Read Online House of the Hanged by Mark Mills - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Mills
Ads: Link
from prying eyes.
He worked by the light of a lone hurricane lamp. First he took a length of rope and trussed up the bedcover bundle. This he then rolled on to a sheet of heavy-duty tarpaulin and laid an anchor on top of it. For good measure, he headed outside, returning with two large rocks which he also placed on the body. Folding over the tarpaulin, he bound it tightly in place with more rope â round and round, and also lengthways â until the finished product looked like some monumental Italian salami.
It was a struggle, but he managed to carry it in his arms to the rowboat, staggering across the sand and dropping it into the bottom of the boat. He kicked off his shoes, rolled up his trousers, and hauled the rowboat towards the water.
The Albatross was the obvious choice but he decided against it, not wishing to curse the sloop by bringing a corpse aboard. This consideration came at a hefty price. He almost capsized his dinghy while trying to haul the package aboard, receiving a crack on the head from the boom for good measure, which almost blacked him out.
He short-tacked into the warm breeze blowing in from the southwest, relaxing a little as he cleared the bay. The sail still gleamed unnaturally white in the moonlight and the dinghy only made sluggish headway, but he was in open water now, the seabed dropping sharply away below the boat. He knew that it plunged to eight hundred metres or more in the channel between the coast and the islands, six or so nautical miles off, but he would have to content himself with maybe half that if he didnât want to run into the fishing fleet. He could see their lights sparkling on the horizon like a swarm of fireflies.
When he was ready he lowered the mainsail, removed the tiller and the rudder then heaved the body up on to the transom. After his close call back in the cove, he knew that if he put it over the side the weight of it might cause the Scylla to heel over and capsize.
He eased the package off the aft. It didnât sink at first, buoyed up by the pockets of air inside the tightly bound tarpaulin. However, these slowly filled with seawater and it finally dipped beneath the waves. Convention dictated that he mark the moment with some words, a token tribute, but he struggled to find the will. The Italian had gambled and lost. If he didnât know the rules of the game he should never have taken to the field of play.
Raising the mainsail, Tom set a course for home.
Sleep was out of the question. His body was weary, aching, clamouring for rest, but his brain danced wildly in open rebellion. He wound up the gramophone and found himself reaching for the Goldberg Variations. The rigid, almost mathematical, structure of Bachâs masterpiece might help lend some order to his thoughts.
It didnât. He knew the piece so well that every cadence ran ahead of the needle in his mind, and he sat hunched at the table on the terrace in stunned immobility. The coffee he had made for himself was cold by the time he even looked at the key in his hand.
It was a hotel key, and the oval metal fob was engraved with a room number: 312. The name of the hotel wasnât marked. It didnât need to be; heâd placed enough surplus guests at the Hôtel de la Réserve over the years to recognize the fob. The hotel was a grand affair that towered over the narrow beach. When alone in Le Rayol, which was most of the time, he would often wander down there of an evening for a cocktail and a bite to eat. He was known to most of the staff, and he could even count Olivier, the manager, as a friend. He certainly shouldnât have any difficulty gaining access to Room 312. He was in possession of the key, and his presence in the hotel was unlikely to arouse too much suspicion.
This wasnât what bothered him, though, and it was a while before he isolated just what it was that jarred at the back of his thoughts.
The man, the Italian sent to kill him, had known exactly
He worked by the light of a lone hurricane lamp. First he took a length of rope and trussed up the bedcover bundle. This he then rolled on to a sheet of heavy-duty tarpaulin and laid an anchor on top of it. For good measure, he headed outside, returning with two large rocks which he also placed on the body. Folding over the tarpaulin, he bound it tightly in place with more rope â round and round, and also lengthways â until the finished product looked like some monumental Italian salami.
It was a struggle, but he managed to carry it in his arms to the rowboat, staggering across the sand and dropping it into the bottom of the boat. He kicked off his shoes, rolled up his trousers, and hauled the rowboat towards the water.
The Albatross was the obvious choice but he decided against it, not wishing to curse the sloop by bringing a corpse aboard. This consideration came at a hefty price. He almost capsized his dinghy while trying to haul the package aboard, receiving a crack on the head from the boom for good measure, which almost blacked him out.
He short-tacked into the warm breeze blowing in from the southwest, relaxing a little as he cleared the bay. The sail still gleamed unnaturally white in the moonlight and the dinghy only made sluggish headway, but he was in open water now, the seabed dropping sharply away below the boat. He knew that it plunged to eight hundred metres or more in the channel between the coast and the islands, six or so nautical miles off, but he would have to content himself with maybe half that if he didnât want to run into the fishing fleet. He could see their lights sparkling on the horizon like a swarm of fireflies.
When he was ready he lowered the mainsail, removed the tiller and the rudder then heaved the body up on to the transom. After his close call back in the cove, he knew that if he put it over the side the weight of it might cause the Scylla to heel over and capsize.
He eased the package off the aft. It didnât sink at first, buoyed up by the pockets of air inside the tightly bound tarpaulin. However, these slowly filled with seawater and it finally dipped beneath the waves. Convention dictated that he mark the moment with some words, a token tribute, but he struggled to find the will. The Italian had gambled and lost. If he didnât know the rules of the game he should never have taken to the field of play.
Raising the mainsail, Tom set a course for home.
Sleep was out of the question. His body was weary, aching, clamouring for rest, but his brain danced wildly in open rebellion. He wound up the gramophone and found himself reaching for the Goldberg Variations. The rigid, almost mathematical, structure of Bachâs masterpiece might help lend some order to his thoughts.
It didnât. He knew the piece so well that every cadence ran ahead of the needle in his mind, and he sat hunched at the table on the terrace in stunned immobility. The coffee he had made for himself was cold by the time he even looked at the key in his hand.
It was a hotel key, and the oval metal fob was engraved with a room number: 312. The name of the hotel wasnât marked. It didnât need to be; heâd placed enough surplus guests at the Hôtel de la Réserve over the years to recognize the fob. The hotel was a grand affair that towered over the narrow beach. When alone in Le Rayol, which was most of the time, he would often wander down there of an evening for a cocktail and a bite to eat. He was known to most of the staff, and he could even count Olivier, the manager, as a friend. He certainly shouldnât have any difficulty gaining access to Room 312. He was in possession of the key, and his presence in the hotel was unlikely to arouse too much suspicion.
This wasnât what bothered him, though, and it was a while before he isolated just what it was that jarred at the back of his thoughts.
The man, the Italian sent to kill him, had known exactly
Similar Books
