Bridge of Doom Read Free Page A

didn't see you lying there on the pavement. I tripped, because I was in the middle of paying off my taxi and sending a text to my girlfriend at the same time. Well she's not really my girlfriend, but you know …'
    Suddenly Fazzo had a rare moment of clarity and he forced himself up into a sitting position and tried to get his eyes focussed on his tormentor. Oh right, so this must be the guy who's to blame for the shitty way his evening had turned out. It didn't seem possible, but this skinny, geeky-looking wee bastard had somehow managed to snag a burd, then he'd taken her home and probably gave her a right good pumpin’ as well. And then, f uckin' unbelievable man, he'd somehow managed to get hold of a taxi . How the fuck did he manage to do all that? As his eyes re-focussed, Fazzo homed in on the new iPhone 6 held in Jamie's right hand.
    As his addled brain summed up his current plight, Fazzo worked himself up into a lather of righteous anger. So this smart bastard has the phone, the taxi, the stupid superior grin, the dry trousers and the burd. And me? Ave got nuthin'. He's got fuckin’ everythin' and, despite that, the scumbag still tried to give me a good kickin' while I was lying defenceless on the pavement, havin' a wee sleep and no botherin' anybody. Well we'll fuckin’ see about that .’
    Maybe tonight wouldn't be a complete write-off after all, Fazzo concluded. And as he struggled unsteadily to his feet, aided by his tormentor, a familiar red mist was descending.

Chapter 3
     
    Jack Davidson sat up in bed with a start, suddenly awake and trembling with fear. There's never a good time to be gasping for breath, soaked in sweat and shaking uncontrollably like a chronic malaria sufferer. But three o'clock in the morning is the worst time. It's not late enough to have had the benefit of a decent night's sleep and it's still way too early to get up and try to begin the new day. 
    He had the same nightmare every night, at exactly the same time. He was instantly transported back six weeks in time, to a deadly confrontation with the psychopath Thomas Burke. Recently released from prison, Burke was hell bent on revenge against Jack, for committing perjury against him in court. 
    Night sweats and terrors are frequently extreme versions of actual events, which are then distorted by the subconscious mind. However, Jack's recurring nightmare and the accompanying daytime flashbacks did not require any further dramatization or embellishment. They were one hundred per cent, hi-def faithful to the way his terrifying brush with death had actually unfolded. 
    He found that listening to music usually helped to calm him down. So he reached out to the bedside table, slipped headphones on and pressed the play button on his iPod. However, his demons would not be assuaged and half an hour later his pulse was still racing as he stared up at the bedroom ceiling. 
    He hurled the iPod across the bedroom in frustration, lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Concentrating hard he eventually regained control of his breathing, but Jack knew that further sleep would be impossible. He got up and went into the bathroom, poured a glass of cold water and gulped down a double dose of the anti-anxiety medication which had been prescribed by his doctor.
    Sighing in resignation, he pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, before slumping on his sofa and reaching for the television remote control. He felt really guilty about leaving Annie to man the JD Investigations office on her own, but he knew that as soon as he tried to focus on anything to do with work the flashbacks would begin again. He was unable to get a decent night's sleep and, apparently, incapable of rational thought when awake. Definitely not a good combo, Jack. 
    Right then, back to more mind-numbing re-runs of the Jeremy Kyle show. But sometimes mind-numbing is good.

Chapter 4
     
    A couple of miles from the corner where he'd collapsed on the pavement,