The Soul Consortium by Simon West-Bulford Read Free Book Online Page B

the man’s face as he lifts his palms. “Women! Lucky for you she’s the one in control, eh?”
    My eyes widen as I move toward him. “What?”
    His smile loses place to confused suspicion. “What d’you mean …
what?
Listen, mate—”
    “Bill, leave him. He’s a bloody weirdo.” She yanks his arm, and the man shakes his head as he’s pulled back onto the path.
    He was right.
She’s
in control. I go through one night of doubt, and I almost lose myself. I should know better than to think she would abandon me after just one night of failure. No, like Jesus in the wilderness, this is my test, but I won’t take forty days to learn my lesson. I’ll trust her. Whoever this Keitus Vieta is, she must control him too, and if he wants to help me, so be it.

EIGHT
     
    A pril 5: Liam Butler. Fell from someone’s roof trying to replace some broken slates, landed on the pavement, and smashed his pelvis. His head missed the edge of his wheelbarrow by the width of a finger. He should’ve died.
    After reading about it in the local paper the following week, I made sure the job was finished, though there was nothing in the man’s eyes that yielded any of the Grim Reaper’s secrets. The hospital staff were clueless about my unauthorized presence on the ward at night when I administered the drug, and they had even less idea about why Mr. Butler didn’t make it through after such a standard operation. Their only notable comment was about the strange old man who, claiming to be a relative, turned up only an hour after the death had been declared. Police could not locate him after the visit, and none of Mr. Butler’s other relatives were able to conclude who it could have been. It was also noted that the deceased’s reading glasses had mysteriously disappeared from his bedside.
    June 23: Vanessa Fullworth. Fell asleep at the wheel of her car. She smashed through the central reservation, taking with her the front bumper of a transit van as her metal tomb slammed her into two other cars. Except she didn’t die. At least not until I found out about her miraculous escape. Another hospital visit set things straight. Again the mysterious visitor. Again a missing object.
    September 12: Steve Warren. A local electrician found unconscious in his workshop after electrocuting himself repairing an old TV set. An ambulance found him quite by chance, having arrived to deal with injured people at a pub brawl at the end of the road. One of Mr. Warren’s customers, irritated by the inconvenience of the shop still being closed well after lunchtime, had peered through the back window and seen him slumped over his bench. Had the ambulance and its capable paramedics not been there at the time, Mr. Warren would have died—or so I was led to believe by the owner of the shop next door.
    I called on Mr. Warren’s services as soon as he was back to work, claiming I needed an expert to examine a faulty circuit breaker. Nobody ever found out what happened to him, and I saw nothing new in his dying eyes, either. The following day somebody broke into my home while I was out. The lock had not been forced, and nothing had been stolen, but the spots of blood coughed up by Mr. Warren onto my carpet had been cleaned off in my absence.
    September 18: Ibrahim Yelsin. This was the incident that led to the discovery of Steve Warren. Ibrahim was the victim of a racial attack outside the Golden Lion pub, and it was the landlord who had called the police and the ambulance. The unfortunate teenager had been stabbed in the chest, and it was a miracle the blade missed his vital organs.
    Finding this boy was not difficult, he was well known in the area, but my inquiries had brought with them considerable danger—once Ibrahim’s murder had been made public, my own discovery would be simple. A test then. How would Mr. Vieta cover my tracks this time? The newspapers were kind enough to reveal the answer with a two-page spread. All the boy’s friends, any witnesses to