Cold Warriors Read Online Free Page A
he had a whole lot of choice. He couldn't go back to the army if the spooks decided they had no more use for him. The cover they'd created for him had seen to that: AWOL squaddies ended up in the Glasshouse in Colchester, not back on the front line.
"If I'm working for you," he said, "what is it you want me to do?"
Giles smiled demurely. "Oh, this and that. But unlike Mr Phillips here, I believe I can supply you with a partner even you can't kill."
A blink of time, and Tomas was back. He was in darkness, but sound had returned, a dull thumping somewhere above him. They were still burying him, then. He must have blacked out temporarily. Panic swelled in his chest, larger than the thing that was trying to contain it.
Don't breathe, don't breathe, you'll use up all the oxygen. It was useless, of course. If he hadn't been gasping so hard he would have been screaming. And the sounds were getting louder.
Louder. That meant nearer, which had to mean they were digging him up, not burying him under. Had something gone wrong with the ceremony? He heard, quite clearly now, the sound of a shovel scraping against the wood of his coffin, and he was suddenly furious.
He'd reached a decision, the hardest one he'd ever made, and they were taking it back from him. He didn't know if he'd have the strength to put himself through this all over again.
He was expecting darkness when they prised off the coffin lid and he winced and shielded his eyes from the sudden, unexpected light. He felt the flap of fabric against his wrist, and there was a pungent smell that wasn't quite unpleasant.
A moment later he squeezed his eyes open. There was something wrong with his shirt. It had been fresh on that morning, but now the cuff looked dark and frayed - almost rotten. When he tore it away in disgust the rip travelled all the way down his arm. The whole thing fell off him in strips of decaying cotton.
He pushed himself to his knees and tried to get to his feet, but his legs had cramped and he stumbled over the lip of the coffin to sprawl on the freshly dug earth. His shoulder shuddered away from the rubbery flesh of a worm as it dived back into the ground.
Finally, he staggered to his feet and looked around. The sun was hot and high overhead, nowhere near the horizon. He frowned, disoriented and not able to make sense of it.
The gravediggers stood in a loose ring around him. He looked at them, but he didn't recognise any of the faces, all of them young men. He understood their expressions, though: shock and revulsion. They backed away when he stepped towards them.
"Shit," one of them said. "I didn't think... shit."
Another one bent over, hands on his knees, and vomited.
Could three days have passed already in that uncounted blink of time? His eyes finally found their focus and he could see that he was exactly where he'd started. The graveyard was tucked behind a long-abandoned church on the Yorkshire Moors. He could see the prickle of heather through the dry stone wall around it and smell the blossom on the warm breeze.
There was a man sitting on the furthest wall, looking out over the moors. Something about the way he held his body was familiar, and Tomas took a step towards him.
The man's head turned, as if he'd been keeping Tomas in the corner of his eye the whole time.
When Tomas saw his face, he felt an instant, wrenching sense of wrongness. He couldn't think why. It was perfectly normal, jowly and a little grooved with age, fringed by thinning brown hair. Only...
"Hello, Tomas," the man said.
Tomas froze. "Giles?"
The man smiled, and Tomas knew that look so well, the slightly supercilious twist to his mouth. "Yes, I thought you recognised me."
Tomas had a hundred memories of Giles: Giles at a desk, researching the operation that Tomas would soon be sent on, eyes smudged with shadows because he'd been working all night. Giles eyeing up Kate's legs when he thought Tomas wasn't looking. Giles stammering over a condolence when the
"If I'm working for you," he said, "what is it you want me to do?"
Giles smiled demurely. "Oh, this and that. But unlike Mr Phillips here, I believe I can supply you with a partner even you can't kill."
A blink of time, and Tomas was back. He was in darkness, but sound had returned, a dull thumping somewhere above him. They were still burying him, then. He must have blacked out temporarily. Panic swelled in his chest, larger than the thing that was trying to contain it.
Don't breathe, don't breathe, you'll use up all the oxygen. It was useless, of course. If he hadn't been gasping so hard he would have been screaming. And the sounds were getting louder.
Louder. That meant nearer, which had to mean they were digging him up, not burying him under. Had something gone wrong with the ceremony? He heard, quite clearly now, the sound of a shovel scraping against the wood of his coffin, and he was suddenly furious.
He'd reached a decision, the hardest one he'd ever made, and they were taking it back from him. He didn't know if he'd have the strength to put himself through this all over again.
He was expecting darkness when they prised off the coffin lid and he winced and shielded his eyes from the sudden, unexpected light. He felt the flap of fabric against his wrist, and there was a pungent smell that wasn't quite unpleasant.
A moment later he squeezed his eyes open. There was something wrong with his shirt. It had been fresh on that morning, but now the cuff looked dark and frayed - almost rotten. When he tore it away in disgust the rip travelled all the way down his arm. The whole thing fell off him in strips of decaying cotton.
He pushed himself to his knees and tried to get to his feet, but his legs had cramped and he stumbled over the lip of the coffin to sprawl on the freshly dug earth. His shoulder shuddered away from the rubbery flesh of a worm as it dived back into the ground.
Finally, he staggered to his feet and looked around. The sun was hot and high overhead, nowhere near the horizon. He frowned, disoriented and not able to make sense of it.
The gravediggers stood in a loose ring around him. He looked at them, but he didn't recognise any of the faces, all of them young men. He understood their expressions, though: shock and revulsion. They backed away when he stepped towards them.
"Shit," one of them said. "I didn't think... shit."
Another one bent over, hands on his knees, and vomited.
Could three days have passed already in that uncounted blink of time? His eyes finally found their focus and he could see that he was exactly where he'd started. The graveyard was tucked behind a long-abandoned church on the Yorkshire Moors. He could see the prickle of heather through the dry stone wall around it and smell the blossom on the warm breeze.
There was a man sitting on the furthest wall, looking out over the moors. Something about the way he held his body was familiar, and Tomas took a step towards him.
The man's head turned, as if he'd been keeping Tomas in the corner of his eye the whole time.
When Tomas saw his face, he felt an instant, wrenching sense of wrongness. He couldn't think why. It was perfectly normal, jowly and a little grooved with age, fringed by thinning brown hair. Only...
"Hello, Tomas," the man said.
Tomas froze. "Giles?"
The man smiled, and Tomas knew that look so well, the slightly supercilious twist to his mouth. "Yes, I thought you recognised me."
Tomas had a hundred memories of Giles: Giles at a desk, researching the operation that Tomas would soon be sent on, eyes smudged with shadows because he'd been working all night. Giles eyeing up Kate's legs when he thought Tomas wasn't looking. Giles stammering over a condolence when the
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