dew on the stonework, flicking raindrops off the gutter pipes. If he’d ever dreamed anything so sweet, he couldn’t remember it. The intensity of his joy was almost too much, and it startled him awake.
He was back, wide-eyed, in the forced heat of the cell, with Feaver on the bunk below, masturbating. The bunk rocked rhythmically, speed increasing, and Feaver climaxed with a stifled grunt. Marty tried to block reality, and concentrate on recapturing his dream. He closed his eyes again, willing the image back to him, saying come on, come on to the dark.
For one shattering moment, the dream returned: only this time it wasn’t triumph, it was terror, and he was pitching out of the sky from a hundred miles high, and the cathedral was rushing toward him, its spires sharpening themselves on the wind in preparation for his arrival.
He shook himself awake, canceling the plunge before it could be finished, and lay the rest of the night staring at the ceiling until a wretched gloom, the first light of dawn, spilled through the window to announce the day.
Chapter 9
N o profligate sky greeted his release. Just a commonplace Friday afternoon, with business as usual on Trinity Road.
Toy had been waiting for him in the reception wing when Marty was brought down from his landing. He had longer yet to wait, while the officers went through a dozen bureaucratic rituals; belongings to be checked and returned, release papers to be signed and countersigned. It took almost an hour of such formalities before they unlocked the doors and let them both out into the open air.
With little more than a handshake of welcome Toy led him across the forecourt of the prison to where a dark red Daimler was parked, the driver’s seat occupied.
“Come on, Marty,” he said, opening the door, “too cold to linger.”
It was cold: the wind was vicious. But the chill couldn’t freeze his joy. He was a free man, for God’s sake; free within carefully prescribed limits perhaps, but it was a beginning. He was at least putting behind him all the paraphernalia of prison: the bucket in the corner of the cell, the keys, the numbers. Now he had to be the equal of the choices and opportunities that would lead from here.
Toy had already taken refuge in the back of the car.
“Marty,” he summoned again, his suede-gloved hand beckoning. “We should hurry, or we’ll get snarled up getting out of the city.”
“Yes. I’m here—”
Marty got in. The interior of the car smelled of polish, stale cigar smoke and leather; luxuriant scents.
“Should I put the case in the boot?” Marty said.
The driver turned from the wheel.
“You got room back there,” he said. A West Indian, dressed not in chauffeur’s livery but in a battered leather flying jacket, looked Marty up and down. He offered no welcoming smile.
“Luther,” said Toy, “this is Marty.”
“Put the case over the front seat,” the driver replied; he leaned across and opened the front passenger door. Marty got out and slid his case and plastic bag of belongings onto the front seat beside a litter of newspapers and a thumbed copy of Playboy, then got into the back with Toy and slammed the door.
“No need to slam,” said Luther, but Marty scarcely heard the remark. Not many cons get picked up from the gates of Wandsworth in a Daimler, he was thinking: maybe this time I’ve fallen on my feet.
The car purred away from the gates and made a left onto Trinity Road.
“Luther’s been with the estate for two years,” Toy said.
“Three,” the other man corrected him.
“Is it?” Toy replied. “Three then. He drives me around; takes Mr. Whitehead when he goes down to London.”
“Don’t do that no more.”
Marty caught the driver’s eye in the mirror.
“You been in that shit-house long?” the man asked, pouncing without a flicker of hesitation.
“Long enough,” Marty replied.-He wasn’t going to try to hide anything; there was no sense in that. He waited for the
He was back, wide-eyed, in the forced heat of the cell, with Feaver on the bunk below, masturbating. The bunk rocked rhythmically, speed increasing, and Feaver climaxed with a stifled grunt. Marty tried to block reality, and concentrate on recapturing his dream. He closed his eyes again, willing the image back to him, saying come on, come on to the dark.
For one shattering moment, the dream returned: only this time it wasn’t triumph, it was terror, and he was pitching out of the sky from a hundred miles high, and the cathedral was rushing toward him, its spires sharpening themselves on the wind in preparation for his arrival.
He shook himself awake, canceling the plunge before it could be finished, and lay the rest of the night staring at the ceiling until a wretched gloom, the first light of dawn, spilled through the window to announce the day.
Chapter 9
N o profligate sky greeted his release. Just a commonplace Friday afternoon, with business as usual on Trinity Road.
Toy had been waiting for him in the reception wing when Marty was brought down from his landing. He had longer yet to wait, while the officers went through a dozen bureaucratic rituals; belongings to be checked and returned, release papers to be signed and countersigned. It took almost an hour of such formalities before they unlocked the doors and let them both out into the open air.
With little more than a handshake of welcome Toy led him across the forecourt of the prison to where a dark red Daimler was parked, the driver’s seat occupied.
“Come on, Marty,” he said, opening the door, “too cold to linger.”
It was cold: the wind was vicious. But the chill couldn’t freeze his joy. He was a free man, for God’s sake; free within carefully prescribed limits perhaps, but it was a beginning. He was at least putting behind him all the paraphernalia of prison: the bucket in the corner of the cell, the keys, the numbers. Now he had to be the equal of the choices and opportunities that would lead from here.
Toy had already taken refuge in the back of the car.
“Marty,” he summoned again, his suede-gloved hand beckoning. “We should hurry, or we’ll get snarled up getting out of the city.”
“Yes. I’m here—”
Marty got in. The interior of the car smelled of polish, stale cigar smoke and leather; luxuriant scents.
“Should I put the case in the boot?” Marty said.
The driver turned from the wheel.
“You got room back there,” he said. A West Indian, dressed not in chauffeur’s livery but in a battered leather flying jacket, looked Marty up and down. He offered no welcoming smile.
“Luther,” said Toy, “this is Marty.”
“Put the case over the front seat,” the driver replied; he leaned across and opened the front passenger door. Marty got out and slid his case and plastic bag of belongings onto the front seat beside a litter of newspapers and a thumbed copy of Playboy, then got into the back with Toy and slammed the door.
“No need to slam,” said Luther, but Marty scarcely heard the remark. Not many cons get picked up from the gates of Wandsworth in a Daimler, he was thinking: maybe this time I’ve fallen on my feet.
The car purred away from the gates and made a left onto Trinity Road.
“Luther’s been with the estate for two years,” Toy said.
“Three,” the other man corrected him.
“Is it?” Toy replied. “Three then. He drives me around; takes Mr. Whitehead when he goes down to London.”
“Don’t do that no more.”
Marty caught the driver’s eye in the mirror.
“You been in that shit-house long?” the man asked, pouncing without a flicker of hesitation.
“Long enough,” Marty replied.-He wasn’t going to try to hide anything; there was no sense in that. He waited for the
Similar Books
To Mend a Broken Heart
K.A. Hobbs
Caught on Camera with the CEO
Natalie Anderson
Texas! Chase #2
Sandra Brown
Do Cool Sh*t
Miki Agrawal
Wilmington, NC 10 - Much Ado About Murder
Ellen Elizabeth Hunter
Désirée
Annemarie Selinko
Off Limits
Delilah Wilde
Built to Last
Jean Page
Pleasure Unbound
Larissa Ione
The Midnight Tour
Richard Laymon