there is to look forward to.'
'How old do you reckon you are?' said Kate.
Josh shrugged.
'You look about thirty.'
'I could be. I don't know'
'Married?' she asked.
Josh shrugged again. 'I can't remember.'
Kate laughed, raising her hand to her lips. 'I bet you use that line on all the girls.'
49
FOUR
Thursday, June 4th. Afternoon.
Josh lifted his head from the pillow. He kept his eyes closed, trying to cling on to the image that had been playing through his mind as he awoke. A man falling. A boy running. A shot. Then a shout.
The shout. What was he saying?
Josh squeezed his eyes tight shut, trying to hold himself in a state where he was half awake, half asleep. The shout, he repeated to himself. What the hell did it say?
No good.
The image had gone now, consigned to the dustbin, along with all the rest of his memories.
Josh opened his eyes. He took a long drink of water, looking at the clock. It was just after four in the afternoon. He must have slept for at least twenty-four, maybe twenty five hours. His body felt lazy and tired still, but the aching in his head was starting to ease, and the itch on his neck underneath the thick layer of bandages was getting weaker.
If there was a shot, was it my finger on the trigger?
Twenty-five hours, thought Josh. Whatever Kate jabbed into me must have been the strongest stuff in her locker.
A fly landed on the sheet. Josh slammed down his fist, squashing it against the white linen. Getting my strength back, reflected Josh. And my reflexes.
He levered himself from the bed, using all the strength in his elbows. Carefully, he put his left foot on the floor,
50
pressing it against the cold tiles. The pain was still there, but it didn't scream up through his leg the way it had yesterday. His eyes were still bloodshot, but the red streaks running through his pupils were not quite so thick. And the fever heat on his brow seemed to be lessening. Gently, he reached out for the crutch and started to walk.
A gunshot rang out from the yard.
Instinctively, Josh ducked, his shoulders turning sideways, his hunched posture protecting both his head and his torso from any bullets that might come flying through the window. Looking around, he started searching through the room for something that could be improvised as a weapon. Nothing. The crutch might make a staff, but against a man with a gun it would be useless.
Another shot echoed across the empty landscape. Josh looked through the window. Marshall was standing in the yard, a pistol in his hand. Fifty yards away he had lined up a row of tin cans and was firing at them one by one.
A soldier, Josh thought to himself. They said they thought I was a soldier. And those were a soldier's instinctive reactions to the sound of gunfire. Shield yourself. Stay alive. And look for a way to fight back.
He watched Marshall from the window, noticing the ease with which the older man carried the weapon in his hand. A Browning, Josh noticed. A Browning Buck Mark field pistol, with its distinctive black metal barrel and polished walnut grips.Who are these people? he wondered to himself. Why have they taken me into this house? Why are they looking after me?
What do they want from me?
A tin can had fallen to the ground as one of Marshall's bullets tore through it.
'Nice shot,' said Josh, stepping out from the porch.
The heat of the midday sun was still beating down on the parched ground. It must be at least forty degrees, reckoned
51
Josh. As soon as he stepped outside, he could feel the sun burning into the back of his neck, but the air was so dry and arid that it hardly raised a bead of perspiration on his skin.
'I'm not really any good,' said Marshall. 'I can fire a gun if I have to, but I was never really blessed with a natural aim. Only a few men are.' He looked hard at Josh, his eyes narrowing. 'How about you?'
Josh shrugged. 'I wouldn't know.'
Marshall smiled, walking across the dusty yard towards the back of the main building. Josh
'How old do you reckon you are?' said Kate.
Josh shrugged.
'You look about thirty.'
'I could be. I don't know'
'Married?' she asked.
Josh shrugged again. 'I can't remember.'
Kate laughed, raising her hand to her lips. 'I bet you use that line on all the girls.'
49
FOUR
Thursday, June 4th. Afternoon.
Josh lifted his head from the pillow. He kept his eyes closed, trying to cling on to the image that had been playing through his mind as he awoke. A man falling. A boy running. A shot. Then a shout.
The shout. What was he saying?
Josh squeezed his eyes tight shut, trying to hold himself in a state where he was half awake, half asleep. The shout, he repeated to himself. What the hell did it say?
No good.
The image had gone now, consigned to the dustbin, along with all the rest of his memories.
Josh opened his eyes. He took a long drink of water, looking at the clock. It was just after four in the afternoon. He must have slept for at least twenty-four, maybe twenty five hours. His body felt lazy and tired still, but the aching in his head was starting to ease, and the itch on his neck underneath the thick layer of bandages was getting weaker.
If there was a shot, was it my finger on the trigger?
Twenty-five hours, thought Josh. Whatever Kate jabbed into me must have been the strongest stuff in her locker.
A fly landed on the sheet. Josh slammed down his fist, squashing it against the white linen. Getting my strength back, reflected Josh. And my reflexes.
He levered himself from the bed, using all the strength in his elbows. Carefully, he put his left foot on the floor,
50
pressing it against the cold tiles. The pain was still there, but it didn't scream up through his leg the way it had yesterday. His eyes were still bloodshot, but the red streaks running through his pupils were not quite so thick. And the fever heat on his brow seemed to be lessening. Gently, he reached out for the crutch and started to walk.
A gunshot rang out from the yard.
Instinctively, Josh ducked, his shoulders turning sideways, his hunched posture protecting both his head and his torso from any bullets that might come flying through the window. Looking around, he started searching through the room for something that could be improvised as a weapon. Nothing. The crutch might make a staff, but against a man with a gun it would be useless.
Another shot echoed across the empty landscape. Josh looked through the window. Marshall was standing in the yard, a pistol in his hand. Fifty yards away he had lined up a row of tin cans and was firing at them one by one.
A soldier, Josh thought to himself. They said they thought I was a soldier. And those were a soldier's instinctive reactions to the sound of gunfire. Shield yourself. Stay alive. And look for a way to fight back.
He watched Marshall from the window, noticing the ease with which the older man carried the weapon in his hand. A Browning, Josh noticed. A Browning Buck Mark field pistol, with its distinctive black metal barrel and polished walnut grips.Who are these people? he wondered to himself. Why have they taken me into this house? Why are they looking after me?
What do they want from me?
A tin can had fallen to the ground as one of Marshall's bullets tore through it.
'Nice shot,' said Josh, stepping out from the porch.
The heat of the midday sun was still beating down on the parched ground. It must be at least forty degrees, reckoned
51
Josh. As soon as he stepped outside, he could feel the sun burning into the back of his neck, but the air was so dry and arid that it hardly raised a bead of perspiration on his skin.
'I'm not really any good,' said Marshall. 'I can fire a gun if I have to, but I was never really blessed with a natural aim. Only a few men are.' He looked hard at Josh, his eyes narrowing. 'How about you?'
Josh shrugged. 'I wouldn't know.'
Marshall smiled, walking across the dusty yard towards the back of the main building. Josh
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