Free The Book of Revelation by Rupert Thomson

the thin soles of his shoes. All of a sudden, from somewhere to his right, came the wincing of a train’s brakes. Two streets away. Maybe three.
    “First of all,” he said, “you didn’t gag me. I could start shouting. I could draw attention to myself. And, who knows, somebody might come—”
    “So, are you going to shout?”
    This was Astrid’s voice, dispassionate but menacing. He ignored her.
    “Or somebody might see me,” and he lifted his head, looked upwards, “from an upstairs window—and what would they see? Three women in black cloaks and a man wearing a hood. All standing in a garden on a Sunday morning. Now that’s not exactly normal, is it, even for Holland—”
    “It isn’t Sunday,” Gertrude said.
    Once again, he ignored the interruption.
    “And then,” he went on, “and this is more serious, perhaps, you’re giving me the chance to gather information. . . .”
    He could no longer hear the train. Instead, in the distance, a church bell started tolling. What did she mean, it wasn’t Sunday? Of course it was Sunday.
    “Yes,” he said. “Little details. Sense data.” He nodded to himself. “It all helps me to put a picture together. Of where I am. Of who I’m dealing with.”
    He looked round at the women, even though he didn’t know exactly where they were. He felt elated, slightly giddy. It was probably the sudden influx of oxygen into his body after days of stale, recycled air.
    “Take me to a donkey,” he said. “I bet I could pin a tail on it.”
    “A donkey?” Astrid said. “What donkey?”
    He laughed at her.
    “If I was you I’d never have allowed me out. Fresh air indeed!” He snorted in derision. “Who needs fresh air? But, of course. I forgot”—he would have slapped his forehead, but his hands weren’t free—“You love me. You’d do anything for me.” He was laughing again. “You think my work’s wonderful.”
    A woman took him by the arm. She just held him, though; she didn’t try to move him.
    “You see, you had a really good set-up,” he explained, “but now you’ve gone and undermined it. You’ve introduced an element that’s volatile. Do you understand that word? I don’t know what it is in Dutch. Something ugly, I expect.”
    Chuckling to himself, he shook his head.
    “Yes,” he said, “while I was in that room, everything was under control. Now, though. . . .”
    He released the thought into their minds like a virus, hoping it would take root and spread, weakening their confidence, their resolution.
    “It’s time to go back in,” Gertrude said.
    Your hair is red, he thought. I’ve seen it.
    He felt a hand push him in the small of the back, push him towards the door. He detected a brusqueness in the gesture, a sense of irritation, and he was glad that he had finally got under the women’s skin.
    “I don’t think you’ve been listening,” he said, “not properly. I don’t think you’ve really taken in what I’ve been saying.”
    He allowed himself to be led through the door and back along the passageway. As he placed his right foot on the bottom step, about to begin the climb back to the room, he heard a ringing sound somewhere behind him.
    “That’s the phone, isn’t it?” he said.
    There was no reaction from the women, no response.
    “Don’t you think you should answer that?” he said. “It might be someone important.”
    •
    Perhaps he shouldn’t have talked so much. Something irrepressible had taken possession of him, though; all of a sudden he had been flooded with adrenaline—and this despite the handcuffs and the hood. . . . The women thought they were doing him a favour by letting him out of the room for a few minutes. They thought they were rewarding him. Well, the whole thing was absurd. He had tired of their arrogance, their condescension. He had wanted to make them feel stupid. Careless. And if his reading of their silence in the garden was correct, then it was possible he had succeeded. Would