Son of Heaven by David Wingrove Read Free Book Online

waterlogged by heavy rains, which was why, with the wagons, they took the main road north to Wareham. But today it was fine, the ground beneath his boots firm rather than muddy.
    This was the scenic route and, in summer, he often took it for its sheer beauty and peacefulness, but today he chose it for a different reason – so as not to meet up with Tom. Not yet,
anyway. He hadn’t rehearsed yet in his head just how he was going to play it.
    His natural instinct was to tell Tom everything – to lay it all before him and beg his forgiveness – but how did you tell your best friend that you’d spent the night dreaming
about fucking his wife? That wasn’t an option. Best say nothing, maybe. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Only he felt awkward about it. He didn’t like the idea that he was somehow
betraying his best friend, even if it were only in his head.
    Thought crime , he realized, recalling the classic novel. There were those, of course, who’d not think twice about it. But he wasn’t one of them. The very idea of hurting Tom
filled him with horror. It would have been the same as hurting Peter, or Annie, come to that, when she’d been alive.
    As he walked he looked about him, taking in the sheer beauty of the place. Some days he felt almost like he had died and come to heaven. At least it would have seemed so, had Annie been at his
side. Coming out from the trees beside the Ridgeway he found himself waist deep in a meadow full of wild flowers, their bright, natural colours stretching all the way to the low grey walls of the
old graveyard that lay in the shadow of the castle.
    Jake slowed, taking it all in, his mood brightening at the sight.
    He had done Tom no wrong. He had kissed Tom’s wife, yes, but he had gone no further, and what was one small kiss between old friends? And maybe Tom knew that already. Maybe she had gone
straight home and told him, and he had laughed and said something like ‘Poor old Jake. He needs a woman in his bed.’ Which was true, only…
    Jake stopped, reaching out to pluck a strand of wild lavender, studying it a while, conscious suddenly of how fragile it all was; of how easily all of this was brought to ruin. Transient, it
was. And thus meaningless, some might say. Only it was that very brevity that made it beautiful, that gave it meaning. It was like Annie. Even though he had lost her, he would not have chosen never
to have met her, not for all the suffering. Never to have had – never to have risked having – that was worse. Far worse.
    He came in from the back way, walking up the long, curving slope of West Street. There beneath the Martyrs Cross, two small, horse-drawn wagons were waiting, packed tight with
trading goods, their drivers seated on the steps of the old stone cross, drawing on their pipes. Seeing Jake, the smaller of the two stood and hailed him.
    ‘Jake! ’Ow’s ’e?’
    Jake grinned. Ted Gifford was a small, wiry man in his fifties. He had been born in Corfe and had remained here, and his accent was as local as it got. His companion was his son, Dick, who was
much taller than his father with a shock of red hair. It was said by some that Dick was a clever man, though as he rarely spoke it was hard to tell, but one thing Jake did know: Dick was the best
shot in all of Purbeck, and he had never see him flinch or run in a fight, even when things looked bad, so he was glad to see him there that morning.
    ‘How are you two? I didn’t see you last night?’
    ‘We got some shut-eye,’ Ted answered. ‘’S long journey. An’ the road this year…’
    He didn’t finish, but it was clear he thought they were in for trouble. Not that Jake disagreed. It was why he’d brought an extra magazine.
    Just then the wind changed direction. With it came the sound of the dogs.
    ‘Thar’ they be,’ said Ted, pointing with his pipe towards the Bankes Hotel, and as he said it, so the three dog sleds came into view. At the same time two other figures came