Read Online The Library of Forgotten Books by Rjurik Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Rjurik Davidson
Ads: Link
you the information. He wasn’t working for the secret service. He was working for you. He’s the reason that my china...Look, you aren’t gonna look after him. Someone’s gotta help him get out of here.”
Hooks leans back in his chair, looks over to Jake, then back to Faulkner. “I can only guess. But he’s got friends across the bay. There’s a steamer that leaves in the morning.”
Faulkner knows that the man has just told him the truth, but he is already away in his thoughts. The secret service used her to get to her father. But she wouldn’t tell. Of course she wouldn’t. You ever try to get a doll to speak?
Faulkner runs through the entranceway of Flinders St Station, its facade golden in the light. The fifty clocks on its corner face read the times for the next trains, as always, while the large clock beneath them reads four a.m. Giant fruit bats, big as children, circle above in the dark morning and head across the river towards the botanic gardens. He rushes back through the streets of the city, the spire of the Town Hall hovering above him to his right, piercing high into the sky like a knife. Faulkner has only a few hours. Return to their apartment, hidden in Chinatown, like a clue nestled away and surrounded by the turbulence of a city that never sleeps; and then to Port Melbourne, to Laurence, if he’s still alive. He needs that last clue, that final confirmation.
He returns to the alleyway, and the stairs, and there he sees the same policeman standing guard.
Faulkner takes out his dream-dust.
“Hey, you–”
Faulkner starts to climb the rickety stairs.
“Hey, stop. I’ll shoot.”
Faulkner looks at the dream-dust. He thinks for a moment and puts it away, taking hold, beneath his suit, of his pistol. One step at a time, one foot at a time, he climbs.
“I’ll shoot, you mongrel.”
Faulkner is almost there. He chances a look, and five, four, three steps before him the policeman stands, his revolver pointed at Faulkner. Faulkner doesn’t care. Faulkner has only one thing left to live for anyway. Two, One.
“I’ll goddamn–”
Like a snake, Faulkner strikes, his arm just a whir in the darkness. There’s a crack as the butt of the pistol hits the policeman’s head and a thump as the body goes down.
“You should have told me that would have worked before,” says Faulkner. “I wouldn’t have wasted the dust.”
Faulkner slips past the policeman into Lucy’s apartment. Everything is as it was before: the blood on the couch, the glasses on the coffee table, the book face down. The book, he thinks. He steps across to the table. The front of the book shows a sea-creature, rising from the water. Faulkner looks at the Leviathan, thrashing in the water with tentacles waving, as it emerges and fills our view. Life is nasty, brutish, short, he thinks. All the clues have fallen into place. Faulkner knows only one man who would read such a book. The Leviathan has emerged from the sea.
The Port Melbourne docklands are filled with bustling activity. Faulkner jumps from the tram which sits at the end of the line, several others around with suited men, women in floral dresses, climbing aboard or disembarking. On the pier a jazz band plays Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. The sound of it hits Faulkner in the stomach; it reminds him of Lucy. The sun is shining, but heavy clouds are rolling in over the bay. A steamer with huge wheels and towering funnels, painted blue and white, is anchored by the side of the pier. Faulkner runs along the pier, dashing in between the strollers. On the prow of the steamer stands Laurence, staring off into the distance, the wind whipping his wispy hair. There is no sign of the rat, but Faulkner can sense that he’s around.
There is a tremendous sound of a horn, and boatmen unwind the thick ropes that attach the boat to the pier. Faulkner breaks into a sprint. The great wheels start to churn. A boatman steps in front of Faulkner, hand up to indicate for him to stop.
Hooks leans back in his chair, looks over to Jake, then back to Faulkner. “I can only guess. But he’s got friends across the bay. There’s a steamer that leaves in the morning.”
Faulkner knows that the man has just told him the truth, but he is already away in his thoughts. The secret service used her to get to her father. But she wouldn’t tell. Of course she wouldn’t. You ever try to get a doll to speak?
Faulkner runs through the entranceway of Flinders St Station, its facade golden in the light. The fifty clocks on its corner face read the times for the next trains, as always, while the large clock beneath them reads four a.m. Giant fruit bats, big as children, circle above in the dark morning and head across the river towards the botanic gardens. He rushes back through the streets of the city, the spire of the Town Hall hovering above him to his right, piercing high into the sky like a knife. Faulkner has only a few hours. Return to their apartment, hidden in Chinatown, like a clue nestled away and surrounded by the turbulence of a city that never sleeps; and then to Port Melbourne, to Laurence, if he’s still alive. He needs that last clue, that final confirmation.
He returns to the alleyway, and the stairs, and there he sees the same policeman standing guard.
Faulkner takes out his dream-dust.
“Hey, you–”
Faulkner starts to climb the rickety stairs.
“Hey, stop. I’ll shoot.”
Faulkner looks at the dream-dust. He thinks for a moment and puts it away, taking hold, beneath his suit, of his pistol. One step at a time, one foot at a time, he climbs.
“I’ll shoot, you mongrel.”
Faulkner is almost there. He chances a look, and five, four, three steps before him the policeman stands, his revolver pointed at Faulkner. Faulkner doesn’t care. Faulkner has only one thing left to live for anyway. Two, One.
“I’ll goddamn–”
Like a snake, Faulkner strikes, his arm just a whir in the darkness. There’s a crack as the butt of the pistol hits the policeman’s head and a thump as the body goes down.
“You should have told me that would have worked before,” says Faulkner. “I wouldn’t have wasted the dust.”
Faulkner slips past the policeman into Lucy’s apartment. Everything is as it was before: the blood on the couch, the glasses on the coffee table, the book face down. The book, he thinks. He steps across to the table. The front of the book shows a sea-creature, rising from the water. Faulkner looks at the Leviathan, thrashing in the water with tentacles waving, as it emerges and fills our view. Life is nasty, brutish, short, he thinks. All the clues have fallen into place. Faulkner knows only one man who would read such a book. The Leviathan has emerged from the sea.
The Port Melbourne docklands are filled with bustling activity. Faulkner jumps from the tram which sits at the end of the line, several others around with suited men, women in floral dresses, climbing aboard or disembarking. On the pier a jazz band plays Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. The sound of it hits Faulkner in the stomach; it reminds him of Lucy. The sun is shining, but heavy clouds are rolling in over the bay. A steamer with huge wheels and towering funnels, painted blue and white, is anchored by the side of the pier. Faulkner runs along the pier, dashing in between the strollers. On the prow of the steamer stands Laurence, staring off into the distance, the wind whipping his wispy hair. There is no sign of the rat, but Faulkner can sense that he’s around.
There is a tremendous sound of a horn, and boatmen unwind the thick ropes that attach the boat to the pier. Faulkner breaks into a sprint. The great wheels start to churn. A boatman steps in front of Faulkner, hand up to indicate for him to stop.
Similar Books
