Resurgence by M. M. Mayle Read Free Book Online

earlier with these latest findings, and I’m sorry to have to say the same thing I said to her.” David downs the rest of his whiskey in one draught. “That the evidence pointing to this conclusion is difficult to ignore.”
    “Not whilst I’ve got breath left in me, it isn’t. I don’t care if you tell me evidence was found suggesting he ate the shit with a soupspoon. Rayce was not one to kill himself deliberately and he knew way too bleedin’ much about coke to bring it about accidentally. There has to be another explanation.”
    “Colin, believe me, I wish there were. But for now, it’s all we’ve got.”
    “Give me a reason, then. Tell me why a bloke coming off one of the best gigs of his entire career, headed for a sell-out tour of Europe, and all but guaranteed multi-platinum sales of a new album, would want to check out just now? And I’m only talking about his professional life. I’m not taking into account the accomplishments of his personal life that saw him clean and sober of his own free will, finally at peace with himself and those around him, and with every fucking thing to live for.”
    “You’re not postulating anything I haven’t been asking myself all day. There are no clear-cut answers. There may never be. Even the media is sidestepping motive, which isn’t keeping them from supporting the suicide theory.”
    “Do you support it?”
    David joins him at the game table and pours himself a generous refill. “My long and informed relationship with the deceased says I should not, but—”
    “The fuckwit medical examiner says you should.”
    “Something along that line.”
    They drink and debate for another hour, then call it a night by agreeing to disagree. After escorting David to one of the guest suites, Colin looks in on the lads. While realigning Simon to sleep lengthwise on his cot and retrieving Anthony’s bedcovers from the floor, he begins to recognize the benefit of purging misgivings and strengthening opinions in an open exchange, and he can only thank Laurel for providing the opportunity. Now he can’t get to her quick enough.
    A light’s been left on in the far corner of the bedroom. She’s asleep, as forecast, and doesn’t stir when he strips down and climbs in beside her. She could be an illusion, something so wished-for it only seems real; she could be transient, prey to the same unknowable, unpredictable forces that claimed Rayce. And there might also be monsters under the bed, ghosts in the cupboard, and a flock of pterodactyls on the roof. He holds her as close as he can without awakening her.

SEVEN
    Early morning, April 14, 1987
    Laurel awakes in the anemic light of the lamp left on when she went to bed. Colin isn’t so much wrapped around her as applied to her, and must have been that way for quite a while because she’s much too warm, her upper body is cramped into an uncomfortable position, and one leg is numb. Extricating herself without waking him will take some doing, but he only grunts once or twice as she works loose and eases from the bed.
    She’s drawn to the oriel window. Through heavy overcast, natural light seeps from the horizon onto the terrace below. How many times has she resorted to window-gazing when answers couldn’t be found elsewhere? How long has she been doing this? Did the practice begin with Colin, when Colin Elliot was synonymous with conflict, or did it predate his acquaintance? Did she ever really expect to find solutions on the other side of a pane of glass—in thin air, as it were—or was the exercise simply a delaying action? As it is now.
    Aware only that it’s Tuesday of Holy Week, she’s impervious to the hour, as she has been since yesterday when the sky fell in and time stood still. Time that should have been moving ahead in joy and amazement instead of bogging down in shock and amazement. She tiptoes out of the bedroom, ashamed of such selfish thoughts. But she can’t be the only one having them. What of David? He