Triskellion Read Online Free PDF

for a moment in the shelter of the tree to watch the sign of the shooting star swinging wildly in the storm. Then he turned and padded across the wet green towards the inn.
    *  *  *
    “Same again, commodore?”
    Commodore Gerald Wing pushed a large cutglass tumbler across the bar and stacked three pound coins neatly next to it. Without waiting for an answer, Tom Hatcham, the landlord, took the glass, and put it up to the optic of the whisky bottle behind the bar. A rumble of thunder overhead rattled the ancient windows.
    “Nice for the ducks.” Hatcham pushed the large whisky back across the bar and scooped up the coins. The enormous grey dog that lay at Commodore Wing’s feet let out a heavy sigh, as if to acknowledge Hatcham’s banal comment.
    At a table, four villagers played dominos in silence. In the corner, Gary and Lee Bacon sipped illegal pints of lager and lime and poured coins into The Star’s slot machine. The landlord and the commodore were happy enough to turn a blind eye. It was generally thought better to have youths like the Bacons where they could be watched, rather than have them running free, causing all sorts of trouble.
    As if triggered by another clap of thunder that sounded outside, the heavy door of The Star flew suddenly open and a huge gust of wind sent beer mats and bits of paper flying. All eyes turned to see a slight, feral-looking boy framed in the doorway. He wore a dark hooded sweatshirt and track-suit bottoms. As he pulled back his hood, water dripped from his long black hair, running into wide green eyes that flashed, vivid against an olive complexion. He stood, soakedto the skin, and he stared into the bar with an unblinking intensity.
    Tom Hatcham threw a glance at Commodore Wing. The commodore nodded back. Hatcham stepped from behind the bar and strode to the door, squaring up to the boy, who did not move a muscle.
    “Go. Away.” Hatcham put his face close to the boy’s, blinking away the splashes of rain that flew into his eyes through the open door. The boy did not flinch, nor give any sign he had heard Hatcham’s words. Seeing that he was having no effect, the landlord took the handle of the heavy door and shut it in the visitor’s face.
    “Nicely done, Tom,” one of the domino players said, breaking the silence.
    Another nodded. “Enough undesirables for one day.”
    At the fruit machine Gary Bacon sniggered into his lager.
    Hatcham watched for a moment as the boy’s distorted dark shape – still visible through the frosted glass in the pub door – drifted slowly away, and then, in the blink of an eye, seemed to disappear.
    As if obeying the commanding tone of Celia Root, the sky was growing darker by the second and, from their bedroom, the twins listened to the thunder getting louder, closer, shaking the walls of the cottage round them.
    Rachel got up and walked across to the window. Sheet lightning fluttered in the distance against the sky and, belowher in the garden, the foxgloves danced as they caught the heavy drops of rain on their petals. Once again, Rachel heard the low hum of bees buzzing. She watched as the flowers appeared to come to life and smiled as, one by one, an army of insects emerged from the trumpets of the foxgloves, their back legs heavy with pollen, and flew, snaking off against the dark sky to their hive.
    “It’s not even eight o’clock, and it’s black as night out there,” Rachel said. “Adam…”
    She got no more than a groan from her brother, who was flat out on one of the twin beds, half asleep already.
    Thunder erupted above her head and she winced at the sound of it, smelling the electricity all around and feeling the hairs stand up along her arms. A few seconds later, lightning broke across the moorland beyond the garden, and in its bright snapshot she saw a familiar circular shape, and something moving around in it.
    She moved close to the window, pressed her face to the glass, and waited.
    It was as though the next flash