Blind Needle

Blind Needle Read Online Free PDF

Book: Blind Needle Read Online Free PDF
Author: Trevor Hoyle
rain stings
    Like needles
    Night coming on
    Empty road
    No shelter
    But it’s the same
    For both of us
    And I know something
    You don’t
    I’m here
    Not far behind
    Morduch doesn’t know
    Where you are
    But you made a mistake
    In telling me
    You don’t remember
    Telling me
    But you did
    And when I catch you
    I’ll do to you
    What you did
    To my wife
    (Murdering bastard!)
    That will be my homage
    To her memory
    I swear it
    Wherever you go
    I’ll be close behind
    Every day
    A bit closer
    But you’ll never know
    Until the minute
    The moment
    I’m ready
    Then you ‘ll hear
    Your heartbeats
    Thudding louder
    But it will really be
    My footsteps
    Thudding nearer
    And you won’t know which –
    Is it your heart beating?
    Or my footsteps?
    Heartbeats or footsteps?
    Better be careful, Holford
    Very very careful
    Listen
    Those heartbeats you hear
    Could be my footsteps
    Listen again
    When my footsteps stop
    So will your heartbeats
    Confusing isn’t it?
    You want the footsteps to stop
    But not your heartbeats
    Never mind
    Confusion will end
    Very soon
    Then
    (Murdering bastard!)
    So will you
3
    I was lying in a narrow channel: the soft warm bed seemed to suck me down. My mouth felt sore. I touched it gingerly but there was no dried blood. Someone had washed it off – perhaps the same person who had stripped me down to vest and underpants.
    The bed was so luxurious that I never wanted to leave it.
    No early-morning bell, no thump of feet in the corridor. Just the muted twitter of birdsong and the sun shining through the thin curtains. My clothes lay neatly folded on a chair in the corner. I dressed and pulled on my boots. The room was tiny and bare, just the bed, upright chair, a small varnished dressing-table with an oval mirror, a bedside lamp with a fringed shade and a carpet faded in patches by sunlight.
    For a minute the view from the window held me. Green and glittering light from the regimented ranks of conifers marching down to the lake. Beyond the lake a purple and gold hillside rose in a gentle curve, sinuous as a woman’s shoulder. A small plane droned out of sight somewhere, and from downstairs I heard a man’s voice.
    I eased the door open and stood on the landing with its single strip of carpet, wedged in by a wall of books that came shoulder-high. I glanced at the top row of titles.
Sex Energy
by Robert S DeRopp.
Body Has a Head
by Gustav Eckstein.
A Guide to the Nervous System: Altered States of Awareness
. Graham Locke was speaking on the telephone in the hallway below. Distinctly I caught the word ‘police’ and my hand tightened on the banister rail. I thought: he’s older than I am, weaker, there’s no need for anything drastic. A quick sharp blow to the back of the neck.
    I edged forward to look down on his wild grey head and tested the top step with my weight. It was awkward. The space was taken up with books. I felt hemmed in. I moved down a step and my eye drew level with a bundle of magazines tied with string. On the tattered, flaking spines I read:
Police Gazette Vol IV Nos 16, 17, 18, 19
 …
    â€˜I’ll certainly do what I can but I can’t promise anything,’ Graham Locke was saying into the big black bakelite receiver. He must have heard the stairs creak because he turned and smiled, the dead eye knowing more than he did, staring up with cold accusation, his expression split in two.
    â€˜â€“Yes, I will, if at all possible. But pre-1919 are the rarest, I suppose you realise that. And they’re very reluctant to break up a set.’
    He flapped his hand as I came down, waving me through to the kitchen, nodding at what the other person was saying, and I went past him and along a short passage to an open door. Diane Locke was sitting at a long rectangular wooden table, wearing a blue towel dressing-gown and reading the
Spectator
, licking crumbs of toast from her fingers.
    Her face was clean of make-up,
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