Breaking Point Read Online Free PDF

jack-in-the-box, “Caught you!” I’ve got time. If he’s telling the truth, I have time, and if he’s not I never did, but if he is, I do. So no need to rush. Catch your breath. Remain calm.
    Only I can’t. Not even close. Calm is a continent, a planet, a fucking galaxy away; it’s on the other side of the deadlights and I’m stuck down here with a heart that’s hammering away in my chest, and broken ribs and broken arms and blood and bile in my throat, face wet with tears, and now the shakes start. My teeth clatter together. My whole body twitches, spasms. Each time it does, it sets off little mini-bombs of pain in my arms and gut. I feel cold, but my skin is still sweating. My pocket vibrates, vibrates, vibrates, stops. Never mind me, phone the fucking police. My thoughts are jagged, dislocated, and ‘Love Train’ gives way to ‘Vagabond’ and still I tremble and hurt and cry.
    He has to know; that’s the thing. He fucking has to. It’s sitting right there, front pocket of my jeans. What else could that bulge be? He knows, and he’s just waiting for me to go for it so he can…What? What, exactly? He doesn’t fucking know. He’s got his plan. He’s running it. I’m just a puppet on a string, string, string. He never looked because he didn’t need to, because my hands were tied, and now my arms are broken, so it doesn’t matter if I have a phone because I can’t use it. And I don’t even have one because I’m a loner.
    Or he’s waiting for me to go for it so he can have an excuse to take it up to eleven. My mind, stuck in a trap, a vicious circle of thought. ‘Vagabond’ plays and the clock ticks and the world turns and my body shakes and aches and I can’t decide what to do. Then my phone vibrates, one single time, which means the battery is dying.
    Okay, stop fucking about. You need to do this, and you need to do it now. Phone a friend. Phone a fucking friend. Here’s your lifeline: take it while you still can. Good advice. Okay. I take a slightly deeper breath, allow the sharp pain to focus me.
    Okay, my phone is in my trouser pocket, front left. Tight jeans. Getting it out is going to be a motherfucker, but before we even try that, there’s a more pressing question before the house. And the question of vital national importance is: can a man with broken arms move his fingers?
    I stare at my hands, resting uselessly in my lap, thinking about how I passed out as they hit the kerb when I was dragged in here, and my will to act just drains away.
    No way man. No fucking way . But there’s no alternative, and nothing I do to myself will be worse than what that guy’s going to do when he comes back in, and it’s now or fucking never. Still I hesitate, until the phone gives another plaintive buzz.
    Time gentlemen, please.
    I flex the fingers on my left hand. They move, jerkily, imperfectly, but they do. The pain is like each tendon in my finger is made of rusty wire which is slicing through the muscle and skin, but they will move. Okay. Okay, we’re off to the races. Now, how do I get this fucking phone out of my pocket? I flex my shoulder experimentally, seeing if there’s any movement in my arm at all. It rises, but the pain is immediate and monstrous. My head slams back against the wall involuntarily and my teeth crunch together hard. I suck in air, close my eyes and just breathe for a few precious seconds, making sure I don’t heave.
    I don’t.
    Okay. I open my eyes again and look down at my lap. Clearly, I’m not going to be able to put my hand in my pocket and pull the phone out. That normally simple, almost unconscious action, is currently as impossible as licking my eyelids. At some point, I’m going to need to get my hand on the floor, to manipulate the phone (and, fucking hell, won’t that be fun), but first things first. Let’s get the fucker out of there.
    I look over to my pocket, seeing the shape of it outlined there right in the bottom. How the fuck did he not spot that?