Low Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

next to no damage, but he knew
where the head was now. He swung again, this time with much more force – in a powerful hook aimed for where he thought the face was – and felt his fist slam into a nose, push it
sideways, and then something in the nose snapped, and the shadow grunted and its grip loosened. Simon swung again, landing another punch.
    He breathed in and his throat stung with the pain of it, but it felt good too. He remembered swimming at a public pool when he was a boy and touching the bottom of a thirteen-foot deep end, and
staying down as long as possible, till his vision went gray and his head felt like it might be crushed by the pressure of it all – his ears hurt so much – and how when he surfaced and
inhaled that first hot summer lungful it felt like he was breathing for the first time. This felt like that – painful and good and clean and new as a flower that hadn’t yet opened.
    But then shadow fingers were gripping for his throat yet again, and he was fighting with a man who wanted him dead, and legs got tangled, and he fell to the floor on top of his attacker. He
grabbed the man by his neck with his left hand and squeezed it tightly. With his right hand he grabbed the flashlight from the floor and aimed it at the shadow face, making it human.
    ‘Who are you and—’
    But then he stopped – was stunned into silence. He knew this man: he had seen him in mirrors, reflected back by rippling lake water, as a ghost in shop windows as he walked by.
Simon’s hair was gray – almost white – while this man’s was a healthy brown; Simon’s skin was as pale as the moon while this man had a tan; Simon had no scars on his
face, save the acne craters of youth, while this man had a twisted rope of white scar carved into his right cheek; Simon wore glasses while there was nothing between this man’s pale green
eyes and what he was looking at – but otherwise Simon could have been staring at his twin.
    ‘Jesus,’ he said.
    And then the man’s hand jutted up, quick as a jack-in-the-box, and the fingers clenched Simon’s already bruised neck for the third time.
    ‘Die, goddamn you,’ the man said. Simon saw the corners of his mouth were crusted with dry spittle and his bloodshot eyes were veined with madness.
    Simon did the only thing he could think to do. He slammed the flashlight against the man’s head. Blood splattered across Simon’s chest and face, staining his T-shirt and dotting the
lenses of his glasses, but the hand on his throat did not loosen its grip. If anything, it gripped tighter, with more determination. Simon swung again. The room filled with the scent of copper and
sweat, heavy and thick as honey. Enough to make you gag. The grip on his throat loosened, but still he swung – again and again and again. His shoulder ached. His wrist hurt. At some point the
cap was knocked off the end of the flashlight and the batteries flew out and scattered across the wood floor and everything went dark, but still he swung. And then he stopped. Finally it was
over.
    He sat there for a long time, straddling this stranger’s chest.
    He breathed in and he breathed out.
    There’d been moments in his everyday life when he had wondered what it would be like to kill a man. He thought everybody probably had those moments. Those moments made up what he thought
of as a person’s low life – the internal life they lived but told no one about. Those moments that passed through one’s thoughts but didn’t so much as ripple the surface of
reality. Those moments when an exhausted mother on the verge of losing control thought she just couldn’t take the crying any more and considered holding the baby’s head underwater.
Those moments when a scorned lover thought that if he couldn’t have his love, then no one would be allowed to. Those moments when a man looked out of the window, saw a ten-storey drop, and
wondered what it would be like to take that final step. But then a