Winterwood Read Online Free PDF Page B

you remember that song I was playing the very first day you came? To
     Slievenageeha, I mean?
    —Yes, I said.
    —Did it mean anything to you?
    I didn't understand. I shook my head. I could feel the cold sweat beginning to spread right across my body.
    —No, I replied.
    —No, he mimicked, quite bitterly.
    He breathed in, then out.
    —Do you even remember then what it was?
    I had to confess I didn't. I couldn't think straight. I was overcome with trepidation.
    —No, I repeated, almost shamefully.
    His voice began to rise out of the still and silent gloom, as he delivered the song in the style of 'high lonesome'. It sounded
     hopelessly plangent, desperately lonely.
    Here we both lie in the shade of the trees My partner for ever just him and me How long will we lie here O Lord who can tell?
     Till the winter snow whitens the high hills of hell.
    He remained silent for a long time afterwards. Then he said:
    —Does it still mean nothing then, Redmond? Well, does it?
    He shifted a little, sliding his hand deep into his pocket.
    —I want to lie beside you, Redmond, he said.
    He moved across the floor, edging closer to the bed.
    —Would you like some chocolate, Redmond? Here, go on - have a bar.
    He forced himself on me - there was nothing I could do. Had his way that awful night, flashing his incisors as he pressed
     the chocolate into my hand.
    —There's a good boy, he said. Eat your chocolate for Uncle Ned.
    The tinfoil pieces drifted to the floor as tears of shame came coursing down my cheeks.
    Afterwards, he made it clear that it hadn't cost him a thought. He casually brushed the sweat from his forehead, buttoning
     his trousers with the wet stogie dangling from his lips.
    —That will give you something to think about, my friend. And don't get ideas about reporting it to anyone. They'll only think
     it's your imagination. They'll say you're telling tales. Fanciful yarns like you'd hear on the mountain. So don't waste your
     time. Let's keep it between us just you and me.
    His eyes danced with roguish black mischief as he said:
    —Here, this might help you. Prepare you for what is going to happen.
    He threw something on to the table and was gone without a sound. I climbed, trembling, from the bed. It was an old box camera
     photograph: a faded image of a little boy, standing in a hayfield on a sunny day, with the black cutout of the mountain rising
     in the distance, crested by tall pines. He was smiling from ear to ear - a shock of red curls hanging down over his face.
     I flipped it in my hand and tried not to shiver as I read the words:
    —For Little Red, the loveliest boy.
    I found myself staring into my own eyes. It had been taken in the mountains many years before, when I was little more than
     eight years of age. My Uncle Florian's handwriting was barely legible now, after all the time that had passed. I couldn't
     wrench my gaze away. The damaged innocence and hope in those eyes reminded me of nothing so much as the expression of Michael
     Gallagher, the boy who'd trusted and treasured Ned Strange as a friend, only to find himself rewarded in the most horrific
     way imaginable — sexually assaulted, then brutally murdered. I found myself wishing I had never known Ned Strange. Had never
     gone near him, or had anything to do with him.
    I didn't leave that room for days. I just kept waiting —knowing that sooner or later he'd return.
    He didn't. All you could hear was the window rattling, and the sound of murmuring voices downstairs.
    I carried the photograph everywhere with me now. I kept expecting to turn a corner and find him waiting, patiently raising
     the stogie to his lips. As he looked at me without flinching, stroking his beard with that chilling, teasing patience.
    —Something dreadful is going to happen, Redmond, something really and truly dreadful. And when it happens, believe me, you'll know.
    The streets were cluttered with stilt-walkers and jugglers some protest to do with political prisoners.