No Help For The Dying

Начало книги

The white van made two measured circuits of the block, drifting like a shabby ghost beneath the street lights. A curtain of rain rippled down the windscreen and out across the tarmac, lending the road the sheen of molten liquorice. A digital clock in a shop window read 01.45.

The vehicle’s bodywork looked tired and scuffed beneath a layer of dirt, in sharp contrast to the precision sound of the engine. While this and the heavily tinted windows might have seemed unusual, to a casual onlooker it was simply another white van, doing what white vans do. On the third circuit, the vehicle slowed, swinging sharply into a side street. The tyres crunched through the nightly debris of fast-food cartons, discarded cigarette packets and greasy chip wrappers. A plastic water bottle resisted briefly before spinning away into the darkness.

‘Anywhere here.’ The man in the passenger seat took a bible from the dashboard, held it against his chest and caressed it absent-mindedly with his thumb.

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