Silencing the Dead by Will Harker (ready to read books .TXT) 📗

There was no sign of the doc just yet, however, and it was already after seven. No sign of Darrel Everwood either. After spending most of the day in bed, I’d finally hauled my carcass into a pair of faded blue jeans and a black polo neck only an hour before opening time. It was then that I realised I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Usually, Haz could be relied on to ply me with a wholesome meal at regular intervals, and it felt pathetically ridiculous that I was already slipping back into old neglectful routines. Anyway, a hotdog from Layla Jafford’s truck took the edge off my hunger.

I glanced again at my phone. Nothing. On Sal’s advice, I’d resisted sending any more texts.

“He’ll come round in his own time,” Sal had said as we set up the carousel. “But if you push him now, then he might just stay away for good.”

I looked up. “Sounds like you know more than you’re telling.”

“I swear, I don’t,” she promised. “But I’ve got to know Harry these past few months. Whatever you’ve done or not done, he’s hurting right now, and he doesn’t need you and your questions poking away at him. When he comes back, just be patient and listen. You’re a good listener, most of the time.”

All showpeople are detectives at heart—observation combined with a deep knowledge of human nature is how they ply their trade—and so it didn’t surprise me that, without Sal uttering a word, the news got around. I guess it was kind, how many of them came over and asked how I was doing. Big Sam even looked like he was going to burst into tears. Most surprising of all was my dad’s reaction when I ran into him five minutes before opening.

“You heard from the joskin?” That word for a non-Traveller spoken more gently than I’d ever heard it. When I shook my head, he sighed. “Your mother and I used to have a lot of rows, if you remember. She’d disappear for a few days and then come back, right as rain. Or right as she ever was. We’re a hard breed to rub along with, us Jerichos, but that boy’s a good ’un. Don’t lose him if you can help it.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I murmured.

“Anyhow,” he went on. “I’ve got a chap minding your ride tonight—” When I tried to protest, he cut me short. “I’ll pay his wages. I want you patrolling.”

“Is this to do with Aunt Tilda?” I asked.

“No. I have a man watching out for her. But you saw that uppity gorger Gillespie on the box last night? Well, I don’t want him bringing his circus onto my ground. I know you’re leery about us working with these telly people, but we need this event to be a success. Winter’s coming on, and if we don’t take some posh over the next few days, we’ll feel it soon enough.”

Despite Dad’s reassurances, I kept a special lookout on Tilda’s tent during my patrol. The chap was always at his post, sizing up each punter as they passed through. Once I caught sight of the old mystic herself, poking her head out of the flap.

“Heard about the pretty joskin,” she croaked at me. “Never you mind. I read your cards special this afternoon: after dealing the Tower—upheaval, broken pride, disaster—came the Star and the Lovers combined—faith, hope, and rejuvenation. All will be well, my darlin’.”

I thanked her and moved on.

About half an hour later, I ran into the preacher. I found him by Tommy Radlett’s ghost train, handing out his pamphlets to a group of bewildered-looking teenagers. He was just as my dad had described him—a gangly figure with a bad haircut, dressed in a raggedy charity shop suit. His face was almost emaciated and those broken Cartier glasses kept sliding down his long nose, making me wonder if they’d once fitted a larger, more well-nourished head.

“That’ll do,” I said to him, taking the pamphlets from the teens and handing them back. “On your way now.”

The kids appeared to think I meant them and scuttled off gratefully. Meanwhile, the preacher nodded over his pages before looking up at me with a sort of ingratiating intensity.

“‘Everyone who hears these words of Mine and does not act on them, will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand.’” He closed his bulging eyes, his smile becoming almost orgasmic. “So said the Lord, our God.”

“And what are your words, Mr…?”

“Pastor.” He inclined his head. “Christopher Cloade. And may I have your name, brother?”

“Scott Jericho. Are you willing to shake hands with a filthy sinner, Christopher?”

He juggled his pamphlets and gripped my hand with surprising force, especially for a man who looked like the breeze might take him at any moment.

“Jericho like the biblical city, whose great walls fell at the trumpet blast.” He glanced around himself, at the hoopla and hook-a-duck stalls, at the welcoming faces of the Travellers. “If you stand with the heathens of your race, Scott Jericho, you too shall fall.”

“Right.” I sighed, taking one of his tracts and flicking through the pages. “So you’ve got a hard-on for that Old Testament bully boy, have you? That blood-soaked maniac who insisted that, once the walls fell, every Canaanite in Jericho must be slaughtered—man, woman, and child. I know my Bible too, you see? And before you say it, yes, the devil can quote scripture. I’ve seen it done, more than once. In a former life, I was a detective and you’d be surprised how many holy monsters I put behind bars. Or…” I glanced down at the title page—The Church of Christ the Redeemer: REPENT BEFORE ME AND SEEK SALVATION. “Perhaps you wouldn’t.”

“We are all monsters,” he replied evenly. “And the worst of us can be saved.”

“Even the ones I’ve seen?” I asked. “The killers, the torturers, the child molesters.”

He lifted rapturous eyes to the heavens. “Should they ask His mercy, they will be the