Read Online Road of the Dead by Kevin Brooks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin Brooks
Tags: Fiction
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revealing large patches of dull gray granite underneath, and the windows were thick with dust. The sign over the door showed a faded picture of the bridge we’d just come across. THE BRIDGE HOTEL , it said, FINE WINES & BEERS , FAMILY DINING , ACCOMMODATION AVAILABLE . A blackboard in the window advertised LIVE FOOTBALL !!, and a sign on the door said NO TRAVELERS .
“Looks nice,” I said.
Cole grunted.
The streetlights were on now, but there wasn’t much to see. The village was deserted. The streets and the pavements were empty. A lot of the houses had boarded-up windows and doors, and the only shop we’d seen so far was a closed-down newsagent’s with a whitewashed window.
“You ready?” Cole asked me.
I looked at him. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“We need somewhere to stay,” he said simply.
“I know, but have you seen what’s over there?”
He glanced over at the Toyota pickup and the two motorbikes parked in front of the hotel.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“What about that?” I said, nodding at the NO TRAVELERS sign on the door.
Cole just shrugged. “What about it?”
I looked at him.
“We’re not Travelers, are we?” he said. “We’re halfbreeds. It doesn’t say anything about half-breeds, does it?”
“No,” I agreed.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Nothing…nothing at all.”
“Good—let’s get going, then.”
The main door of the hotel led us through into the stagnant air of a dimly lit corridor. A door on our right went through to the bar, and a pair of double doors on the left opened up to a dining room—or what used to be a dining room. There were still a few tables dotted around, and one or two dusty chairs, but apart from that, the room was as empty as everything else around here—the cigarette machine behind the door, the reception desk at the end of the corridor, the leaflet rack on the wall. All empty. Even the noise from the bar next door sounded empty—the loud voices, the chinking glasses, the drunken laughter. It was a noise filled with nothing, and I didn’t like the sound of it at all. But when Cole opened the door and we both walked in, and everything suddenly went quiet, I liked that even less.
It was a narrow rectangular room with a high whiteceiling and a grimy red carpet. A long wooden bar spanned the length of the wall to our left, and the rest of the room was taken up with a dozen or so tables and chairs. Sky Sports flickered on a widescreen TV fixed high on the wall at the back. The bar was packed, and most of the tables were full. There was no emptiness in here. Just a room full of staring faces, all of them staring at us. Old men, young men, old-looking young women—there were all sorts. All different, but all the same—sour and dead and unwelcoming.
I scanned the faces and spotted Red Suit almost immediately. He was sitting at a window table with a couple of hoods in tight T-shirts and an older man with amber eyes and a Quaker’s beard. Red was smiling at us. The bearded man looked as if he’d never cracked a smile in his life.
All in all, it was a pretty scary situation. The only good thing about it was the presence of a uniformed policeman sitting at the end of the bar. He didn’t look like much of a policeman—his face was flushed, his eyes were glassy, he was smoking a cigarette and guzzling beer—but I guessed he was better than nothing.
I’d soon find out I was wrong.
The staring faces didn’t bother Cole. He just stood there for a moment or two, casually looking around, then he unbuttoned his jacket and started moving across to the bar. I followed closely behind him. There wasn’t a lot of room at the bar, and the people standing there didn’t makeany effort to get out of our way, but Cole somehow managed to find his way through without having to push too hard. He even said “Excuse me” once. Behind the bar, a man in a white shirt was leaning against the till, drinking whiskey and smoking a
“Looks nice,” I said.
Cole grunted.
The streetlights were on now, but there wasn’t much to see. The village was deserted. The streets and the pavements were empty. A lot of the houses had boarded-up windows and doors, and the only shop we’d seen so far was a closed-down newsagent’s with a whitewashed window.
“You ready?” Cole asked me.
I looked at him. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“We need somewhere to stay,” he said simply.
“I know, but have you seen what’s over there?”
He glanced over at the Toyota pickup and the two motorbikes parked in front of the hotel.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“What about that?” I said, nodding at the NO TRAVELERS sign on the door.
Cole just shrugged. “What about it?”
I looked at him.
“We’re not Travelers, are we?” he said. “We’re halfbreeds. It doesn’t say anything about half-breeds, does it?”
“No,” I agreed.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Nothing…nothing at all.”
“Good—let’s get going, then.”
The main door of the hotel led us through into the stagnant air of a dimly lit corridor. A door on our right went through to the bar, and a pair of double doors on the left opened up to a dining room—or what used to be a dining room. There were still a few tables dotted around, and one or two dusty chairs, but apart from that, the room was as empty as everything else around here—the cigarette machine behind the door, the reception desk at the end of the corridor, the leaflet rack on the wall. All empty. Even the noise from the bar next door sounded empty—the loud voices, the chinking glasses, the drunken laughter. It was a noise filled with nothing, and I didn’t like the sound of it at all. But when Cole opened the door and we both walked in, and everything suddenly went quiet, I liked that even less.
It was a narrow rectangular room with a high whiteceiling and a grimy red carpet. A long wooden bar spanned the length of the wall to our left, and the rest of the room was taken up with a dozen or so tables and chairs. Sky Sports flickered on a widescreen TV fixed high on the wall at the back. The bar was packed, and most of the tables were full. There was no emptiness in here. Just a room full of staring faces, all of them staring at us. Old men, young men, old-looking young women—there were all sorts. All different, but all the same—sour and dead and unwelcoming.
I scanned the faces and spotted Red Suit almost immediately. He was sitting at a window table with a couple of hoods in tight T-shirts and an older man with amber eyes and a Quaker’s beard. Red was smiling at us. The bearded man looked as if he’d never cracked a smile in his life.
All in all, it was a pretty scary situation. The only good thing about it was the presence of a uniformed policeman sitting at the end of the bar. He didn’t look like much of a policeman—his face was flushed, his eyes were glassy, he was smoking a cigarette and guzzling beer—but I guessed he was better than nothing.
I’d soon find out I was wrong.
The staring faces didn’t bother Cole. He just stood there for a moment or two, casually looking around, then he unbuttoned his jacket and started moving across to the bar. I followed closely behind him. There wasn’t a lot of room at the bar, and the people standing there didn’t makeany effort to get out of our way, but Cole somehow managed to find his way through without having to push too hard. He even said “Excuse me” once. Behind the bar, a man in a white shirt was leaning against the till, drinking whiskey and smoking a
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