Slow Burning Lies by Ray Kingfisher Read Free Book Online

and slapped his hand on the valve, frantically tapping the controls.
    ‘You want it turned up?’
    Jimmy nodded, and was soon soothed, a solitary tear dropping onto the mask. His rate of breathing slowed, and his body relaxed just a little. He took the mask off. ‘I ain’t got much in there – only my compensation money and I gotta be careful with that.’
    ‘I can be careful.’
    ‘No.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Anyhows, you don’t know my code number.’
    ‘You could tell me. I promise I won’t write it down or tell anyone.’
    Jimmy listened to the silence of an empty house. A look of anguish drew itself on his face, his eyebrows looking more like the grey threadbare quiffs of a man twenty years older. ‘You… you sure you won’t tell anyone?’
    ‘Jimmy. You can trust me.’
    The chest of Jimmy’s near-cadaver of a body sank and rose a few times, then he nodded. ‘I know. You’ve been good to me, helping me ‘round the house an’ all that of late. Thanks.’
    ‘So?’
    Jimmy lifted his head and looked across to photo of his family on the wall. ‘The ages of my three girls when they left me. Eight, nine, eleven.’
    ‘Good. That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
    ‘No. I guess not.’ Jimmy started to gasp again, and his hand scrabbled around on his lap for his mask.
    A hand held it down.
    Within seconds Jimmy’s face had turned a blotchy matt purple. He gasped some more, his desperate breaths quickening as they became of little relief to his burning lungs. He glared down to where the hand held onto the mask – held it away from him, utterly overpowering his feeble attempts at a fight for life. Before long his eyes started to bulge, as if being pushed out by the now rigid muscles around the sockets, turning the rims of his eyes a watery pink.
    As his breathing got louder and more desperate, and the pain in his ravaged lungs became clear from the grimace on his face, he gathered a final effort to let out a final few words.
    ‘Please… Patrick… please .’
    *
    The next thing Patrick heard was Joni shouting those same words, then, ‘Wake up, Patrick. Wake up!’
    He roared as he roused, giving out a drawling wordless shout. He felt hands on his shoulders. Confused between the swirling mix of watching old Jimmy’s pitiful struggle for breath and thoughts of Joni trying to wake him – thoughts of what might have been had he stayed at her place – Patrick instinctively brought his arms up to defend himself, before relaxing and lowering them.
    He was alone. He was breathless, soaked with perspiration, and all alone.

10
    The next day Patrick settled into work glad of the distraction – of the way programming took his mind to a place of stability and certainty, where he controlled everything, where the compiled module did exactly what he’d programmed it to, be that good or bad.
    If only he could stay awake.
    Two hours into the morning he sensed a presence behind him, also the faint but distinctive perfume of woman-power. He was just about to transfer the two lines of code from his mind onto the keyboard when the presence moved into view and spoke.
    ‘You’re a quiet boy today, Patrick.’
    ‘I told him that earlier,’ Paulo said from the next desk. Beth’s glance halted his input into the conversation, and his face took on a sheepish expression, as if he’d just uttered some classic faux-pas. He peered into his PC screen, then turned away and buried his head in an instruction manual.
    Beth turned her attentions back to Patrick, and her eyebrows repeated the question.
    ‘I’m just trying to get this scoring code completed,’ Patrick said, leaning back and pulling his hands away from the keyboard.
    ‘Heavy night last night?’
    Patrick looked up. He didn’t need to look far; the trousers of Beth’s suit were pressing against the arm of his chair. Her hand rested on the top of the backrest. The only way she could get any closer would be to sit on top of him. That thought had briefly occurred