The Russian Renaissance by Ian Kharitonov

Author:Ian Kharitonov
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Thriller
Published: 2013-11-10T06:00:00+00:00

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

As the bad memories stopped so did Clare. Serenity flowed over her like a cool ocean, drawing her bad thoughts away with each receding wave. She could hear sirens. That was nothing unusual, Leamington was a large town but she knew these sirens were heading her way. She had to move quickly. She couldn’t throw Oz’s body parts into the canal now. The police might search it for weapons, such as her knife. Mailing the parts to his mum had been a stupid idea at the time but now didn’t seem so bad.

She pushed the trolley as fast as she could without drawing attention. The Post Office it was then. She’d have to mail him off then disappear.

*

Brush knew he had to take control of Clare’s body once more. If he remained a mere observer she was going to do something incredibly stupid; something which could destroy herself, Brush and Gramps. The question asked itself once more: why should he care? The answer was because it was now his job to care; that for once in his existence it was in his hands to help someone – other than his own self; to do something good. Isn’t that what The Author wanted?

“Gramps, I feel ready to take over now.”

“I'm not sure if that's possible. Besides, the spoon bender’s probably still on board and if we interfere he’s going to guess it’s us. He won’t be happy at your spoiling his fun.”

“Gramps, I'm losing patience. I can't sit here and do nothing and anyway, what have we got to lose? He can’t harm the dead, only the living. If we can stop his fun, he’ll move on.”

“Yes,” said Gramps, “but move on to where? And who’s it going to be next - the Prime Minister? Or someone who could initiate a jihad or set off a nuclear war?”

Brush hadn’t realised what Dalfo could be capable of. Gramps was right and Brush hoped Dalfo also hadn't realised what he was capable of himself – yet. “The Author’s set me a task. If we leave Dalfo here we know where he is but once he’s finished with Clare he’s going to move on anyway. In my opinion the worst we can do is to do nothing.”

Even as he said the words Brush found his mind melding once more with Clare’s. He remained motionless a moment or two as he became accustomed once more to the sensations of the corporeal. The acrid, choking fumes of traffic caused him to gag; he stomach ached for food; and the alcohol Clare had imbibed made him muggy and nauseous. He'd only just arrived yet already he wanted to sleep – to lie down and let it all go away. Some of these feelings were Clare’s, he knew. She felt so alone, alone and helpless.

“You're not alone now,” said Brush-Clare.

The trolley was heavier than Brush had expected and he wondered what he was supposed to do with it as he pushed. Brush-Clare looked over his shoulder.

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