Blood on the Water by Anne Perry

Author:Anne Perry [Perry, Anne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
ISBN: 978-0-345-54844-3
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2014-09-08T16:00:00+00:00

THE SKY WAS DARK when Monk left the prison and made his way to the ferry, even though it was July.

The ferryman was gray-haired and lean-faced. His powerful arms were built up by years at the oar. They spoke to each other casually, agreeable tones that meant nothing except that they had both worked a long day and were pleased to see the end of it.

The shadows stretched across the water and there was a hard edge to the wind. The warmth had gone and the ripples on the incoming tide were deeper, one or two with white edges.

There were other craft out, ferries from one bank to the other, strings of barges making the last trip on the incoming tide, a trifle late. No pleasure boats anymore, as it was too late in the day.

There was no sound but the rhythmic creak of the oars in the rowlocks and the hiss and splash of the water. Monk found himself lulled by it, his attention wandering. Giles Witherspoon had given him more information than he expected. Perhaps that was what he ought to be pursuing, instead of trying to pick up the pieces of Lydiate’s investigation. Whoever was responsible, apart from Beshara, had probably long since left the Thames, even left England. Monk’s continuing investigation of the case was not going to bring justice or peace, only more fear, more doubt and blame, more anger.

Out of nowhere another boat appeared and struck them hard. The weight of the bow and the impetus behind it drove the boat right through the ferry’s hull. Within seconds Monk was floundering in the water. It was ice-cold and filthy, soaking his clothes until they imprisoned him like ropes, stopping him from trying to swim. The waves were high and rough, closing over his face again and again.

He fought, lashing out for a moment blindly, panicking. He shot upward, feeling that he was torn apart by the current dragging at his legs. Something was grasping him from below while he fought for the air. He gulped, the water washed over his head, the sound of the water deafening him. Where was the ferryman? Was he unconscious somewhere in these churning, suffocating waves?

He tried to swim, to stay afloat, anything so he could breathe. One moment he gulped air, the next a length of wood struck him in the side so hard he almost lost consciousness with the pain. He could think of nothing else. The surface receded from him and he was dragged under the river, going down, blinded, deafened, his lungs bursting. Now he knew what it was like to drown, to be sucked into the belly of the tide and swallowed, knowing what was happening and helpless to stop it.

He must compose himself. Up! He must go up toward the light, the air—life! He kicked out with all his strength, thrashing his arms and legs. It seemed like forever before he broke the surface again, gasping hard. The water sloshed over his face, waves too high, buffeting him, washing him one way then the other.

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