AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Some were voices that he recognized, voices from the past.
His best friend.
His wife. Ex-wife.
His daughter.
His daughter’s voice always calmed him, made him smile. But never for long. Because then there was the voice.
Sometimes he thought it was the voice of the Lord, full of righteous anger. At other times it sounded more like the devil: distorted, sinister, inhuman. All he knew for sure was that it was the voice of fear. It told him terrible things, and it demanded terrible things from him. It was a voice that must be satisfied, must be obeyed. But how could he obey if he couldn’t even get to see her?
Alexia De Vere was untouchable.
“Did you say something, dear?”
Mrs. Marjorie Davies eyed her latest paying guest suspiciously. During her twenty-five years running a bed-and-breakfast in the Cotswolds, Mrs. Davies had seen all sorts of oddballs come through her door. There was the couple from Baja California, who’d brought crystals down to breakfast every morning and arranged them in a circle around their sausages and beans, “for positive energy.” Then there were the French queers who’d refused to pay the bill because they’d found a spider in the bath, not to mention the born-again Christians from Canada who’d ordered and eaten four full cream teas (each!) in a single sitting. But this latest chap was more than just eccentric. He was downright strange, talking to himself and wandering around the house at God knows what time of night, spouting religious claptrap. This morning he’d come down to breakfast in a stained T-shirt, and he clearly hadn’t shaved. Mrs. Davies wondered, belatedly, whether he might actually be dangerous.
“I’m sorry,” the man mumbled. “I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud.”
Definitely a nutter. Mrs. Davies held up her teapot like a weapon.
“More Earl Grey?”
“No, thank you. Just the bill, please. I’ll be checking out after breakfast.”
Good riddance.
Mrs. Davies had noticed the Didcot-to-London railway timetable wedged under the toast rack and had hoped as much.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said on autopilot. “Have you enjoyed your stay in Oxfordshire?”
The man frowned, as if he didn’t understand the question. “I need to see Alexia De Vere.”
“I beg you
r pardon?”
“I said I need to see the home secretary!” He banged his fist on the table. “She’s expecting me. We’re old friends.”
Marjorie Davies backed away. The man returned to his breakfast, and she rushed out to reception, quickly printing out his bill. His suitcase was already in the hallway, a good sign. As soon as he finished eating, she returned to the table.
“I think it’s best if you leave now. We take Visa or MasterCard.”
She was surprised by the firmness in her own voice. But she wasn’t about to spend another minute in the company of a card-carrying lunatic. Certainly not in her own home.
The man seemed unfazed. He signed the bill, took his suitcase, and left without another word.
After he’d gone, Mrs. Davies looked at the signature on the credit card, half wondering whether she’d hear the name again on the news one day, linked to some awful crime or some plot against the government.
Mr. William. J. Hamlin.
Hamlin.
She would have to remember that.
Chapter Eleven
Prison life suited Billy Hamlin.
