Read Online (1992) Prophecy by Peter James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter James
Tags: Mystery
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could see them taking long walks, maybe having lunch in a pub garden. Lazing around a swimming-pool, with sheep on the far side of the fence. The boy had taken ‘a shine’ to her. Edward. She was pleased about that, rather flattered.
She went through into the kitchen, switched on the light and stared at Oliver’s flowers in the sink, then hunted for something suitable to put them in. Sheremembered a plain white vase with a green ceramic bow which she had been given a couple of birthdays ago by Meredith Minns, and retrieved it from behind a stack of bowls.
She carefully arranged the flowers in the vase, feeling wide awake and almost deliriously happy, then carried it through into her bedroom and placed it in the centre of the mantelpiece, spreading out the white and peach carnations, the yellow and orange lilies, smelling their scents in turn, then standing back to admire them.
It was after two when Frannie went to bed, and she set her alarm for eight. After she switched the light out she lay awake for a long time, her brain buzzing.
When she eventually slept, she sank into a sinister dream in which she was running through dark empty streets in a city. Ahead of her she could see Jonathan Mountjoy, silhouetted against a high-rise building. But although he was not moving and she was sprinting, she was not getting any nearer. Footsteps were clacking down an alley. Someone was running towards him holding a gun. She tried to scream at him, to warn him, but her voice would not work. She could see the gun pointing at him, the wild, shaky hand holding it. ‘Jonathannnnnnnnn!’
The shot woke her with a start.
People were screaming. The sirens of the police and the ambulance were wailing. Then she realized it was a real siren, somewhere in the distance. But the shot had been here, in this room. A bang, or a slap.
Someone in here.
A deep chill of fear spread through her. For a moment she was too scared to move. Then slowly she put out her hand, groping for the light switch. Snapped it on.
The darkness leapt back into the walls. She stared around with frightened eyes. Only an eerie silence filled the room. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, but something was wrong. Shadows from the lamp lay across the ceiling; a fly sat directly above her. She stared at her prints on the walls; at the wardrobe. Her throat was parched, her mouth dry. She stared at the mantelpiece. The mantelpiece where she had carefully put the vase with the flowers.
The vase was still there but there were no flowers in it.
She sat bolt upright. The flowers lay strewn across the floor, as if they had been hurled there by someone or something in a rage.
C HAPTER S IX
Oliver turned up shortly after ten, wearing a rugger shirt, baggy red trousers and ancient laced yachting shoes; he carried Frannie’s bag to an elderly mud-caked Range Rover.
‘What happened? Did you put the Renault in a grow-bag?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘I just use the Renault for hacking around London; it’s so clapped out I don’t think it would survive a long journey.’
The interior of the Range Rover was as cluttered and untidy as his Renault, with the addition of crumpled rugs and an assortment of chewed rings and rubber bones on the rear seat. ‘Captain Kirk’s,’ he said by the way of explanation.
‘Captain Kirk?’
‘Edward’s dog; he treats this bus as his kennel.’
They drove south out of London, through traffic that was heavy and slow at first, but which thinned out on the motorway. The sun beat down ahead of them out of a cloudless sky. Frannie had on a checked shirt, with a thin jumper slung around her shoulders, white cotton trousers and trainers, and she felt cool and comfortable in her clothes. Her thoughts were less comfortable and she felt tired, her eyes sandpapery from the fitful sleep she had had.
The flowers churned in her mind. She had checked the flat, but the windows were shut, the front door was locked and no one could have been in. She had put
She went through into the kitchen, switched on the light and stared at Oliver’s flowers in the sink, then hunted for something suitable to put them in. Sheremembered a plain white vase with a green ceramic bow which she had been given a couple of birthdays ago by Meredith Minns, and retrieved it from behind a stack of bowls.
She carefully arranged the flowers in the vase, feeling wide awake and almost deliriously happy, then carried it through into her bedroom and placed it in the centre of the mantelpiece, spreading out the white and peach carnations, the yellow and orange lilies, smelling their scents in turn, then standing back to admire them.
It was after two when Frannie went to bed, and she set her alarm for eight. After she switched the light out she lay awake for a long time, her brain buzzing.
When she eventually slept, she sank into a sinister dream in which she was running through dark empty streets in a city. Ahead of her she could see Jonathan Mountjoy, silhouetted against a high-rise building. But although he was not moving and she was sprinting, she was not getting any nearer. Footsteps were clacking down an alley. Someone was running towards him holding a gun. She tried to scream at him, to warn him, but her voice would not work. She could see the gun pointing at him, the wild, shaky hand holding it. ‘Jonathannnnnnnnn!’
The shot woke her with a start.
People were screaming. The sirens of the police and the ambulance were wailing. Then she realized it was a real siren, somewhere in the distance. But the shot had been here, in this room. A bang, or a slap.
Someone in here.
A deep chill of fear spread through her. For a moment she was too scared to move. Then slowly she put out her hand, groping for the light switch. Snapped it on.
The darkness leapt back into the walls. She stared around with frightened eyes. Only an eerie silence filled the room. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, but something was wrong. Shadows from the lamp lay across the ceiling; a fly sat directly above her. She stared at her prints on the walls; at the wardrobe. Her throat was parched, her mouth dry. She stared at the mantelpiece. The mantelpiece where she had carefully put the vase with the flowers.
The vase was still there but there were no flowers in it.
She sat bolt upright. The flowers lay strewn across the floor, as if they had been hurled there by someone or something in a rage.
C HAPTER S IX
Oliver turned up shortly after ten, wearing a rugger shirt, baggy red trousers and ancient laced yachting shoes; he carried Frannie’s bag to an elderly mud-caked Range Rover.
‘What happened? Did you put the Renault in a grow-bag?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘I just use the Renault for hacking around London; it’s so clapped out I don’t think it would survive a long journey.’
The interior of the Range Rover was as cluttered and untidy as his Renault, with the addition of crumpled rugs and an assortment of chewed rings and rubber bones on the rear seat. ‘Captain Kirk’s,’ he said by the way of explanation.
‘Captain Kirk?’
‘Edward’s dog; he treats this bus as his kennel.’
They drove south out of London, through traffic that was heavy and slow at first, but which thinned out on the motorway. The sun beat down ahead of them out of a cloudless sky. Frannie had on a checked shirt, with a thin jumper slung around her shoulders, white cotton trousers and trainers, and she felt cool and comfortable in her clothes. Her thoughts were less comfortable and she felt tired, her eyes sandpapery from the fitful sleep she had had.
The flowers churned in her mind. She had checked the flat, but the windows were shut, the front door was locked and no one could have been in. She had put
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