive manoeuvres, braced and hoped.
His serenity never wavered. He was thinking of Flynn when the vast truck roared over the
crest, full beams blazing, all the way over on the left. Still somehow he was lit up inside, haul-
ing the wheel round in the movement that would smash him into the wall.
No. A gap about four yards long, where the drystone had crumbled. The Rover shot off the
road at fifty. Hit the barbed-wire fence that bridged the gap, which slowed her momentum a
little but flipped her, turned her flight into a wild sideways arc. She hit turf and rocks on a diag-
onal, shattering windscreen and bodywork, rolled once and slammed down onto her driver-
side flank.
Not much point in worrying about car wrecks, was there? The thought came to Tom
slowly, as if wrapped in clouds. It became tangled up with a raw scent of petrol, a threatening
darkness, and almost slipped away, but he snagged it back, interested in this new aspect on
an old fear. He d seen so many crash victims. Wondered how they d felt if a crippling terror
had entered them, an anticipation so dreadful that impact must have come almost as release.
Did he have his answer now? He wasn t sure of anything anymore, but maybe if you got that
much time to think, you d avoid the bloody crash in the first place. He hadn t had a second.
The period between knowing it would happen and the whole thing being over was&
Nonexistent? One dark flash? His mind, on the run from its prison, tried to give him the
right word, but there didn t seem to be one. He had felt something. A bang, like a roadside
device going up, but inside him.
Thinking of these things, struggling to define them, was very tiring. He lay for a while in the
rain. The wind was howling in the Rover s undercarriage, a mournful, familiar sound. He could [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl exclamation.htw.pl
bulk between his spine and the wall.
He sat up with a grunt. The hot spell had broken, a silvery rainstorm now dancing round
the tower. The shifting light gleamed dully on a thousand bits of broken glass smashed over
the kitchen s flagstones. He croaked, Jesus Christ, shoving himself upright. He put out a
hand to the dog. Belle. Paw.
She wasn t hurt, somehow. He checked each one of her feet, spreading the hairy pads.
Ordering her to stay, he scrambled up, finding out as he did so that he didn t share Belle s dis-
cretion or her tough soles. He d cut himself to ribbons, left a carnage of foot and handprints
everywhere. He made the safest track he could to the little utility room, pulled a broom from it
and began a swift, dry-mouthed clear-up, brushing the glass into shimmering heaps. The pain
in his feet was extraordinary. He took a clinical interest in it, moving back and forth, back and
forth, until every shard was swept up, bagged, wrapped in newspaper so the collection men
wouldn t do themselves an injury, and dumped in the outside bin. Then he took the vacuum
cleaner round. Powdered glass was worse than fragments; got into dog food and water, swal-
lowed, inhaled&
This much accomplished, he sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. He stretched out a hand
in a gesture which meant Belle could move, and felt a surge of guilty relief when she came to
him without hesitation. In her canine mind, then, everything forgiven and forgotten. She was
just hungry, waving her tail in long slow arcs, all sorrows passed.
In some strange way, Tom s were gone from him too. He fed her, then limped upstairs and
stood for a long time in the shower. He hadn t switched the tank on last night, and the water
flowed cold, but he barely noticed. He dressed, paused for long enough to disinfect and
plaster the worst of the cuts on his feet and his hands, then went out into the rain-washed
morning. The wind was fresh, rich, full of salt. Opening the Land Rover s door, he stood for a
moment, letting the air s damp turbulence rock him.
He was here. He was glad he d booked the locum, but he was here, on his feet in the
morning light, not dragging himself off the sofa with the black jaws of his hangover sunk deep
inside him. Not crawling out of the pit.
Getting into the truck, he started her up and headed for the road. The rain increased, and
he switched on her lights, watched the sweep of the windscreen wipers with a kind of peace-
ful satisfaction. Clear, he was clear. His mind stretched out like the headlamps, finding the
path ahead. He knew, after years of one drink won t hurt and I can deal with it, that he was
and always would be an addict, and that his only salvation not his cure, never that lay in
absolute sobriety. He knew that he was locked in mourning for one lover, that his efforts to ac-
cept another, with this grief unaddressed in his heart, had been hopeless from the beginning.
He knew that he d lost Flynn. Turning onto the lonely stretch that would take him past
Lanyon on the road to the Hawke Lake base, Tom took firm hold of the wheel against the
wind s buffeting, set a straight course. He d lost Flynn, but, God, Flynn didn t have to be lost,
not to the whole world, not to everything a man like that could have and do if he could be set
free. Taking Tremaine from him, turning him in, was not the answer, even if Tom had been
sure of his facts, and as time had gone by he was becoming increasingly uncertain. All he
could do was tell Flynn what he thought, what he feared, and leave it up to him.
The quoit this morning had hidden itself entirely. Tom shook his head, trying to squint
through the veils of the rain. No, there it was crouching low, looking ready to run. He re-
membered hot light and warm hands on his bare skin, guiding his movements, opening him
up. Pain went through him with a clarity that snatched his breath. God, not much hope for him
in a bottle now anyway, was there? He d drunk because he couldn t feel, and the numbness
of a skinful was preferable to that dead zone inside. It was all restored to him, the full bloody
human birthright from the stinging ache in his cuts to the tearing, oddly physical sensation of
loss in his heart. The piercing joy that lit him up in spite of everything, when he thought of
Flynn.
Headlights in the road ahead. Couldn t be, Tom thought calmly, beginning to brake any-
way. Too close, too fast, and on the wrong side. He started to pull over. The road curved
round to the right here not much escape for him, and the Rover s tyres were already boun-
cing and slipping on mud, but plenty of room on the far verge when the other driver saw him.
There was a blind crest ahead. Tom, out of evasive manoeuvres, braced and hoped.
His serenity never wavered. He was thinking of Flynn when the vast truck roared over the
crest, full beams blazing, all the way over on the left. Still somehow he was lit up inside, haul-
ing the wheel round in the movement that would smash him into the wall.
No. A gap about four yards long, where the drystone had crumbled. The Rover shot off the
road at fifty. Hit the barbed-wire fence that bridged the gap, which slowed her momentum a
little but flipped her, turned her flight into a wild sideways arc. She hit turf and rocks on a diag-
onal, shattering windscreen and bodywork, rolled once and slammed down onto her driver-
side flank.
Not much point in worrying about car wrecks, was there? The thought came to Tom
slowly, as if wrapped in clouds. It became tangled up with a raw scent of petrol, a threatening
darkness, and almost slipped away, but he snagged it back, interested in this new aspect on
an old fear. He d seen so many crash victims. Wondered how they d felt if a crippling terror
had entered them, an anticipation so dreadful that impact must have come almost as release.
Did he have his answer now? He wasn t sure of anything anymore, but maybe if you got that
much time to think, you d avoid the bloody crash in the first place. He hadn t had a second.
The period between knowing it would happen and the whole thing being over was&
Nonexistent? One dark flash? His mind, on the run from its prison, tried to give him the
right word, but there didn t seem to be one. He had felt something. A bang, like a roadside
device going up, but inside him.
Thinking of these things, struggling to define them, was very tiring. He lay for a while in the
rain. The wind was howling in the Rover s undercarriage, a mournful, familiar sound. He could [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]