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Back Time for the Dead Save as PDF
Chapters (94)
  1. Cover
  2. Time for the Dead
  3. Dedication page
  4. Map
  5. Epigraph page
  6. Prologue
  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. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. Epilogue
  92. Acknowledgements
  93. About the Author
  94. By Lin Anderson

Sugarboy gone, my only company is the black scorpion venturing out to meet the day. I greet him, savouring again the fact he is my way out of here, forever, if I so choose.

He chose the name Scorpion for himself, just as he’d given me Seven, Pete Sugarboy, Ben Mountain and Charlie Chucky. Not forgetting the dead, Mitch Stitcher and Gordo One Ball. I know now the nicknames weren’t bestowed on his brothers through affection and camaraderie, but to remodel them to suit himself.

His own choice of name was perhaps the most apt. While I dutifully sprayed the tent to dissuade the scorpions from entering, the human Scorpion captured a prize black specimen and ran bets on it. Sugarboy, the inveterate gambler, tried hard to find a suitable opponent, only to watch them all lose the fight and die.

The door scrapes open and in they come, the young one leading the way. He drags me to my feet, shouting something I don’t understand. In this moment I believe I am about to be executed. Shot or perhaps beheaded, like the Afghan women who displease them.

The sun blinds me as I exit, the mesh of my blue prison no protection for my light-starved eyes. I am not allowed to raise my head, to look on men, but I try, seeking the others. Are they to be executed with me?

I am led towards a mud building and thrust through a curtained doorway into dim light again.

I make out the white of their eyes beyond the veil, then as my guards depart, an excited babble explodes about me. A female hand touches me. Urges me gently forward. We all pass through a further curtain. In here there is a light of sorts. Suddenly all the blue burkas are discarded, including my own. I look on female faces, some bright and inquisitive, others frightened or disapproving, while they react to my blood-streaked nakedness with a high cry of ‘eeee’.

I find a robe thrust into my hand and I pull it over my head. Now we are all equally clad. Their relief meets in a concentrated sigh.

The hand that directed me is owned by a girl, barely in her teens. She points to a figure on a raised platform covered by rugs, whose moans are swallowed in the rag she has stuffed into her mouth.

I translate her words as ‘Please help.’

32

The road, a dark ribbon, wound out before them. Above, the sky hung grey and heavy, the quality of light suggesting dusk rather than day.

Skye has never looked more magnificently ominous, Rhona thought, as though we are headed into its heart without permission.