Литагент HarperCollins - MemoRandom

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Copyright © Anders de la Motte 2014

Translation copyright © Neil Smith 2014

Lyrics from ‘Odds and Evens’ from The Sleep Tape © The Highwire 2010

Cove layout design © HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Cover photographs © Ingrid Michel / Arcangel Images (man in snow landscape); Shutterstock.com(all other images)

Anders de la Motte asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008101107

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2015 ISBN: 9780008101114

Version: 2015-10-23

For Anette

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Saturday, November 23

Friday, October 18

Saturday, November 23

Friday, October 18

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Also by Anders de la Motte

About the Author

About the Publisher

Blue lights … that’s his first lucid thought after he opens his eyes.

He can’t have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, a tiny micropause in his head. But the world seems so strange, so unfamiliar. As if he weren’t quite awake yet.

Blue reflections are dancing around him. In the rearview mirror, bouncing off the concrete walls, the roof, the wet road surface, even off the shiny plastic details of the dashboard.

A car. He’s in the driver’s seat of a car, going through a long tunnel.

The pain catches up with him. He has a vague memory of it from before he blacked out. A brilliant, ice-blue welding arc cutting straight through the left-hand side of his skull and turning his thoughts into thick sludge.

He can even identify the way it smells.

Metal, plastic, electricity.

Something’s happening to his body, something serious, threatening his very existence, but weirdly he doesn’t feel particularly frightened. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, feels the soft leather against the palms of his hands. A pleasant, reassuring sensation. For a moment he almost gives in to it and lets go, tracing those smooth molecules all the way back into unconsciousness.

Instead he squeezes the wheel as hard as he can and tries to get his aching head to explain what is happening to him.

‘David Sarac.’

‘Your name is David Sarac, and …’

And what?

The car is still driving through the tunnel, and one of the many incomprehensible instruments on the dashboard must be telling him that he’s going too fast, way too fast.

He tries to lift his foot from the accelerator pedal but his leg refuses to obey him. In fact he can’t actually feel his legs at all. The pain is growing increasingly intense, yet in an odd way simultaneously more remote. He realizes that his body is in the process of shutting down, abandoning any process that isn’t essential to life support until the meltdown in his head is under control.

‘Your name is David Sarac,’ he mutters to himself.

‘David Sarac.’

Various noises are crackling from the speakers: music, dialing tones, fractured, agitated voices talking over each other.

He looks in the rearview mirror. And for a moment he imagines he can see movement, a dark silhouette. Is there someone sitting in the backseat, someone who could help him?

He tries to open his mouth and sees the silhouette in the mirror do the same. He can see stubble, a tormented but familiar face. He realizes what that means. There’s no one else there, he’s all alone.

The light in the rearview mirror is blinding him, making his eyes water. The voices on the radio are still babbling, louder now – even more agitated.

The shutdown of his body is speeding up. It’s spreading from his legs and up toward his chest.

‘Police!’ one of the radio voices yells. The word forces its way in and soon fills the whole of his consciousness.

Police.

Police.

Police.

He looks away from the rearview mirror and laboriously turns his head a few centimetres. The effort makes him groan with pain.

‘Your name is David Sarac.’

And?

Some distance ahead he can see the rear lights of another car. Alongside them is a large warning sign, an obstruction of some sort, and an exit ramp. The rear lights are suddenly glowing bright red.

He ought to turn the wheel, follow the car ahead of him out of the tunnel. His every instinct tells him that would be the sensible thing to do. But the connection to his arms seems to be on the way to shutting down as well, because all he can manage is a brief, jerky movement.

The obstruction is getting closer, a large concrete barrier dividing the two tubes of the tunnel. The reflective signs are shimmering in the glare of the car’s headlights. He tries to look a few seconds into the future and work out whether he’s in danger of a collision. But his brain is no longer working the way it normally does.

The shutdown reaches his face, making his chin drop.

The distance to the barrier is still shrinking.

‘ Police .’

The word is back, even more insistent this time, and suddenly he realises why. He’s the police; the blue lights are coming from his own car.

His name is David Sarac. He’s a police officer. And …?

The pain in his head eases long enough for him to be able to piece together a coherent chain of thought. What is he doing here? Who is he chasing? Or is he the one being chased?

The lights in the rearview mirror are getting closer and closer. Burning into his head.