Gilded Edge, the
“Everything about him throbbed. Everything seemed an effort. Which came as a surprise because, as far as he was aware, he wasn’t doing anything. He was lying down. His eyelids, which also ached and throbbed, strained to open with all the ease of a pair of rusted old shutters. There was a lugubrious throb pulsing through him, but he couldn’t locate or localize it, because it was all of him. His hands wanted to reach out and grip the parameters of the fold-out cot he was lying on, but they couldn’...t, as they had been bound together behind his back and were bloodless and numb. He felt beaten up, and wasn’t sure that he hadn’t been . . . His short-term, or maybe his longterm memory . . . he couldn’t remember which was which, but either way it wasn’t working.
The room was lit with furtive shards of light that sidled in from a door that looked as if it had been cobbled together out of illfitting wooden boards. It suited the room itself, which looked like it had been thrown together out of wattle and daub.MoreLess
The room was lit with furtive shards of light that sidled in from a door that looked as if it had been cobbled together out of illfitting wooden boards. It suited the room itself, which looked like it had been thrown together out of wattle and daub.MoreLess
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