Read Online City of Time by Eoin McNamee - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Eoin McNamee
Tags: Fiction, General, Children's Books, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Action & Adventure - General, Fantasy & Magic, Ages 9-12 Fiction, Children: Young Adult (Gr. 7-9), Time
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warehouse
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door, looked around furtively, then placed the torch and container on the ground and took a crowbar from inside his coat. He forced open the old door, the wood giving way with a loud, protesting sound. Quickly Johnston slipped inside.
Silkie ran to the hatch that gave access to the rest of the building, trying to stem the panic rising inside her. The Starry could wait; Johnston was a more urgent threat.
She ran into the main part of the warehouse. It was pitch-dark, but she knew her way around without lights. Although it was cold outside, the warehouse was warm, with a sweet musty smell that reminded her of the barefoot children who lived and played here when they were awake. She moved swiftly to the door where Johnston had entered and darted up the staircase opposite.
Silkie was at the first floor now, moving quietly on the dusty floorboards. As she neared the front of the building she stopped and listened. She could hear a voice. Whatever Johnston was up to, he was singing to himself as he did it, his voice a deep rumble rising from below. She could see light from his torch shining through the chinks between the floorboards and hear footsteps as he moved about the room.
She was in the room where they cured and stored fish. The room Johnston was in was where the Raggies dried their damp clothes after a fishing expedition. Both
81
rooms smelled of fish, but there was another, stronger smell now. Silkie remembered smelling it on the river once, spilled from a passing boat. Petrol, Wesley had said it was, flicking a match into it so the surface of the water flared up and burned with a blue flame.
There was a trapdoor in the floor and Silkie eased it open. Below she could see Johnston in one corner. He was pouring liquid onto the floor from the container until it was empty, still humming loudly. When he straightened, the smell of petrol was overwhelming.
He walked across the room. As he passed the window the moonlight caught his face, his red complexion appearing pale and ghastly under his thatch of wiry black hair. At the doorway he turned and started searching his pockets.
Matches , Silkie thought. He's looking for matches. He's going to set fire to the place . Frantically she wondered what to do. Then her eye fell on the fish pot--a cast-iron pan that they used to wash the catch. She was always telling the younger ones off for not emptying it, but now she was praying that it was full. Quietly she scampered over to the pot and slid the lid off. It was half full of oily water, and she recoiled from the stench of year-old fish.
"Where are those damn matches?" she heard Johnston growl from below. Silkie put her arms around the pot and heaved it off the ground. Stinking water slopped over her arms and chest and she gasped, her
82
knees buckling under the weight as she heaved it to the trapdoor.
She looked down. Johnston had found the matchbox. He struck a match and as it flared, he held it up to his face, gazing almost lovingly into the flame.
With all her strength, Silkie upended the pot. Johnston looked up just as the torrent of rancid liquid reached him, sweeping the match from his hand, plastering his hair to his head and drenching his clothes in vile, fishy water. Silkie stared down at what she had done. Johnston looked almost comical, his mouth agape, his small eyes blinking out from a thicket of wet hair and slime. She lost her grip on the pot and the heavy iron vessel slipped from her hand. It bounced off the edge of the hatch with a clang, then plummeted down, striking the side of Johnston's head with a sickening thud.
Johnston swayed. An ugly white-lipped gash appeared on his temple and blood started to ooze from it. His head turned very slowly until he was looking directly into Silkie's eyes. He didn't say a word, but he held her gaze. She wanted to look away but couldn't. It made her feel like crying.
Johnston smiled a grim little smile to himself, then turned and left, moving more quietly
80
door, looked around furtively, then placed the torch and container on the ground and took a crowbar from inside his coat. He forced open the old door, the wood giving way with a loud, protesting sound. Quickly Johnston slipped inside.
Silkie ran to the hatch that gave access to the rest of the building, trying to stem the panic rising inside her. The Starry could wait; Johnston was a more urgent threat.
She ran into the main part of the warehouse. It was pitch-dark, but she knew her way around without lights. Although it was cold outside, the warehouse was warm, with a sweet musty smell that reminded her of the barefoot children who lived and played here when they were awake. She moved swiftly to the door where Johnston had entered and darted up the staircase opposite.
Silkie was at the first floor now, moving quietly on the dusty floorboards. As she neared the front of the building she stopped and listened. She could hear a voice. Whatever Johnston was up to, he was singing to himself as he did it, his voice a deep rumble rising from below. She could see light from his torch shining through the chinks between the floorboards and hear footsteps as he moved about the room.
She was in the room where they cured and stored fish. The room Johnston was in was where the Raggies dried their damp clothes after a fishing expedition. Both
81
rooms smelled of fish, but there was another, stronger smell now. Silkie remembered smelling it on the river once, spilled from a passing boat. Petrol, Wesley had said it was, flicking a match into it so the surface of the water flared up and burned with a blue flame.
There was a trapdoor in the floor and Silkie eased it open. Below she could see Johnston in one corner. He was pouring liquid onto the floor from the container until it was empty, still humming loudly. When he straightened, the smell of petrol was overwhelming.
He walked across the room. As he passed the window the moonlight caught his face, his red complexion appearing pale and ghastly under his thatch of wiry black hair. At the doorway he turned and started searching his pockets.
Matches , Silkie thought. He's looking for matches. He's going to set fire to the place . Frantically she wondered what to do. Then her eye fell on the fish pot--a cast-iron pan that they used to wash the catch. She was always telling the younger ones off for not emptying it, but now she was praying that it was full. Quietly she scampered over to the pot and slid the lid off. It was half full of oily water, and she recoiled from the stench of year-old fish.
"Where are those damn matches?" she heard Johnston growl from below. Silkie put her arms around the pot and heaved it off the ground. Stinking water slopped over her arms and chest and she gasped, her
82
knees buckling under the weight as she heaved it to the trapdoor.
She looked down. Johnston had found the matchbox. He struck a match and as it flared, he held it up to his face, gazing almost lovingly into the flame.
With all her strength, Silkie upended the pot. Johnston looked up just as the torrent of rancid liquid reached him, sweeping the match from his hand, plastering his hair to his head and drenching his clothes in vile, fishy water. Silkie stared down at what she had done. Johnston looked almost comical, his mouth agape, his small eyes blinking out from a thicket of wet hair and slime. She lost her grip on the pot and the heavy iron vessel slipped from her hand. It bounced off the edge of the hatch with a clang, then plummeted down, striking the side of Johnston's head with a sickening thud.
Johnston swayed. An ugly white-lipped gash appeared on his temple and blood started to ooze from it. His head turned very slowly until he was looking directly into Silkie's eyes. He didn't say a word, but he held her gaze. She wanted to look away but couldn't. It made her feel like crying.
Johnston smiled a grim little smile to himself, then turned and left, moving more quietly
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