The Night of the Mosquito Read Online Free PDF Page A

centrepiece, then placed the vase on the weathered Yorkstone slab at the foot of the headstone. He shuffled in close and ran his outstretched fingertips over the letters carved in the light riven face.
     
    Russell Timothy Salter July 8, 1955 – Aug. 9, 1987
    May Marie Salter May 31, 1956 – Aug. 9, 1987
    Sarah Grace Salter Feb. 29, 1976 – Aug. 10, 1987
     
    Tragically taken . . .
     
    On a tour of the graveyard, soon after Father Raymond had provided him with shelter, the priest had told him how the grandparents of the little girl had arrived from Australia to bury their daughter, only to discover Sarah, too, had died tragically while they were enroute, and their grandson was missing.
    ‘It was a hell of a thing, Timothy,’ the priest had said. ‘Can you imagine the upset? The children’s parents were murdered in the early hours of the Sunday morning on their way home from a night out. That poor family. They laid the three of them to rest in the same grave. The grandparents stayed a good long while, hoping the little boy would turn up, but despite a nationwide search, he was never seen again. They paid for an extra deep plot just in case the worst happened, though the grandmother wouldn’t accept he was dead. She said she hoped he’d find out where they’d been buried one day. And if he chose, when his time came, he could be buried there, too.’
     
    Timothy marked the anniversary each year, only on the day Sarah had died. He carried her more in his heart than his parents. Head bowed, he crossed himself and prayed in silence, remembering her and what he could of his mum and dad.
     
    ‘Why were you screaming in your sleep last night, Timmy?’ Sarah asked.
    ‘I can’t remember,’ he’d replied.
    The two of them were laid alongside each other outside, in the garden at home, on the lawn. Sarah plucked a blade of grass and carefully stood it between her thumbs, holding it firm. She blew over it gently, producing a low, reedy sound.
    He’d plucked a blade for himself and tried it, but only succeeded in dribbling.
    ‘Here, Timmy,’ Sarah said, ‘let me show you.’
    And he’d watched her and he’d learned. Soon, they played a chorus of screeching notes before falling about, overcome by laughter. Sarah lay on her back. ‘Timmy,’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    Sarah rolled over towards him and blew a devastating shriek close to his face. Timothy retaliated, trying to match it for loudness. And on and on they went.
     
    Five minutes later, their mother came out. ‘What’s all that awful noise?’
    The children giggled.
    ‘Pack it in, before the neighbours complain.’
     
    In the quiet moments that followed, remembering his nightmare, Timothy became sombre.
    ‘What is it, Timmy?’
    ‘I just remembered what I dreamt about.’ He began to wail. ‘I got lost and I couldn’t find any of you.’
    Sarah sidled up close and put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Timmy, if you ever get lost, just do this.’ She blew between her thumbs. The blade of grass screamed its song into the air. ‘And no matter where you are, if I hear it, I’ll find you.’ She smiled. ‘Better now?’
    ‘Oi, you two.’ Their father stood, hands on hips in the doorway. ‘Your mum says, stop making that racket and get inside for your supper.’
     
    Timothy plucked a blade of grass, clamped it top and bottom between his thumbs the way Sarah had shown him years ago, and replicated the sound he’d heard her blow.
    No one came.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 7
     
    Hilltop Cottage. 8:42 a.m.
     
    Anderson looked in the mirror. The eye the mosquito had bitten had not only swelled, it itched him like a nest of tiny vipers. He couldn’t find anything in the bathroom cabinet to provide relief other than calamine lotion. He dabbed it over the affected area before returning downstairs to the kitchen.
    He filled the kettle and switched it on. A brief silence followed as the element heated to optimum temperature. The water began to fizz, pop and