The Rising Read Online Free PDF

hiss.
    ‘Maybe one or two,’ he said. ‘Nothing much. He wasn’t drunk, like. He’d only had a can.’
    ‘What do you think happened to him?’ I asked.
    Murphy looked at me a little defiantly. ‘I don’t know. He just vanished. One minute he was standing here and then he was gone.’
    I turned to Caroline, only to realize that she had moved away from the group and stood alone at the edge of the headland. She cupped her hands around her mouth, and began howling her son’s name, forlornly against the prevailing wind, the word almost indecipherable beyond the anguished tone of her cries. To the east, someone else took up the cry of the boy’s name. As I exited the tent, I found myself doing likewise, our voices rising together into the chilled night air.
    A quarter of an hour later, the young Guard approached me, a plastic bag in his hand.
    ‘Can I have a word, sir?’ he said.
    ‘What can I do for you . . .?’ I couldn’t recall what Dillon had called him.
    ‘McCready, sir. Joe McCready,’ he said, extending his hand.
    ‘Good to meet you, Joe McCready.’ I shook, feeling the wet and grit off his hand.
    ‘Sorry, sir. I’ve been looking through the bins. I forgot to wash my hands.’
    McCready saw from my expression that some further explanation was necessary.
    As he spoke, I noticed his partner sauntering over towards us. He winked at me conspiratorially, then nodded towards McCready.
    ‘What did you find?’ I asked.
    ‘Thirteen cans, sir, all the same brand and same bags. The fourteenth is being used as an ashtray by Cahir Murphy.’
    The older Guard looked at me, his mouth bleary with lack of sleep. ‘So they were drinking. So what?’
    ‘It’s not the drinking,’ McCready said, ‘so much as the lying about it. What else is he lying about? Fourteen cans seems excessive even for two young fellas; especially considering Murphy’s not that well on. He doesn’t strike me as the kind to tidy after himself either.’
    ‘Where did you find them?’
    McCready led Dillon and me to the edge of an adjoining field where a large plastic wheeled bin had been left for campers to dump their rubbish. It was empty now.
    Looking up, across the field beside us, I could see a small caravan park, the vehicles sitting symmetrically in rows. The park was in darkness; most of the caravans would be empty at this time of year.
    ‘It might be worthwhile taking a look over there,’ I suggested.

Chapter Six
     
    The caravans were parked in nine rows, so we took three rows apiece. I took the furthest three rows from the entrance, which were also the closest to the headland where Peter had been camping. I walked along the first row, glancing under each caravan before checking the doors. As I reached the end of the first of my rows, though, the constant stooping caused the wound on my back to start aching and I decided to settle with checking the doors of the caravans themselves.
    It was on the turn to the third row that I noticed something odd about the caravan to my immediate left. The outer flange of the door had been bent backwards slightly, the deadbolt exposed by my torchlight. I found that, with minimal force, the door opened. I called out before entering.
    ‘Hello?’
    Silence. I raked the torchlight across the interior. The vehicle smelled musty, as if it had not been used in a while. The ceiling was low, the interior cramped with furniture.
    ‘Anyone here?’ I called.
    Somewhere further back in the vehicle I could hear the dripping of a leaky tap. I stood a moment, the torch held down by my leg, allowing my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, waiting. Finally, I heard the laboured suspiration of one releasing a pent-up breath, the sound low and soft enough to cause my skin to prickle with goosebumps. I moved towards the back of the caravan, the torch low. Then, as I passed the table at the seating area, I caught a glimpse of something red beneath it.
    ‘Hello?’ I said again, more speculative this time.
    I