Candleburn by Jack Hayes Read Free Book Online

viperous den of backstabbing and double-dealing.
    And there was nothing he could do. Complain to New York and they’d just see him as telling tales. They’d ask for proof his data files had been deleted maliciously and chalk up his broken equipment to mistakes or carelessness. They’d back her editorial judgement on his stories. They couldn’t whip the rug from underneath a woman they’d appointed. They’d also ignore the theft of his ideas, branding him a malcontent.
    The pulse in his neck thudded from the stress. The back of his skull felt too tight, as if the blood-flow to his brain were being slowly restricted by a wire tourniquet.
    A cigarette.
    He needed a smoke.
    He tapped down his pockets.
    “Damn it!” he swore, as he fumbled.
    The lift opened and Blake marched through the doors and outside. He found the packet and brought a single stick to his mouth. His hand shook as he tried to light it. He clicked the small metal wheel on his Zippo and missed, sending a faint orange spark into the air. He clicked again.
    A long, wavering flame flickered higher. He steadied himself and brought a faint glow to the tobacco.
    He sucked deeply until his lungs ached.
    He tilted his neck back.
    For an instant he felt himself gasping, drowning in emotion. He had no control of his body. As the flame of the lighter guttered and died, he felt some giant, invisible hand punch through his chest and grip his heart, tightening its clasp, squeezing until he choked.
    Blake exhaled.
    His head filled with nothing – a radio dial twisted to static – his vision vanished in a wall of snow.
    He leaned on the wall of the building to steady himself. Thirty seconds passed.
    His hearing was the first to return. His brain, computer rebooting, came online. His vision began to clear, first grey and white, then colours returned.
    “You’re so weak,” he jeered. “Pull it together.”
    He found his head had been twitching, almost seizure like, as he finally came fully back to consciousness. He straightened himself, stood tall, and nervously looked around to see if anyone was staring.
    N o-one was.
    Life rolled on fine, with or without him, as he took a breather from this world and floated away.
    “And now to handle another bullshit story,” he said, taking another deep tug on the cigarette.
    He could still see Alice’s smiling face as she outlined the story he was to cover.
    India and the UK were having trade talks in Dubai because it was halfway between the countries. It was a fine story – doubtless with many noble quotable sources for a British newspaper, or even one in Bangalore. But for all of the Journal’s global pretentions, in its heart and soul it was an American news organisation.
    No-one in New York would care about Indian trade talks with Britain. He’d be lucky if his piece was picked up by anyone but a small group of devoted news junkies who read everything published online. Certainly, it would never make the paper. And as for filming it for the Web episodes...
    “Who wants to watch two minutes of dull grey men in suits?”
    He rubbed the back of his head in frustration and stared at his well-lined leather shoes as they began to tighten around his feet in the heat.
    He’d find something. Some way to make it interesting and work. He always did.
    He lifted his head, gazing off into the car park in front of the building, and sucked down hard on the cigarette one more time.
    Then he saw it.
    He scowled.
    There: parked in the first row, barely one hundred yards away.
    At first he wasn’t sure what his instincts, honed sharp long ago and now atrophied, had seen.
    A Toyota. Two men.
    East European in appearance, they were staring up at the Journal’s office window. One had a laser pointer in his hand and headphones lopsidedly straddling his head.
    The other was watching the revolving door – not Blake – the door.
    Blake edged across to the fountain. Partly obscured from the car park by the palms and leaves, he sat, his head