Tomorrow's ghost dda-9
Page 30
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Where she lay close to the stump of the third pillar in the ruined quire, it was quiet now.
For a moment it had been noisy - she had not truly heard the noises, but she was aware that there had been noises - but now there was only the steady swish of an infinite number of raindrops on stone and grass and leaves around her, where she lay.
Then she was aware that she had heard the noises at the exact moment when she had been punched such a terrible blow on the chest, so that the grey sky and the greyer stonework and the green grass had cartwheeled - no one had ever punched her so hard, it had quite knocked the breath out of her.
So now her eyes were full of tears, blurring green and grey into indistinguishable shapes of colour; but that was only natural, that she should cry after being hit so hard, to make her so breathless.
* * *
Daddy - I hurt - Daddy -
* * *
It wasn't tears, it was the rain on her face. But she couldn't close her eyes against the rain -
* * *
'Frances!'
* * *
That was the name she had wanted to remember. That was the name in her handbag
- But there were other names in her handbag, and they wouldn't know which name was her name - Where was her handbag? Without her handbag she had no name at all: they wouldn't know who she was.
* * *
'Mitchell. Are you all right?' A different voice, far away but well-remembered. 'Yes.'
The first voice, much closer but far above her. 'Over here. Colonel - Oh God! Frances!'
* * *
She had made a fascinating discovery: they were quite right when they said
you never
hear the one that hits you.
But they were also quite wrong, because she had heard it long before, and everything she had done had been only to make sure she was in the right place at the right time to meet it.
She wanted desperately to tell them that, but she couldn't, and that made her angry: it seemed to her that she had failed in everything she had set out to do in her life -
* * *
'Frances - Frances - '
The colours swirled and swam. She floated into them.
'Let her be, lad. Let her be.'
* * *
'Frances!'
* * *
She no longer recognised the names, or the faraway voices. And yet the sound of them took away her anger and her despair at her failure.
Perhaps not everything, perhaps not everything -
And that was enough for the Act of Contrition, which must be the last feeling of all -
* * *
No, not the last.
The last feeling, as the greens and greys darkened, was the gentle kiss of the rain - of the Prince - on her lips.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 707eaa2a-bd0e-42bb-8265-db936a5e8d39
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 30.7.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Anthony Price
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