BooksBarbecue
Back The Man With No Face
Chapters (45)
  1. The Man With No Face
  2. Also by
  3. Title
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. INTRODUCTION
  9. CHAPTER ONE
  10. CHAPTER TWO
  11. CHAPTER THREE
  12. CHAPTER FOUR
  13. CHAPTER FIVE
  14. CHAPTER SIX
  15. CHAPTER SEVEN
  16. CHAPTER EIGHT
  17. CHAPTER NINE
  18. CHAPTER TEN
  19. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  20. CHAPTER TWELVE
  21. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  22. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  23. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  24. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  25. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  26. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  27. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  36. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  37. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Perhaps because the hours of darkness are the hours of fear and danger, or maybe because of something he heard, or the slightest movement registered in the half-light, he stopped on the threshold. It might even have been some intrinsic sixth-sense warning of another presence that triggered the reflex action that raised his crooked arm to take the full brunt of a blow that would surely have cracked his skull. The pain spiked up his arm to his shoulder and his knees buckled. He staggered into darkness, falling, tangling with the legs of his unseen attacker. The other man lost his balance and toppled on to Bannerman’s back, grunting as he fell. A foot caught Bannerman’s throat. Bannerman choked back vomit and felt fire in his head and chest. His right arm and hand had gone numb already.

The other man was struggling to disentangle himself from Bannerman’s legs. Then he was up and running, heavy steps beating their retreat down the length of the corridor towards the lifts. But Bannerman had no interest in pursuing him. He rolled over and spat blood and saliva on to the floor. His head cleared a little, but his throat hurt like hell. He pulled himself up to his feet with the help of the edge of a desk, and took several unsteady steps to the light switch.

The glare filled his head with fire and he pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. His mouth tasted of blood and sick. ‘Shit,’ he whispered softly to himself. This was getting to be a bad habit. You’re going to have to take more care, son, he told himself.

He let his head drop between his knees for several minutes while he breathed deeply. Then he sat upright and saw a narrow-necked water jug and glass on Mademoiselle Ricain’s desk. He reached over and filled the glass left-handed. He rolled the first swig around his mouth and gargled in his throat before spitting it out on the carpet. Then he took a long draught and felt the smooth cold water track all the way down to his stomach. He turned his attention to his right arm. It was the fleshy bit of the forearm that had taken the blow. He slipped his jacket off and rolled up his sleeve. Already the arm was swollen and bruised. But nothing broken. His fingers seemed to have locked, and his arm was bent at the elbow and hurt badly when he tried to straighten it. Must have got a nerve, he thought.