The Colour of Death
Read The Colour of Death Online
Authors: Michael Cordy
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Crime, #Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Thrillers
The Colour of Death
by
Michael Cordy
BANTAM PRESS
LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY AUCKLAND JOHANNESBURG
Also by Michael Cordy
The Messiah Code
The Crime Code
The Lucifer Code
The Venus Conspiracy
The Source
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First published in Great Britain
in 2011 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Michael Cordy 2011
Michael Cordy has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact,
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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ISBNs 9780593068311 (hb)
9789593060674 (tpb)
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2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
For my father and my mother
Contents
Synaesthesia
: (Origin — Greek
syn
= together +
aisthesis
= perception)
In its simplest form it is best described as a ‘union of the senses’ whereby two or more of the five senses that are normally experienced separately are involuntarily and automatically joined together. Some synaesthetes experience color when they hear sounds or read words. Others experience tastes, smells, shapes or touches in almost any combination. These sensations are automatic and cannot be turned on or off. Synaesthesia isn’t a disease or illness and is not at all harmful. In fact, the vast majority of synaesthetes couldn’t imagine life without it.
—The Synaesthesia Society
Synergy
: (Origin — Greek
sunergos
= working together)
Cooperation of two or more things to produce a combined effect that is greater than the sum of their separate effects.
—Oxford English Dictionary
Portland, Oregon
Sitting with his sister in the back of their parents’ hired station wagon, the boy doesn’t realize how close he is to death. His mind is preoccupied with thoughts of his eleventh birthday party in two days’ time and how much he loves family holidays with his American aunt and uncle in Oregon. Everything about America’s North Pacific coast seems more glamorous than England: the summers hotter, the beaches whiter, the cars bigger, the skies bluer. The giant sequoias his parents took him to see today dwarf the mightiest oak trees back home in Cornwall. Only his teenage sister interrupts his reverie, when she starts pinching her right forearm.
“Stop it, Ali,” he pleads. She gives a bored smile, pushes her forearm closer to his face and pinches harder. Sometimes he hates his big sister and wishes he could make her disappear.
His mother turns from the front passenger seat. “What’s going on?”
“She’s pinching her arm.”
“It’s my arm. He doesn’t have to look.”
“Stop it, Alice. You know how it affects your brother.” His mother smiles at him. “Don’t look at her, Nathan.”
“We need some petrol,” his father says.
“We’re coming into Portland, Richard. Surely we’ve got enough gas to get back to Samantha and Howard’s?” Nathan loves the way his mother says gas instead of petrol. He sometimes wishes his father were American too, then they would live here all the time.
“I don’t want to risk it, Jenny. It’s getting late.” His father points to a Chevron garage. “We’ll fill up there, use the phone and tell them when to expect us back.” He pulls into the forecourt then looks over his shoulder. “You two stay in the car.”
“I want to get out. It’s so
boring
in here,” groans Alice, as if boredom is the worst thing in the world.
“Let’s all get out,” says his mother. “Stretch our legs, use the restroom.”
The little bell on the kiosk door rings as they go inside. Nathan’s father stays by the car while his mother uses the phone in the corner and Alice uses the toilet out back. Nathan flicks happily through the rack of comic books until he finds a Superman issue he hasn’t yet read. The bell on the door rings again as his father comes in to pay for the petrol. Nathan keeps on reading and is so lost in the book that he doesn’t notice his sister return, or the doorbell ring for a third time. Only when his mother grips his arm and pulls him toward her does he look up and register the fear in her eyes and the stony expression on his father’s face. Alice is pale as their father gestures for them to move closer together. Something is wrong.
Then he sees the two men and a cold queasy lump forms in his belly. Both wear sinister black coats with hoods that obscure their faces. He watches as one pulls a pistol from under his coat, the other a sawn-off shotgun. They ignore Nathan and his family and focus on the Asian clerk behind the counter. Pistol points at the cash register, revealing a tattoo on his right forearm: a cobra coiled round the shaft of a strange-shaped crucifix, topped with an oval loop instead of a vertical bar. “Hey, Jackie Chan, empty the register.” The clerk nods nervously and reaches down below the counter.
