Free Sepulchre by James Herbert Page A

an idiota. But for Janusz, it meant five hours of misery to look forward to. A torment. Another torture imposed by Felix. Even pain was better than boredom.
    What was it that had made Felix so nervous? The man was mad, there could be no doubting that. But a genius also! No doubting that, either. Gowno! No doubt at all. But why afraid now, moj szef? You, who lives in shadows, who distrusts the light unless it is for your purpose. What fresh fear haunts you now, mgzcayana of many dreads?
    Palusinski chomped on meat and bread, lips glistening from the surplus of butter. He stilled his jaw to gulp vodka, seasoning the mushed food in his mouth with fire. His eyes were small behind the wire-framed spectacles he wore, their lids never fully raised, like blinds half-drawn in a room where secrets were kept. They were focused upon the rim of the open mustard jar, everything else a soft periphery; yet his eyes were not seeing that rim with its sliver of reflected light, for his thoughts were inwards, perhaps examining those very secrets within that room of his mind. He sat, slowly munching, as if mesmerised.
    Something snatched him from the introspection, though. And he didn't know what.
    A sound! A movement? Palusinski was puzzled. He was sensitive to intrusion. Months of living rough, sleeping in ditches, eating raw vegetables dug from the earth, always with his eyes darting left, right, afraid he would be seen, what would happen to him if they found him . . . all that, even though it had been many years since, had attuned his senses for the slightest shift in atmosphere.
    His grip tightened on the knife. Someone was in the room beyond.
    Monk? He would never disobey Felix's orders to watch the corridor one floor below until Palusinski took over. Unlikely, then, that Monk would desert his post. Youssef and Asil? No, they were not due to return that night, they had the country house to prepare for their precious lord and master's visit. Then who?
    Palusinski slipped off the stool and reached inside his jacket, which was draped over a chair back. His hand came out with a thick, round metal bar, its length matching the blade protruding from his other fist. He crept over to the lightswitch and extended finger and thumb to turn it anti-clockwise. The light in the kitchen faded.
    From where he stood the Pole could see a broad section of lounge beyond and he cursed the shadows out there, the darkness of the furnishings, the blackness of the walls. He could wait; or he could venture out. He had the patience - skulking and hiding in the old country had instilled that in him - but he also had a duty. To Felix. He must never fail in that.
    He held his breath and armed with the weapons moved towards the open doorway.
    The danger-if there was someone out there-would probably be from either side of the doorway where a person could lurk safe from view. Which side? Always the dilemma. Which side would an assailant strike from'? If there was someone there . . .
    He crouched low and ran through, counting on surprise, the knife held at hip level, tip pointing upwards, ready to plunge or swipe. Palusinski turned immediately he was clear, thrusting one leg back for balance and for leverage, so that he could spring forward or withstand an assault.
    There was no need. Nobody hid outside the kitchen doorway, not on any side.
    But somebody was behind the long black couch nearby. Only Palusinski, sensitive to intrusion though he was, neither saw nor felt the shadow that rose up from it.
    He may have felt fingers tilt his head to one side so that certain nerves in his neck were exposed, but if so, he didn't remember later. He definitely did not feel the edge of the stiffened hand chop down, fast and silent, to deaden those nerves. Nor would he have felt the shock travelling along their roots towards a certain terminal inside his brain. The journey was too swift for that.
    Kline was within himself.
    He swam in blood vessels amid cells which changed from red to