Read Online Blood Whispers by John Gordon Sinclair - Free Book Online

he’d have stopped off on the way and picked up some food. He didn’t have enough time now to drive back to Campbeltown village.
    It was then that he became aware of the noise: a low rumble at first, in the distance, but all the time gaining in volume and intensity. The shutters on the terminal building started to rattle and shake as if the whole building was about to crumble to the ground.
    A few seconds later a military transport plane roared overhead, flying so low that Besnik’s instinct was to duck. The plane sped on towards the mountains, banked to the left and started to climb up through the clouds – momentarily disappearing from view – until eventually it turned full circle and dropped back towards the far end of the runway. A few minutes later there was a loud screeching noise as the huge rubber tyres of the C130 skidded and smoked along the tarmac and eventually taxied to a halt just yards from the bunkers.
    Besnik wandered back to his car, climbed in and twisted the key in the ignition. He turned down the volume of the up-tempo folk song blasting out of the sound system, wound open the window and lit a cigarette. He was careful to hold the cigarette outside the car and made sure he exhaled out of the window too.
    The sun had now disappeared behind the distant hills and the burnt-orange sky was beginning to fade.
    He flicked the half-finished stub on to the nearby grass bank and wound the window back up. Moments later someone opened the boot of the car and threw something heavy inside. Before Besnik could get out to open the passenger door they’d climbed into the back seat.
    There was no exchange of pleasantries. Besnik stuck the shift into drive and pulled out of the car park. A couple of miles along the road he was thinking about his stomach again.
    ‘You mind if I stop and grab something to eat?’ he said, glancing at his passenger in the rear-view mirror. The question got no response. Besnik checked the road was clear then turned and looked over his shoulder figuring maybe Engjell E Zeze was wearing headphones or something.
    He tried again.
    ‘If it’s okay with you I’m thinking I’ll stop and get something to eat?’
    ‘Do you like to do things you’re not supposed to?’
    ‘Do what?’ replied Besnik, trying to figure out what E Zeze meant.
    ‘Were you told you shouldn’t speak to me?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘So what are you doing now?’
    ‘I’m speaking to you,’ said Besnik, trying not to give E Zeze too much attitude, but not afraid to take on the little fuck.
    ‘Even though you were specifically told not to?’
    ‘Well, I figured that meant shit like, “How was your flight?” and “How long you on vacation for?” That sort of bullshit. I didn’t think it meant not speak to you at all.’
    ‘What if it did?’
    Besnik checked E Zeze out in the mirror again. The guy was small, probably weighed less than seventy kilos. Sitting there with neatly combed hair wearing a suit, wiry and lean. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about him that gave Besnik the creeps. If E Zeze did start getting smart he would stop the car and give the freak a slap. Besnik decided to ramp it up a little. ‘If it did mean that I shouldn’t have said a word to you, then we got ourselves a problem, ’cause I just have. Now, I don’t really need to ask your permission to stop and grab something to eat, I was just being polite. But in order to be polite I have to open my mouth and speak, unless you know another way of doing it.’
    E Zeze didn’t answer.
    ‘You got something up with your voice?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You sure? You sound to me like you’ve had your balls cut off, you know what I’m saying? Like you iron your sheets and listen to musicals: all soft and quiet. That why you don’t want to talk . . . ’Cause you sound like Michael Jackson?’
    E Zeze turned and stared out of the window for a moment deep in thought, then said, ‘Did they tell you not to smoke in the