DEATHLOOP Read Online Free PDF Page A

books and objets d’art.
    “You hate me for this, don’t you?” said Clarissa, as they walked along side by side.
    “Fear not, old friend, you’re still on the Christmas card list.”
    “And when’s the last time you sent a Christmas card to anyone, ever…”
    They entered an expansive room, bordered with antiques, where Clarissa indicated for Zack to sit down on a Chesterfield that took pride of place, bang in the middle of the floor. Sam loved this Chesterfield and had refused point blank all entreaties from Clarissa to dispense with it and get something more stylish. Generally speaking, they agreed on décor, mainly because Sam backed down in just about every dispute they ever had, but he stuck his heels in with this. “We are not getting rid of it,” he told Clarissa with rare grit, “so let’s just drop the subject, shall we?”
    Clarissa had finally managed to get him to agree to it being recovered with aubergine cotton velvet, but that was it, a concession, nothing more. When it arrived back from the upholsterers Clarissa was quite surprised at how good it looked, and from wanting to bin the thing, decided that for once Sam was right to insist on its reprieve. Zack sank into Sam’s Chesterfield now, refusing a drink he simply said, “Let’s just get on with it shall we? I don’t have that long.”
    Clarissa told Zack to pull off his shoes, to lay back, and to make himself comfortable. Clarissa pulled up a Victorian balloon backed chair, perching next to him. She knew Zack felt foolish, she knew also that he regretted agreeing to this, consequently, she knew she had something to prove.
    “Now listen Zack, please, whatever happens don’t come out of the hypnosis yourself, however… well… hairy it gets.”
    “Hairy?” said Zack, a little alarmed now.
    “You must let me bring you back slowly, don’t think of trying to stop it yourself, that can cause real problems.”
    “I’ll do my best,” said Zack with a grin.
    As Clarissa told Zack to close his eyes and started speaking extremely quietly, Zack stifled a desire to burst out laughing. What on earth was he doing here? Lying on a sofa, listening to his best friend’s wife who everyone knew was a little left field, trying to get him to plunge the depths of his memory and come up with a scenario that placed him where? Floundering in the ranks of Oliver Cromwell’s army? Fighting in the trenches in the First World War? The whole thing was absolute tripe.
    Zack continued thinking along these lines until he was suddenly aware that he had no sense of being in the room at all. He could barely hear Clarissa now, just some hum - was it from the fridge, or the washing machine maybe? He squinted out of one eye to reassure himself and saw Clarissa miles away, tiny, like a marionette. How could she be that far away, the room wasn’t that vast, was it? And why had she moved her chair? He didn’t remember her moving her chair. His eye lid snapped shut again, rather like someone had clawed it down in temper. He felt strange now, in limbo, suspended in a heavy atmosphere, and then without warning he was somewhere else, floating up the narrow staircase of a small stone cottage, and at the top of the stairs, across the landing, he pushed open a creaking door and stepped inside a room.
    A bulbous ewer stood on a wash stand, a wool coat hung limply on the back of the door, and an old iron bedstead covered with a blood stained counterpane dominated the room. For a moment, Zack thought he was alone, but he wasn’t. A slight, emaciated figure peeked out from under the bed covers, his skull tightly bound with jaundiced skin, his long lank grey hair streaked with white and matted. He was immobile this man, but his haunted eyes swept and searched. Who the hell was this?
    Almost as soon as the thought came into Zack’s head, the man’s arms shot out, his rough hands clutching Zack at the throat.
    “Zachariah… at last you’ve come… help me!”
    Zack recoiled