Night Runner by Max Turner Read Free Book Online

your mother, had the matching piece. Did you know that?”
    I nodded.
    â€œIt was a golden crescent that snapped to the side of the one you’re wearing. It might be the most beautiful piece of jewellery I’ve ever seen.”
    My father had said exactly the same thing.
    â€œWe have much to discuss, you and I.”
    I didn’t exactly know what to say. Under other circumstances, I probably would have jumped for joy to discover that I had an uncle—someone who could answer questions about my father and mother. But when a deranged motorcycle thief destroys your television and warns you that trouble is on the way, it sort of puts you on your guard. And I was still stuck in my dream. “You’re not alone,” my father had said, but he’d also said, “Run.” And where had this guy been all these years? The moon?
    â€œAre you really my uncle?” I asked.
    He smiled. “Yes,” he said.
    â€œWell . . . where have you been?”
    He laughed, and I felt myself smile, too. The sound of laughter just does that sometimes.
    â€œWhere have I been? Why, I’ve been many places.”
    â€œBut I’ve been here for eight years.”
    He looked at me and nodded. Then he covered his mouth and coughed quietly.
    â€œI know. At least, I know that now. But I only discovered it recently. I was told eight years ago that you had died after lapsing into a coma. You can’t imagine how shocked I was when I got the news you were still alive. Shocked, but very pleased.”
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. And yet it made sense. I
had
been in a coma eight years ago. It explained why he hadn’t come looking for me.
    â€œHow did you find me?” I asked.
    â€œGood question, but the answer is complicated and probably not worth getting into right now because I can’t stay long.”
    He glanced down at his watch. The red numbers on my clock radio told me it was 7:53. The sun would be setting soon.
    â€œNot tonight, anyway,” my uncle continued. “And we have more important things to talk about. Like your father, for instance.”
    He paused. I didn’t know what to say. Since I didn’t want him to stop talking I kept my mouth shut. Nurse Ophelia had once told me that some people will talk forever if you let them. In this case, I didn’t think that would be such a bad thing.
    â€œYou were with your father the day he died, I know. I hope it isn’t painful if I speak frankly.”
    It didn’t bother me, and I told him so.
    â€œDo you remember what happened?”
    â€œYes. He was crushed when a temple collapsed.”
    My uncle nodded almost imperceptibly. He was looking at me intently again.
    â€œThat was the official version,” he said. “But that’s not what really happened.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo.”
    He put his elbow back on the arm of the chair and propped the side of his face on his index finger and thumb again. This looked like his thinking pose.
    â€œAnd you probably thought your father was an archaeologist.”
    â€œHe was,” I said. “I went with him on all his digs. After I was two, I did. After my mother died. And when he went to lecture at universities, I went with him then, too.”
    â€œOf course,” my uncle said. “And the whole world would have agreed with you. Your father was an archaeologist. One of the very best. But he was much more than that. Much more.”
    Here he leaned forward in his chair. I was sitting on the bed with my back against the wall and I found myself leaning towards him. He looked at the door and paused to cough again, then he turned back to me and spoke in a whisper.
    â€œHe was a great believer in truth, your father. He used to say that it longed to be discovered by people like him, people willing to dig it up. He loved archaeology and he admired archaeologists, just as he admired historians and police detectives and other