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Back The Trickster Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. The Trickster
  2. Copyright
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Preface to the 20th anniversary edition
  6. Introduction
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. Keep Reading
  70. FURNACE
  71. Acknowledgements
  72. About the Author
  73. ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
  74. About the Publisher

But now there was this. This is what he woke to. The madness of uncertainty, the horror of not knowing and the deeper fear of knowing. This time there had been a silver shard of light in that great blackness. A dream perhaps, in the void. Someone he loved close by. He looked forlornly at the snow avalanching down the glass in front of him and watched as it slid gracefully down to join the wedge that already reached half-way up the wipers.

Loved ones.

Soon, he thought, they will doubt me.

An alien thought, a phrase from nowhere. It snapped his torpor. Sam opened the cab door and stepped out, thigh-deep into the snow, and the air thick with flakes like fortune cookies. He didn’t want to see Daniel any more. He wanted to get away.

The truck was not badly stuck. It appeared to have left the road slowly, as though Sam had taken his foot off the gas, kept his hands on the wheel but ceased to steer. The drift had halted it safely, if inconveniently, in its breast, and it needed digging out.

He fumbled about in the back until he found the shape of the shovel under the whiteness. Sam was thinking like a criminal now. There was still time to get the truck back before Marty missed it, if he could just get the snow shifted, and if, please God, the battery wasn’t flat. He opened the door, the shovel in his other hand, and from outside the cab turned the key. A churning cough. Again. Two churning coughs.

‘Come on. Come on, you bastard.’

Two, three, four coughs and a result. He leaned his head against the door with relief. Yes, a criminal now, without a crime. What was he so desperate to get away from? He hadn’t even left the truck for God’s sake. But he knew the whole scheme had been crazy, and would look crazy to anyone who knew he was here. Nothing he was doing made sense any more. He wanted to get home, erase the night’s lunacy and make a space to think.

He dug frantically as the truck ticked over to itself, chopping a rectangular escape route at the front and clearing miniature runways behind each wheel to reverse out of trouble.

It wasn’t hard. He’d gotten out of worse. In under ten minutes he was snaking his way back down the trail towards town, the snow already filling in and healing the vandalism he’d performed on its perfect undulating coat.