Salt and Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

At least it spared me the reedy tones. He got up and clipped his gold pen into the breast pocket of his white coat. He wore a collar and tie under the coat and his black Oxfords were shiny. Maybe it was my old Italian slip-ons, drill slacks, open-neck shirt and unstructured linen jacket he didn’t like, but somehow I feared it was just me. Still, I wasn’t inclined to let him go just yet. I blocked his path to the door.
    â€˜Did you treat Harkness yourself?’
    Not all small men are afraid of big men but those that are really are.
    He retreated a half step. ‘Myself and others.’
    â€˜Who does he contact here if he needs help? You?’
    Somehow this seemed to give him courage. He let go a tight smile and slid around me. ‘Mr Harkness won’t apply here for help and I can’t say I’m sorry. He’ll be with you shortly.’
    He scuttled away, ignoring the receptionist. I watched him disappear into the darkness and couldn’t help thinking he was like one of the laboratory rats he had undoubtedly performedobscene experiments on. I remained standing at the waiting-room doorway and after a couple of minutes saw a man and a woman coming down the stairs. The woman unhooked the sash blocking the landing, patted the man on the shoulder, and he came down the rest of the way on his own.
    At around 188 centimetres, Rodney Harkness held himself erect with his head well up. He didn’t resemble either his mother or his brother. He was apparently in his late thirties but looked younger, with dark hair and a fresh complexion. With a weakish chin and a slightly crooked nose, he missed being handsome by a fair margin. He was the man I’d seen in the photograph with the woman and child, with a few more years and perhaps a broken nose added on. You wouldn’t cast him as the lead—more the best friend type. His face was set in a determined expression; a mixture of hope and doubt. He was carrying a large overnight bag that, from the easy way he swung it as he reached the bottom of the stairs, was evidently nearly empty or he was a lot stronger than he looked. He stuffed an official-looking envelope in the pocket of his denim jacket and glanced quickly at the receptionist as if she might jump out and block his way.
    I moved forward and tried to keep my voice neutral, non-custodial. ‘Mr Harkness? My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’m …’
    â€˜My nursemaid. I know. You can start earning your money by getting me the hell out of here.’
    He stalked out and I followed him, closelywatching the way he moved. You can tell a lot about a person from the walk. Harkness moved athletically but with his free hand he tugged at the lapel of his jacket and the collar of his polo shirt. He wore jeans and sneakers and hitched at his belt several times over the short distance to the car. When we were out of the shadow of the building he lifted his head and gazed around, slowly taking in 180 degrees or more. Then he sucked in a deep breath as if savouring every cubic centimetre of free air. Or nearly free. When we got to the car, he dropped the bag, swivelled around and put out his hand.
    â€˜Sorry about that. I just couldn’t believe I was actually getting out. Forgive the lousy manners.’
    I shook his hand. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Cliff’s the name in case you missed it.’
    â€˜Rod.’ He looked at the car and smiled. ‘I used to have one of these, except it had a roof-rack for my surfboard.’
    I opened the door. He slung his bag into the back and settled into the seat. ‘I’d ask you if I could drive except that I suppose my licence’s expired.’
    â€˜That can be fixed.’
    â€˜Yeah, some things can be fixed and some can’t. I’ve dreamed of this moment, Cliff. Forget what I said before—let’s take it nice and slow.’

5
    We negotiated the gates and he asked me to stop so he could take a look