Read Online The Library of Forgotten Books by Rjurik Davidson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rjurik Davidson
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nasty...and short. Don’t shorten it now.”
“Well, you’re an educated man, Victor. Me, I’m kinda uneducated. But I still know what’s right. I still know you killed my China Doll. And I always thought you were just a crooked cop. But I guess the cops weren’t really your first priority, were they?”
“Well, maybe I killed her and maybe I didn’t.”
“If it wasn’t you it was someone like you: some faceless man; some trained killer.”
“Now you’re sounding like the commies yourself. So, Laurence, you going to come in, or am I going to have to kill you here?”
“You’re going to have to kill me here.”
“Righto.”
A shot goes off and all three of them stand there, as the smoke slowly curls from Victor’s gun. Everything seems silent after the explosive noise of the gunfire.
Faulkner leaps and reaches out as Victor turns the gun in what seems an agonisingly slow movement. Christ, thinks Faulkner, I’m not going to make it. Another shot goes off, but Faulkner lashes out and strikes something. The gun clatters on the ground and Faulkner crashes into Victor and then rolls clumsily on the deck.
By the time he’s up, Victor is already at the gun, bending over. Like a bear, Faulkner stumbles forward and stomps. There’s a crack and Victor groans as he pulls his hand away from the gun which is still under Faulkner’s foot.
Victor lashes out with a fist, but Faulkner, still stumbling out of control, is already past him and the blow glances off his shoulder. He turns and the two of them, both searching for breath, stare momentarily at each other. A coldness has come over Victor’s eyes, now squinting and rat-like.
Above them clouds cover the sun and everything seems grey and cold. Faulkner feels something soft on his face. He touches it and finds it’s wet. It has started, ever so gently, to rain.
I always seem to be in the rain, he thinks, at the precise moment that Victor charges him, his body low, and Faulkner, with the deftest of little moves, an almost inconsequential flick, takes Victor’s hand, twists his own body, and sends Victor flying over the railing and into the sea. Victor’s body hits the water with a crash and the prow pushes past him. An arm is raised in the churning water, and then a half-submerged head, which courses along the side of the boat and is caught up in the churning wheel. The body, like a wet rag, is picked up and suspended by one of the wheel’s great blades, which spins rapidly, the body just a fleck of colour, and strikes the water with a splash. And then there’s silence.
“You’re quite a number yourself,” Faulkner says to himself. Faulkner looks to the sky which is now black and bruised. He turns back to Laurence. There’s no blood to be seen, but Faulkner knows it can’t be good. He steps over and Laurence is coughing and wheezing and his pale complexion seems whiter with the death-sheen that Faulkner recognises.
“Looks like I’m gonna get there before you,” says Laurence and coughs again. “Look after yourself, son. If it makes you feel better, she really liked you.”
Faulkner nods as he looks down. “I wonder why,” he says.
“You know why,” says Laurence but Faulkner can’t stand the discussion and doesn’t reply. A moment later Laurence closes his eyes, his body starts shaking uncontrollably, as if he is having some kind of fit, his breath rattles like a train over a bridge, and then he stops breathing altogether. Above them the heavens open and the rain becomes a torrential downpour of cold, cold water. Laurence’s face is terribly old and lined around the eyes, as if there are canyons on his face.
The clack-clack-clack rolls out over the land as the train, a great mechanical beast, rattles on. In a carriage Faulkner leans back, the bottle of Chinese dream-dust on a white-clothed table before him. He rocks gently with the motion of the train. The rattle reminds him momentarily of something which he pushes from his mind. In
“Well, you’re an educated man, Victor. Me, I’m kinda uneducated. But I still know what’s right. I still know you killed my China Doll. And I always thought you were just a crooked cop. But I guess the cops weren’t really your first priority, were they?”
“Well, maybe I killed her and maybe I didn’t.”
“If it wasn’t you it was someone like you: some faceless man; some trained killer.”
“Now you’re sounding like the commies yourself. So, Laurence, you going to come in, or am I going to have to kill you here?”
“You’re going to have to kill me here.”
“Righto.”
A shot goes off and all three of them stand there, as the smoke slowly curls from Victor’s gun. Everything seems silent after the explosive noise of the gunfire.
Faulkner leaps and reaches out as Victor turns the gun in what seems an agonisingly slow movement. Christ, thinks Faulkner, I’m not going to make it. Another shot goes off, but Faulkner lashes out and strikes something. The gun clatters on the ground and Faulkner crashes into Victor and then rolls clumsily on the deck.
By the time he’s up, Victor is already at the gun, bending over. Like a bear, Faulkner stumbles forward and stomps. There’s a crack and Victor groans as he pulls his hand away from the gun which is still under Faulkner’s foot.
Victor lashes out with a fist, but Faulkner, still stumbling out of control, is already past him and the blow glances off his shoulder. He turns and the two of them, both searching for breath, stare momentarily at each other. A coldness has come over Victor’s eyes, now squinting and rat-like.
Above them clouds cover the sun and everything seems grey and cold. Faulkner feels something soft on his face. He touches it and finds it’s wet. It has started, ever so gently, to rain.
I always seem to be in the rain, he thinks, at the precise moment that Victor charges him, his body low, and Faulkner, with the deftest of little moves, an almost inconsequential flick, takes Victor’s hand, twists his own body, and sends Victor flying over the railing and into the sea. Victor’s body hits the water with a crash and the prow pushes past him. An arm is raised in the churning water, and then a half-submerged head, which courses along the side of the boat and is caught up in the churning wheel. The body, like a wet rag, is picked up and suspended by one of the wheel’s great blades, which spins rapidly, the body just a fleck of colour, and strikes the water with a splash. And then there’s silence.
“You’re quite a number yourself,” Faulkner says to himself. Faulkner looks to the sky which is now black and bruised. He turns back to Laurence. There’s no blood to be seen, but Faulkner knows it can’t be good. He steps over and Laurence is coughing and wheezing and his pale complexion seems whiter with the death-sheen that Faulkner recognises.
“Looks like I’m gonna get there before you,” says Laurence and coughs again. “Look after yourself, son. If it makes you feel better, she really liked you.”
Faulkner nods as he looks down. “I wonder why,” he says.
“You know why,” says Laurence but Faulkner can’t stand the discussion and doesn’t reply. A moment later Laurence closes his eyes, his body starts shaking uncontrollably, as if he is having some kind of fit, his breath rattles like a train over a bridge, and then he stops breathing altogether. Above them the heavens open and the rain becomes a torrential downpour of cold, cold water. Laurence’s face is terribly old and lined around the eyes, as if there are canyons on his face.
The clack-clack-clack rolls out over the land as the train, a great mechanical beast, rattles on. In a carriage Faulkner leans back, the bottle of Chinese dream-dust on a white-clothed table before him. He rocks gently with the motion of the train. The rattle reminds him momentarily of something which he pushes from his mind. In
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