The String Diaries Read Online Free PDF Page A

background, too faint to make out. The woman on the other end of the telephone covered the mouthpiece. The muffled sounds of conversation continued. He could hear the alarm in both voices but not the words. The clarity of the line was suddenly restored.
    ‘Jakab.’ She spat the name at him.
    ‘No, this is Charles—’
    ‘ Démon . Allez au diable ! ’ The line went dead.
    Charles recoiled from the handset, shocked at the vitriol in the woman’s voice. He stared at the receiver for several seconds before replacing it in the cradle. Despite the heat inside the phone box, goose bumps had risen on the flesh of his forearms. He opened the door of the booth and stepped out into the fresh air outside. Then, without understanding why, unaware of how his next actions would echo though every single day of his remaining years, Charles Meredith broke into a sprint towards his car.
    Phoenix Avenue, the address on the library card, was only five minutes through the centre of the city. Perhaps longer in Saturday traffic. But not if he was aggressive. A conviction filled him that if he did not act now, immediately, his chance to see her again would be lost.
    His car was parked near the same tree as the day before. Today, a Triumph Stag. After his shaming yesterday, he had left the Jaguar at home, uncomfortable at the degree of opulence it suggested. Right now he could have found good use for it. No matter. The Stag was still a powerful car.
    Charles slid in behind the steering wheel and slammed the door. After reversing into the street he accelerated along St Giles and past the Ashmolean on Beaumont Street.
    You’re insane , he told himself, as he sped through the city. You’ve met this girl three times. The one thing you thought you knew about her turned out to be a lie, and that telephone conversation was not just unusual, it was downright chilling .
    Arriving at a crossroads, he braked hard behind an Austin Cambridge held up by a red light. Phoenix Avenue lay to his left, a long tree-lined row of Victorian redbrick townhouses. As he waited for the lights to change he spotted a green Hillman Hunter at the kerb, a hundred yards along the avenue. It sat outside a decrepit-looking three-storey townhouse, the front garden overgrown to weeds. Nicole Dubois was hurrying down the front steps. She was guiding an older woman with a white shawl draped across her shoulders. Both of their faces looked drawn with fear. Nicole shepherded the woman into the passenger seat and closed the door.
    At the junction, the lights still glowed red, vehicles crossing from both directions. Nicole went to the back of the car. She threw two large bags into the boot, ran to the driver’s side and jumped in.
    Through the Austin’s rear-view mirror, Charles made eye contact with its driver, willing him to move. But there was nowhere for him to go.
    A belch of blue smoke erupted from the Hillman. Nicole pulled away from the kerb and headed away up the avenue.
    In frustration, Charles rammed his fist down on the horn. The driver of the Austin frowned.
    ‘Come on, come on .’
    The Hillman followed the curve of Phoenix Avenue and disappeared around the corner. In front, the stream of traffic ceased. The lights changed to amber, then green. When the Austin remained stationary, he hammered the horn again as the driver continued to frown at him.
    Charles ran out of patience. He hauled the wheel clockwise and stamped on the accelerator. Overtaking the car in front, he spun the wheel to the left and cut across it, foot flat to the floor, tyres protesting.
    Accelerating up the avenue, he followed it for two hundred yards before reaching a tail of traffic at a T-junction. The Hillman was nowhere in sight. The two cars in front of him pulled away, one to the right and one to the left.
    Sitting at the top of the junction, Charles slapped his hands on the steering wheel. Which direction? To go left would take him north, skirting anticlockwise around the city. Turning right