The Waiting Time, page 41
The car came from behind him, blasted its horn.
Perkins’s face poked through the open window.
‘If I’d known you’d be here, I’d have bloody wiped you off the road. Never could keep out of business that wasn’t yours, could you, Mantle? Always had to interfere, hadn’t you? You think we wanted her — wanted her paraded in open court? But the little man, little shit-faced man, has to bleed his bloody principles over us. I hope you’re proud. I hope you rot.’
He shouted, ‘I was, I am, it’s precious to me, my own man.’
The window surged up.
She was alone in the back of the car. Afterwards, for ever, he would swear to himself that she smiled at him.
The car pulled away, went fast through the old checkpoint where there was no barrier, no guns, no past that survived, and he watched the car until he could see no longer the copper-gold of her hair above the seat, until she was gone from the mud pool and the rippled water was still.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Gerald Seymour, The Waiting Time
