In a Dry Season Read Free Page A

blue of the sky, young as he was, he knew there was nothing he could do to avoid whatever fate had in store for him; whichever way it went, he could only go with it.
    This must be the Seventh Level , he thought as he held his breath, waiting for the impact, waiting to feel his bones breaking, grinding against one another.
    One slab fell to his left, embedded itself in the mud and tilted against the wall like an old gravestone. The other fellto his right and cracked in two against one of the floor flags. One half tipped towards him, just grazing his upper arm, which was sticking out of the mud, and raising a few drops of blood.
    Adam took a deep breath and looked up through the roof at the sky. No more slabs. So he had been spared; he was alive. He felt light-headed. There was nothing seriously damaged, he thought, as he started to move his limbs slowly. His left wrist hurt a lot, and it would probably come up in one hell of a bruise, but it didn’t feel broken. His right arm was still thrust deep in the mud, and the slab chafed against his grazed elbow. He tried to wiggle his fingers under the mud to find out if he could still feel them, and they brushed against something hard.
    It felt like a cluster of smooth, hard spindles, or a bundle of short rods. Curious, he pushed his arm in deeper and grasped it tightly, the way he used to hold his mother’s hand in town when he was very small and frightened of all the crowds; then he leaned his weight back over to the left, gritting his teeth as the pain seared through his injured wrist, and tugged.
    Inch by inch, he dragged his arm free, keeping a firm grasp on his prize. The mud made sucking, slurping sounds as he pulled. Finally, he was able to free the object he was holding. He rested it against the slab and edged back towards the far wall to study it.
    The thing lay against the flagstone in the dim light, fingers hooked over the top, as if it were trying to pull itself out of the grave. It was the skeleton of a hand, the bones crusted with moist, dark earth.

    Banks stepped back to survey his handiwork, whistling along with the habanera from Carmen , which was playing loudly on the stereo: Maria Callas, past her best, but still in fine voice.
    Not bad for an amateur, he thought, dropping the paintbrush in a bowl of turpentine, and a definite improvement over the mildewed wallpaper he had stripped from the walls of his new home yesterday.
    He particularly liked the colour. The man at the DIY centre in Eastvale said it was calming, and after the year Banks had just suffered through, he needed all the calming he could get. The shade of blue he had chosen was supposed to resemble that of Oriental tapestries, but once it was on the wall it reminded Banks more of the Greek island of Santorini, which he and his estranged wife, Sandra, had visited during their last holiday together. He hadn’t bargained for that memory, but he thought he could live with it.
    Pleased with himself, Banks pulled a packet of Silk Cut from his top pocket. First, he counted the contents. Only three gone since morning. Good. He was trying to restrict himself to ten a day or less, and he was doing well so far. He walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle for a cup of tea.
    The telephone rang. Banks turned off the stereo and picked up the receiver.
    â€œDad?”
    â€œBrian, is that you? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”
    â€œYeah, well . . . we’ve been on the road. I didn’t thinkyou’d be in. Why aren’t you at work?”
    â€œIf you didn’t expect me to be in, why did you call?” Silence.
    â€œBrian? Where are you? Is anything wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong. I’m staying at Andrew’s flat.” “Where?”
    â€œWimbledon. Look, Dad . . . ”
    â€œIsn’t it about time your exam results were out?” More silence. Christ, Banks thought, getting more than a few words in a row out of Brian was as tough