After Brock Read Online Free PDF

we’re done for. Accountability’s the name of the game in this world, whether you’re politician or – or a successful A Level candidate. And if the truth is hard to come by, then we must get at it, whatever it takes. Any journalist worth his salt will agree.
    â€˜So when we have the truth about Nat’s whole story crystal clear before us, then yes, Pete, and a big yes: “Nat Kempsey’s alive and well,” we’ll say and hold one mammoth party. Invite guests from all over the Marches, the whole West Mercia Constabulary included, and every member of the BBC Midlands Today team, right up to the great Nick Owen himself, and, obviously, every inhabitant of Lydcastle, down to the last cat and dog…’
    Pete Kempsey gives a weary, wheezy sigh – like an old con-certina being squeezed for the last time – as if he seriously doubts his ability to counter-attack here.
    â€˜But till that happy time…’ Luke ends, ‘the truth, and nothing but!’
    Nat, well, he silently recalls: Joel Easton. After all the stuff he’s been through, he’s very nearly forgotten the guy’s appearance. Curly red hair, freckled face, a button nose. Taller than himself. And a slight stoop too. But of course he was bending forward some of the time Nat was talking to him, to tickle his dog, Mister.
    Well, Joel’s proved as decent and kind as he appeared. Never occurred to Nat that precisely this decency and kindness of his would lead him to act, as it seemed to him, in his acquaintance’s interests, but, in brute truth, clean against them. Joel went that extra mile all good folk are supposed to go. And he’s likely done for the boy he befriended as a result.
    That parcel. When Joanne Gladwyn burst into the kite shop and handed it to Pete, who of course recognised the handwriting on the label, he started to tremble so badly he felt his body was falling to bits. And his ex, Izzie, (who also at once recognised her son’s scrawl) started to shake as well, despite years of training in calm through meditation. Envoys from the dead, they both said to themselves, trophies to stick on a shelf to prove their son, Nathaniel Robin Kempsey, once lived on this earth.
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    There were five items in the jiffy bag:
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    Map of the Berwyns
    Postcard of Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant
    Postcard of Tan-y-pistyll
    Teach Yourself Welsh
    Journal: clothbound, unlined ‘Paperchase’ notebook 
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    The map was in pristine condition. No sign it had ever been used. But both parents knew Nat to be a singularly neat boy, the kind that handles things so carefully they look literally as good as new. On the cover it says, bilingually: 
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    Ordnance Survey Arolwg Ordnans 255
    Llangollen & Berwyn, Ceiriog Valley / Glyn Ceiriog, 
    Showing part of Offa’s Dyke Path /
    Yn dangos rhan o Lwybr Clawdd Offa
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    There’s a picture of two guys riding mountain bikes on a rough track with birch trees behind them, and behind those, an alarmingly dark night sky.
    The postcards were of unremarkable views; they had obviously been bought for the sole purpose of being put inside the jiffy bag to be received as the longed-for key to Nat’s whereabouts. In Teach Yourself Welsh , to judge by the red pencil marks, Nat had reached page 48, Chapter 4, Section 6. Both Pete and Izzie found it hard to imagine him applying himself to the sustained learning of any language, so were surprised he’d got so far.
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    How old are you ?
    Beth yw eich oed chi or (lit.)       What is your age? i.e.
    Beth yw’ch oed chi?                     How old are you?
    Rydw i’n un deg wyth                   I’m eighteen
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    â€˜Eighteen’ was right, Nat himself turned eighteen on March 16. And for the last days Pete and Izzie had had to face the ghastly