1000 Yards

Начало книги

Three hours into the flight and he realised he was about to have the dream again. The cabin was quiet: meals cleared, drinks served, lights dimmed. Just the steady drone of the engines. The other passengers were relaxing, some of them beginning to sleep. He reached for his gin and put it to his lips. His hand shook; the ice cubes rattled against the side of the glass.

It did not come often now. He had made it that way, with the force of his will, yet, on those occasions when the dream did overcome him, it came with all its old strength and vigour. He knew the signs: that familiar feeling of being hollowed out, an empty vessel into which it would pour. Fatigue weakened his defences, and he had not slept for two days. He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the armrests so tightly that his knuckles whitened. His shoulders locked and the muscles behind his knees, and in his calves, tightened. He sagged back into the seat, trying to breathe normally but knowing that he was gulping each breath. He was helpless, impotent, and paralysed.

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