Drainland (Tunnel Island Book 1) by Iain Ryan Read Free Book Online

like it was any other night on the island.

    O n Sunday , they brought people up to the room and interviewed them. Harris recognised some of the faces: rent boys, hookers, junkies, ex-croupiers. All perps or victims at one point or another. These introductions were Sophie’s doing. These were her people. Harris snapped pictures until they started drawing the blinds. Bachelard played music and did the interviews in the bathroom. The tap was a bust, except for a fragment:
    Sophie saying, “They call him The Fox, over here. What does he want? There’s always a fucking deal with them. Always. Be careful. You gotta be careful with him. You shouldn’t go.”
    “What? I shouldn’t meet with him?” says Bachelard.
    Harris looked at them through the telephoto. Bachelard checked his watch and stared out into the landscape. Harris focused hard on Bachelard’s face.
    “What are you playing at?” said Harris.
    His phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked it. O’Shea, as if summoned.
    He answered.
    “Anything?” said O’Shea.
    “Yeah, they’re doing something. I’m still not entirely sure what.”
    “The Agriolis are ropable. They want it shut down, ASAP.”
    “Interesting,” said Harris.
    “What is so fookin’ interesting about that?” said O’Shea.
    “Leave it with me.”
    “No, wha—”
    Harris snapped the phone shut.

    H arris followed her up along the boulevard and around the point to Robinson Beach. Sophie parked by the surf club and got out, walked the path down to the rocks, and then scaled the rocks down to the beach. Harris stepped out of the car. It was a cold morning. The wind had a harsh chill in it. It was early and grey, no one around. He walked after her.
    Down on the sand, Sophie stood there with her arms wrapped around herself. If she heard him approach, she didn’t show it. She stayed fixed on the ocean in front. The ocean foamed and roared.
    “Sophie?” said Harris.
    She turned.
    Harris grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in close. He wrapped a hand around her jaw, bringing her eyes level with his.
    “You feeling suicidal, Sophie?”
    “Who, uh—”
    “Quit this business with the senator’s kid.”
    She struggled. Harris let her go and pushed her back. She landed in the sand and sat there.
    “Enough,” he said. “You’ve been warned.” He walked away.
    “I know you,” she shouted after him. “You’ll go down with the rest of them, you fucking piece of shit. You’re all going—”
    Harris stopped. He looked back.
    Sophie swept hair from her face. “You killed my sister,” she said. “And now you’re all going down for it.”
    “I never…”
    Sophie Marr stood up. Sand rained down off her clothes.
    “I’m coming for you, this time,” she said. “Not the other way around. So go tell whoever you’re working for that this is fucking it. It’s over. Go and tell them.”
    Harris started back up the beach.
    “You can’t run from this,” screamed Sophie.
    She was still calling out to him as he started the car. She was running toward him, silently shouting through the glass like a banshee. Harris put the car into reverse and slammed the thing back. The woman had lost it.

    H e went back to the office and called O’Shea: “This nonsense with the girl, I’m out. Don can look after his own kids.” And for four weeks, that was the end of it.

8
August, 2004
    B y the end of August , winter was a distant memory. Romano took to drinking in the yard behind her house. She sat with the radio on and stared at the split sky, half blackened void and half smudged pink by lights of The Strip. This was the yin and yang of Tunnel. She spent hours wincing through every echo of the recent past, seizing every detail and anecdote.
    Will.
    The boyfriend.
    All the boyfriends before him.
    The lot. All the turds of one type or another. She refused to say they names, even to herself. They went well with the drugs and the drinking. It all went parallel. The perfect match: bad habits and bad