Read Online Experiment With Destiny by Stephen Carr - Free Book Online Page B

the glass had punctured the skin. The lids of his eyes had partially closed and, to Steven, it seemed the lips had twisted into a final smirk. Pulling the blanket a little further back he could see this victim did not wear a uniform but a dark jacket, a white shirt – expensive cotton weave – and a navy blue tie. Again he activated the camera, storing the image. He reached the third body and lifted away the damp cover. This one was a woman, her eyes fixed straight at him in a look of terror and a thin line of blood congealing down her cheek. Her blazer was torn away, along with the chiffon blouse beneath, to reveal a breast that had been partially sheared from her torso and splinters of ribs puncturing her shredded, bloodied skin. He pressed the button and looked away as he dropped the blanket back into place.
                  He had just drawn back the blanket on the final body to reveal another faceless mess and a uniform he recognised instantly as that of the bus company when he heard a shout.
                  “Hey!” He looked up to see one of the paramedics returning to the back of the ambulance, leading a young boy who clutched a bandage to his bleeding scalp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The tone was a mixture of alarm and fury.
                  “Just wanted to see who they were.” Steven tucked the camera back into his coat pocket. There was no need to photograph the dead bus driver. “I’m a reporter…for the Echo.” He carefully pulled the blanket back over the bloodied stump that was once a head and stepped away from the corpse.
                  “You’re a sick bastard!” snapped the paramedic, urging the boy to climb into the back of the vehicle. “Get the hell away from here!”
    Steven did not need telling twice. Glancing around in a final sweep for clues, he walked briskly back toward his car, five or six vehicles back along the blocked inside lane behind the crumpled bus, exactly where it had skidded to a sudden halt. His relief had been immense when the car pulled up inches short of the bread van in front. A fraction of a second later it had doubled when the lorry behind screeched loudly, its locked tyres fighting the rain-sodden tarmac, but narrowly avoided compacting his boot. He had never yet pranged a Western Mail & Echo pool car but he remembered that the last unfortunate reporter who did had been banned from using company vehicles and forced to make do with feet, bicycles and public transport for three months, even though the crash was later proved to be the other driver’s fault. The days when reporters, and even editors for that matter, owned their own cars were long gone.
                  He pulled open the door. In his haste to find out what had happened he had not bothered to lock it. At least he had the sense to switch off the engine before clambering out to investigate. The batteries in these Micro-Metros were only good for an hour or so before they needed recharging. A quick assessment of the three-lane carriageway told him he would be stuck here for a while yet. The police had only just managed to get the outside lane moving, probably to allow other emergency vehicles access to the scene. The middle lane and his were completely stationary. Steven climbed inside, closing the door against the rain and unclipping his mobile phone.
                  “Newsdesk,” the voice at the other end barked after two short rings.
                  “Jerry?” There was no real need to ask, it was habit. Those sharp distinctive tones always produced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It’s Steve…look, I’m stuck behind an RTA on Western Avenue…serious one…doesn’t look like I’ll be mobile again for…maybe an hour. Any chance you can get someone else out to that student demo?”
                  “Fuck! Shit! Bollocks!” The sinking sensation dropped