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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

His eyes were boring through her skull. She looked away, pretending to study the blackboard for tomorrow’s ski class rota. ‘Okay Moses, why don’t you come see me tomorrow at eight thirty and we’ll fix something up. Can’t promise ski patrol, but I’ll be honest and tell you we can use some extra help right now. Things are going to get real busy when the snow reports hit the cities.’

Moses stuck his hand out again and she took it without thinking. This time he held on to it a little longer than she would have liked.

‘Well that’s just great, Miss Weaver. I look forward to that.’

She withdrew her hand as the door threw open to admit five laughing instructors clopping in like carthorses.

‘Robbed the public blind today I hope guys?’ she said in a tone higher than she had planned.

‘Yo, you bet,’ laughed the biggest and brownest of the pack, unzipping his suit with a baroque flourish.

Pasqual smiled once at them, once at Moses, and left.

The tall pale man watched the flimsy wooden door close behind Pasqual and then glanced across at the five faces eyeballing him.

‘Hi,’ he smiled.

Only one nodded back.

Moses Sitconski put his hands back into his pockets without dissolving his smile, then followed Pasqual out into the night.

8

The ploughs went past with the invincibility of a fleet of Newfoundland trawlers putting to sea; lights flashing, funnels blowing out plumes of snow, their metal bows pushing back the ocean of white in huge, semi-solid waves.

Snaking behind these yellow leviathans was a line of nineteen cars, two trucks and a bus, and right in the middle Sam Hunt sat behind the wheel of the company pick-up.

As he drove slowly behind a big shiny Ford, Sam’s eyes were narrow slits of dismay. Not because his progress home was painfully slow, but because last night, alone on the bench in the ticket office at Stoke, he’d had another dream.

So far, it was the worst. Since his blackout three days ago, every night had furnished him with dreams so distressing and unendurable he was beginning to dread sleep. But last night was the pits. It was almost real.

It had been different in detail of course, but the creature was still there. Still fixing him with its unholy, vindictive, glacial gaze as it set about its grisly business. Always the business with the heart. That was the bit he couldn’t take.

There was more last night though. A lot more. Sam made a dry swallow as he remembered.