Читать книгу Blackflies Are Murder - Lou Allin - Страница 6

The small room was quiet, a glass prism in the window shooting rainbows onto the simple pine floor. On the wall, a picture of a smiling, round-faced man beamed approval. Below him a cot with a rough grey blanket, a young boy hunched beside it. He was worrying a hole in the arm of his sweater, passing his fingers in and out, unravelling the wool. “Don’t do that,” the voice said, well-modulated, comforting at other times, in other places. “Stand straight. What do I teach you?”

A sniffle, nose swiped with a sleeve. “Never mind. Come closer.” Outside, far away, a bell tolled. “Had we but world enough . . .”

A small sob. Then a shudder, quickly mastered. A straightening of limbs and clothing, and a sigh. Out of a pocket came a flash of silver. “Do you know what this is?”

“A whistle?”

“Clever lad. But a special toy for our new game. When I blow it twice before supper, you are to come here. Immediately.” Steel arrows nailed the boy’s eyes as he backed away. “Do you understand?”

In the palpable silence, the hole grew larger, more ragged, like a scream for help.