The Scribbler Iain Maitland (good books to read txt) 📖

mouth and pulling the trigger. One moment there. The next, gone forever. He did not know where. If anywhere. He did not really believe in heaven. Not for him anyway.

He looked up. Checked the rear-view mirror. Nothing. No cars behind. Hadn’t been since he turned on to the main road. He’d got lucky. Looked ahead. Towards the side road he was going to take on the left. Just there in the distance. Not far now. He accelerated the car.

A layby on the other side of the road. A car in it. Facing towards him. A police car. His luck suddenly breaking unexpectedly. The man with the gloves had no time to think. He could not stop, do a three-point turn, go back where he came from. That would look odd. Attract attention.

He could drive on by. Head fixed straight ahead, looking into the distance. Nice and steady speed. Calm and relaxed. Or turn left as planned. A man in a woman’s car, though. The number plate noted and easily checked. A car that belongs to a police officer. A young woman.

He drove up to the police car. His eyes met those of the policeman in the passenger seat.

Turned left instinctively. Then drove on. Did not look back.

Knowing full well that the police car would appear in his rear-view mirror at any moment.22. SATURDAY 17 NOVEMBER, LATE AFTERNOON

Carrie was on her back, laid out flat, gazing upwards. Her eyes focused slowly. There was a roof up there, she thought. No, a ceiling. No, not a ceiling … what was it? It was … no, it’s gone … whatever.

She came round again a few minutes later.

Maybe longer.

Looked upwards once more. It bothered her, this … this whatever it was.

It was made of something that was … no, she couldn’t think. Wood, was it? Wood? The sky was made of wood. It made no sense.

She felt sick. And was wet somewhere. Down between her legs. Her brain hurt. And she didn’t want to move in case it made the pain worse. In her head, it was. The pain. She had to lie here. As still as she could. In the wetness. Until the pain went away.

She lay there a little longer, just a minute or two more. She would think about things soon. But not just yet.

She drifted in and out of consciousness. Trying to think about something … she wasn’t sure what … whenever she was awake. It was there, what she wanted to mull over, just beyond the edges of her mind.

And then it was gone. Whatever it was. And she thought maybe she had fallen asleep again. Did not know how she could do that with the pain inside her head. And the feeling of sickness.

Now she could hear noises. Birds, that was it. In the trees. Bird song. Was she outdoors? Was it the morning? Was she late for … what was it … no, it was gone again.

She lay there, still unmoving. This time she was going to stay awake and think what it was she needed to think about. Something bad, it was. Not good. Something … no, she couldn’t remember.

And now she was dreaming. Some monstrous thing was behind her. In her mind. Just in the shadows. A nameless shape. An unspeaking presence. But a monster.

Something that scared her.

Wanted to hurt her. If it caught her.

She needed to get away.

She jolted awake. The pain in her head did not make her wince. It had before, she thought. She was sure of it. Now, the pain was still there. But it was … she searched her mind … scissors … that made no sense.

She could not find the word she wanted. Scissors … nails … sharp. It suddenly came to her. Just like that. Sharp. That was what the pain was. No, it was not sharp, it was … blunt.

What was she thinking?

A blur.

Everything out of focus.

She just needed to lie here. Until the pain had gone. And she could think straight. It was just inside her head. The pain. Nowhere else. But she felt uncomfortable. Her arms stretched out. Behind her and above her head? That made no sense. She went to move her arms. To wrap them around her chest. To comfort herself. But could not. Her hands were stuck together. They didn’t feel right.

She wondered for a moment if she had legs. A sense of panic suddenly. She remembered a story about a man who woke up in bed and had no legs. Bader. The name came to her suddenly. Douglas Bader.

She had drunk in the pub. The Douglas Bader.

Somewhere near Woodbridge, it was.

What made her think of that? Had she been drinking? Was that why she was wet?

She tried to move her hands to reach her legs but could not. She realised suddenly she was lying down flat. On a rack in a torture chamber. Her arms stretched up and out behind her. Her hands. Her arms. And they were tied to something. Why was that? Why was she tied up? Had she been bad?

Her legs. She could feel them, but they felt as though they were one. One leg. That made no sense. To have one leg. One big leg? Why did she have one big leg? She should have two legs. Not one. What a puzzle this was. A conun … dumb … no, it was no good.

She lay back, exhausted.

The pain in her head. Her uncomfortable arms. Her big, strapped leg. The dampness.

She was gone again, back into her uneasy sleep.

It was dark, wherever she was. A tunnel, maybe. So black. And she could not move. Her head ached. Her arms and legs hurt now. She still felt sick. But she needed to move. To go. To run. But she was paralysed.

The presence was there again. Nearby. In front of her this time. And coming closer. She could hear, no she could feel, the heavy footsteps. The boom … boom … boom getting ever nearer.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The footsteps