The Search Read Online Free PDF Page A

that until he had lost any sense of time, began to lose any sense of being the agent of his thoughts. Then, in the ensuing vacancy, he allowed his thoughts to re-form, focusing purely
on the practicalities of picking up Malory’s trail, on nothing else.
    The lead was a flimsy one: the phone number from Malory’s hotel bill. He dialled again – amazingly the phone still worked – but, as before, got the high tone
indicating it had been disconnected. His only option was to trawl through the phone book for Meridian until he found the address. He had nothing else to go on.
    A post office near the hotel had directories from all over the country. The directory for Meridian was one of the thickest in the rack. The only way to go about it was systematically. He found
an empty table and got started. It was mind-numbing work, requiring an appalling amount of concentration, more boring than anything he had ever done. After two hours he got to G. The law of
averages meant that he should find the number before M. Most likely he would get to it at W. His eyes felt like a microscope. If his thoughts wandered off he went back a couple of columns and
resumed his trudge through the book, forcing himself to think of nothing.
    He found the number under M, under the name of Malory: Joanne Malory. He cursed himself for his stupidity in not looking there first. Checked three times, unable to believe that he had found it,
then jotted down the address. Back at the hotel he lay on the bed and shut his eyes, columns of numbers marching through his head. He dozed and dreamed of numbers.
    The telephone woke him – the manager of the hotel wanting to know if he was staying another night. It was six o’clock, way after check-out. Walker stared at the digits on the
telephone, adding them up across and down. Apologized, said he was leaving immediately.
    It started raining sixty miles out of town. An hour later the rain was falling so heavily that it was impossible to see the road ahead. One wiper had given up and twitched
helplessly in the downpour. Walker bent forward, peering through the windshield at a truck swimming towards him. The windshield was ablaze with light and then, as the truck passed, there was a
blind drench of spray. He braked and felt the car slither, the wiper clearing a segment of visibility.
    He must have missed a sign or taken a wrong turning: either way he was lost. He clutched the wheel with one hand and skimmed through the radio, hoping for some kind of confirmation of where he
was. An old song came and went in a sea-spray of static. He twisted the dial a fraction and a chubby voice said storms were ravaging the region. Storms and gale-force winds. Police advised people
to stay home unless absolutely necessary, to drive with extreme caution. Several rivers had broken their banks, many minor roads in the region were flooded, the something bridge was down. The main
roads between Belford and Oakham, Queenstown and Nelson, Darlington and Sable were closed.
    These towns meant nothing to Walker. No mention was made of Meridian or Kingston. The way the announcer talked of ‘the region’ without specifying which region, made him feel more
lost than ever, as if he were nowhere, not even in the middle of nowhere, on the
edge
of nowhere, stranded between nowhere towns. The voice announced that we would now return to
‘Melody through Midnight’ and Walker snapped the radio off.
    Lightning jarred the darkness. There was a long silence, so long it seemed like the silence itself was waiting, and then thunder crashed all around. Easing through a curve he felt both
right-side wheels bump off the road and begin dragging the car into whatever lay beyond. He hauled the car back on to the road but minutes later the same thing happened again – with the right
wiper gone he could see nothing of what was happening over that side. It was dangerous to keep going and even more dangerous to stop: the first car to come by would plough