Armistice Read Online Free PDF

slowed to a halt. Standing too close the judge bantered: “Guilty, wasn’t he? The empty sleeve won it, of course.”
    Jonathan had to make some reply; to do otherwise wouldbe unutterably rude, but instead of joining in with the judge’s light-hearted teasing he surprised him by replying evenly: “It really is empty.”
    â€œWhat?” barked the judge. In the dimly lit, windowless thoroughfare he cocked his head and after a moment’s pause added: “I was complimenting you. You’re in the ascendancy, Priest. People are talking about you,” expecting, as in the normal way, for a young lawyer to bow his head in humility, or to gush some thanks. But again the judge didn’t get the response he expected. He received only a blank stare.
    â€œHave I caught you at a bad time?” the judge growled, his rebuffed overture making him aggressive. “You see, it might be worth your while to appear even slightly enthusiastic that I’m at all interested in you. I’m not saying you should kiss my ass or plead to rejoin my chambers, but—”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” offered Jonathan, keen to placate his very powerful superior. “I didn’t mean to appear rude.” After all, the poor man didn’t know what he’d done.

CHAPTER THREE
    She had been here, to his chambers. Dan’s girl. Might she return?
    Jonathan desperately concentrated on the notes for his next case. “… I went in and heard the cry of a child from another room and I searched and searched but there was no child in any of the rooms that I could see or so I thought at the time, and when questioned he said that he hadn’t been there all day or even ever at all before, he didn’t know the victim—”
    Who was this? Flick back through notes … ah yes, the police officer. He writes as he speaks:
    â€œâ€”and the other one she said she didn’t know the accused but there was blood on the broken window pane and a neighbor said that the man had been there before, they were always at it—”
    A knock at his door—not Jones’ knock. Jonathan sat still, waiting. It was going to be her, wasn’t it? He remained silent. The knock came again. He glanced toward the window, contemplating a dramatic escape—had a vision of himself as a silent movie comedy hero taking ridiculous, completely-out-of-proportion risks to evade minor threats. No; no needto flee. All he had to do was talk to her. It was bound to be emotional; he was just feeling the emotion. The physical symptoms of fear and excitement are the same.
    He placed his elbows on his desk, made a cathedral of his fingers, and called, “Come!”
    There followed a few moments while he waited for the green baize door to open, but it did not. He dropped his hands and pretended to be reading so that he could appear unconcerned when she entered.
    Having heard “Come!” Philomena wavered. Open the door, or walk away? Why was this simple act so difficult? Knock on a door, receive an instruction to enter, open the door … She knew he wasn’t going to have two heads, that he was a professional man, not too much older than her; what was this ominous feeling? It was as if she had one toe on the end of a bridge; she wanted to get to the other side but she couldn’t quite put her foot down and step forward. Likewise in the real world, she could feel the round brass doorknob cold in her hand but couldn’t bring herself to grip it tightly enough to turn it.
    She jerked a little away from the door then immediately jerked back toward it. Both movements felt as if commanded by some remote part of her—she wasn’t conscious of instigating either. “Philomena,” she said her own name under her breath, and waited a few moments until she felt more whole. She deliberately let go of the doorknob, wiped her hand on her skirt—though her hand wasn’t sweaty, shifted