The Ritual by Adam Nevill

Author:Adam Nevill
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781429950664
Publisher: St Martins Griffin
Published: 2012-01-14T08:00:00+00:00

FORTY-TWO

Silty light seeped through his half-closed eyelids and worsened the pain. Relentless in its encasement of his entire skull the agony made him feel sick, and bewildered, and unsure of where he was. His head and face and neck were wet and cold, dripping.

The shape of his head felt too big, ungainly and misshapen. Something wet hung over one eye and restricted the light.

A rucksack had been slipped like a pillow beneath his head. The angle hurt his neck. He raised himself to one elbow and squinted. Empty of anything but gas, his stomach lurched.

The awning of the tent flapped like a sail in a swift wind. He could see it through one squinting eye. Two sleeping bags covered his body. The little stove was hissing a blue flame under the steel pan not far from his feet. He reached up and gingerly touched the part of his forehead where the pain started its thunder, before it rolled backwards. Something soft and loose was arranged about his head, squashing his ears flat, and tied tighter at the back. He swallowed at a dry and swollen throat. Water. He was desperate for it. He coughed. ‘Dom.’

He heard the sound of rocks grinding together under someone’s weight. The clack of a stick followed, accompanied by a gasp of exertion. He turned towards the sound, then closed his eyes as the pain threw itself against one side of his head and nearly made him throw up. Skull fracture. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Suddenly dizzy, he slipped back down to his former position, resting against the rucksack.

‘Mate. Thank fuck. You’re awake. Wasn’t sure if you were in a coma,’ Dom said, close enough for Luke to smell his harsh breath and the pungent oily smell of his dirty clothes.

‘Any water left?’

‘Last of it is in the pan. I used most of it on your head. I had to wash it before I put the bandage on. Coffee and chocolate for breakfast.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘Eleven.’

‘No.’

‘You’ve been out cold. It’s made a mess of your face. You need stitches.’

‘Is it bad?’ he muttered, and felt stupid. How would Dom know?

‘Good news is it didn’t come back after you hit it. What did you do, get it with a knife? Jesus, that sound. You hurt it. You must have hurt it.’

Luke squinted through the one eye it was easiest to open. ‘Threw a rock.’

‘Rock?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Shot.’

Luke tried to smile, but that made him nauseous too. ‘How bad is it? My head. Don’t B.S. me.’

Dom paused and looked at his boots, then winced as he returned his gaze to Luke. ‘I’ve never seen so much blood. But that can be misleading. Doesn’t mean it’s serious or anything. There’s more blood in the head than anywhere else in the body. I think. Which is why head injuries look worse.’

‘Shit.’ Head injury – the phrase made him tingle, then wash cold all over. It could be really bad: a fractured skull, or a concussion, which would explain the nausea. Maybe

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