The Tied Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

Henry.  You don’t watch the frigging TV.  The last time I got five minutes’ glimpse of the bloody thing was when I was hanging upside down off Blaine ’s bed.  Shit .’  My knees gave way and I slumped down next to Henry.   My wildcat, my moment’s weakness, had a name.  Lilith Bresson .  ‘Oh Christ, Henry.  What the fuck have I done?’

Chapter Four
Lilith
    I stood in the maelstrom of Alicante Airport , cursed my father for the thousandth time that morning and hated the entire world.  Pallid, overweight parents with their feral children streamed through arrivals in their uniform of replica football kits and badly-fitting shorts, swapping places with near-identical families burned to a vivid shade of lobster.  As soon as my luggage had been checked in, I fought my way to the AlbionAir First-Class lounge.  I didn’t hate First Class passengers any less than the Economy herd: there just tended to be less of them. 
    I swiped my pass card at the door with one hand and removed my espadrilles with the other so that I stood barefoot in my travelling outfit of a Yankees baseball cap, grey cotton vest and frayed denim shorts, and curled my toes into the thick woollen pile of the carpet.  I raised a supplicant’s face to the frigid current from the air conditioning.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    I opened one eye to see a tall, sallow man in a navy blue suit blocking my way.  ‘Give me a minute to cool down, and I’ll tell you –’ I scanned his lapel for a name badge. ‘George’.
    The chief steward of AlbionAir’s First Class lounge gave me an appraisal that suggested he had just discovered me on the sole of his shoe.  ‘If you require facilities to freshen up, miss , I suggest you try the ladies’ restrooms by Gate 13.  This area is reserved for First Class passengers only.’
    I fixed him with my most glacial stare.  ‘Jolly good.  Should keep the riff-raff out, eh?’  I stalked past him to collapse into a monstrously overstuffed blue leather armchair.
    George virtually sprinted across the room and was about to forcibly evict me when a tall young girl in AlbionAir livery appeared at his shoulder and had a quiet word in his ear.
    The magic wand of Celebrity was duly waved.  I was no longer some scruffy little plebeian polluting the hallowed ground of the First Class Lounge, and George was transformed.  ‘Miss Bresson!  How delightful.  Always a pleasure to have an artist in our midst…’
    ‘Don’t be a star-fucker.  Sparkling mineral water – please – then keep the hell out of my way.’  I retrieved a copy of Private Eye from my hand luggage and engrossed myself in Pseud’s Corner , surreptitiously watching George trying to recover his dignity as he scurried over to the bar.
    I reached the centre pages of my magazine, and a piece of embossed ivory paper slid onto my lap.  An understated, discreet font proclaimed, Albermarle Hall – A Greeting , and underneath was a photograph of the woman I was unwillingly travelling to meet.
    The pose was a clever, if obvious, mirroring of a Renaissance portrait:  Blaine Albermarle stood in front of a fireplace that had been filled with a florist’s entire stock and smiled warmly out at me in welcome.  She was a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties, with an immaculately made-up face and long auburn hair piled in a perfect chignon.  She radiated the effortless style that came from excellent breeding and vast wealth, and in her dove-grey silk trouser suit she looked like the progressive headmistress of a girls’ boarding school. 
    I wondered if it was my own dark mood that projected a subtle arrogance onto her confident stance.  I doubted it.  ‘You’re going to be a nightmare,’ I muttered. I folded the page and read on.
    At the exclusive island retreat of Albermarle Hall, your comfort and privacy are our twin priorities.  We guarantee a place where you can rest undisturbed by the countless demands of the outside world.
    In order to