The Edge of Madness Read Online Free PDF Page A

deny it and didn’t even try; he was excited.
    But now he was late. The traffic was winding slow and snake-like, and appeared to have swallowed up every available taxi. From somewhere nearby the horns of buses bleated like lost sheep. Harry was a man used to being punctual–as one of his former commanding officers had remarked: ‘It seems there’s scarcely a waranywhere in the world that can start until you’ve turned up, Jones’–and that, for twenty years of his life, had been pretty much the case. Sometimes, like now, he missed those times, yet through the midday gloom of the storm he could see salvation approaching in the form of a bright orange lamp. A free cab. He waved and began to collapse his umbrella as the taxi berthed itself near the kerb. The cabbie didn’t risk lowering his window to ask the destination; gratefully, Harry clambered into the back. Yet no sooner had he sat down than the opposite door opened and another man heaved himself in. He had a heavy frame, a neck that swelled above his collar and an expression that mimicked roots sucking at dried dirt. He didn’t beat about the bush.
    ‘Fuck off,’ the stranger snarled. ‘Get out of my cab.’
    ‘I think you’re mistaken,’ Harry replied calmly.
    The man bristled with indignation. His eyes were darting, his clothes expensive, the shoes hand-sewn and sodden. A trader from the City, Harry guessed, with a bee up his butt. ‘I got no time to argue with pricks like you,’ the man spat. ‘I hailed this cab. Now shove off.’
    ‘Let’s ask the cabbie, shall we?’ Harry suggested.
    But the driver was having none of it. ‘What d’you think I am, from marriage guidance? Sort it out yerselves,’ he said, and slid the connecting window shut.
    ‘Already sorted. This creep goes in five seconds or he ends up in the gutter,’ the stranger said, heat flushing into his cheeks.
    Harry returned the stare. The man was younger than he was, perhaps late twenties, and was of impressive size, but Harry suspected that the once-solid frame had been softened by the temptations of City living. On the other hand, the overblown appearance might just be that he was wrapped in a raincoat. If it came to an inglorious wrestling match in such confined quarters, the other man had the advantage simply by dint of his weight.
    ‘Five…’ the man snarled, counting.
    ‘Are you threatening me?’ Harry demanded, incredulous.
    ‘That’s it. That’s exactly it. Four…’
    ‘Please. Look, I got in first. It’s my cab.’
    ‘Three!’ The stranger’s knuckles grew white.
    ‘Come on, you can’t be serious. You’re not really going to hit me,’ Harry suggested, determined to sound jovial.
    ‘What part of “fuck off” don’t you understand? You some sort of retard? You got two seconds, then you’re out the door, on your own or on your arse. Your choice.’
    Harry looked for help from the cabbie but the fellow had deliberately engaged his attention elsewhere, while the windows of the taxi were steamed up from the rain to the point of total opaqueness, depriving Harry of any chance of support from outside. He was on his own.
    ‘One…’ The man snapped, leaning back and looking for all the world as though he was preparing tostrike. That was the moment when Harry raised his elbow, catching the other man beneath the nose. There wasn’t a huge amount of force behind it since to use all his strength would have risked killing him, driving the nasal bones into the brain. And Harry had done that. Once. On a dark, swirling night in the bandit country of Armagh in 1988.
    The IRA had been holding a hostage in an isolated farm just the other side of the border, and the mission of Harry’s unit had been to spring him. On a night blowing so hard it threatened to rip trees out by their roots, Harry had got within fifty yards of the milking shed when he’d stumbled straight into one of the IRA bastards about to take a piss against a tree, cock in one hand, Armalite in the