The Hundred and Ninety-Nine Steps Read Online Free
doing me any good now.â Seeing him squirm, she was secretly enjoying her modest subversion of 21st-century capitalism, her feeble imitation of the noble Benedictine principle of common ownership. âBesides, I can smell cynicism on you, Mr Magnus. Iâd like to get rid of that, if I can.â
He laughed uneasily, and lifted one elbow to call attention to his sweat-soaked armpits.
âAre you sure itâs not the smell of B.O.?â
âQuite sure,â she said, noting that two of her colleagues were, at last, straggling into view. âNow, I think itâs about time I started work. It was lovely to meet you. And Hadrian, of course.â
She shook his hand, and allowed herself one more ruffle of the dogâs mane. Nonplussed, Magnus backed away.
A few seconds later, when she was already far away from him, he called after her:
âHappy digging!â
That night, Siân fell asleep with unusual ease. Instead of spending hours looking at the cast-iron fireplace and the wooden clothes rack growing gradually more distinct in the moonlight, she slept in profound darkness.
Iâm sleeping , she thought as she slept. How divine .
âOh, flesh of my flesh,â whispered a voice in her ear. âForgive me â¦â And the cold, slightly serrated edge of a large knife pressed into her windpipe. With a yelp, she leapt into wakefulness, but not before the flesh of her throat had yawned open and released a welter of blood.
Upright in bed, she clutched her neck, to keep her life clamped safely inside. The skin was unbroken, a little damp with perspiration. She let go, groaning irritably.
It wasnât even morning: it was pitch-dark, and the seagulls were silent â still fast asleep, wherever it is that seagulls sleep. Siân peered at her watch, but it was the old-fashioned kind (she didnât like digital watches) and she couldnât see a thing.
Ten minutes later she was dressed and ready for going out. Packed in a shoulder bag were the books and pamphlets for Magnus: âSaint Hilda and her Abbey at Whitbyâ, A History of Whitby , the Pitkin guide to âLife in a Monasteryâ, and several others. She slung the bag behind her hip and shrugged experimentally to confirm it stayed put; she didnât want it swinging forward and tripping her up. Getting your neck slashed in a dream was one thing; breaking your neck while trying to get down a steep flight of stairs in the dead of night was quite another.
In the event, she managed without any problem, and was soon standing in the cold breeze of the White Horse and Griffinâs side lane, cobbles underfoot. The town was so quiet she could hear her own breathing, and Church Street was closed to traffic in any case, yet still she ventured forward from the alley very, very carefully â a legacy of her accident in Bosnia. Even in a pedestrianised cul-de-sac in a small Yorkshire town at four in the morning, you never knew what might come ripping around the corner.
In the dark, Whitby looked strange to Siân â neither modern nor medieval, which were the only two ways she was accustomed to perceiving it. In the daylight hours, she was either working in the shadow of the abbey ruins, coaxing the remains of stunted Northumbrians out of the antique clay, or she was weaving through crowds of shoppers and tourists, that vulgar throng of pilgrims with mobile phones clutched to their cheeks or pop groups advertised on their chests. Now, in the unpeopled stillness of night, Whitby looked, to Siân, distinctly Victorian. She didnât know why â the buildings and streets were much older than that, mostly. But it wasnât a matter of architecture; it was a matter of atmosphere. The glow of the streetlamps could almost be gaslight; the obscure buildings and darkened doorways scowled with menace, like a movie backdrop for yet another version of Bram Stokerâs Dracula . Any alleyway, it seemed to Siân,
He laughed uneasily, and lifted one elbow to call attention to his sweat-soaked armpits.
âAre you sure itâs not the smell of B.O.?â
âQuite sure,â she said, noting that two of her colleagues were, at last, straggling into view. âNow, I think itâs about time I started work. It was lovely to meet you. And Hadrian, of course.â
She shook his hand, and allowed herself one more ruffle of the dogâs mane. Nonplussed, Magnus backed away.
A few seconds later, when she was already far away from him, he called after her:
âHappy digging!â
That night, Siân fell asleep with unusual ease. Instead of spending hours looking at the cast-iron fireplace and the wooden clothes rack growing gradually more distinct in the moonlight, she slept in profound darkness.
Iâm sleeping , she thought as she slept. How divine .
âOh, flesh of my flesh,â whispered a voice in her ear. âForgive me â¦â And the cold, slightly serrated edge of a large knife pressed into her windpipe. With a yelp, she leapt into wakefulness, but not before the flesh of her throat had yawned open and released a welter of blood.
Upright in bed, she clutched her neck, to keep her life clamped safely inside. The skin was unbroken, a little damp with perspiration. She let go, groaning irritably.
It wasnât even morning: it was pitch-dark, and the seagulls were silent â still fast asleep, wherever it is that seagulls sleep. Siân peered at her watch, but it was the old-fashioned kind (she didnât like digital watches) and she couldnât see a thing.
Ten minutes later she was dressed and ready for going out. Packed in a shoulder bag were the books and pamphlets for Magnus: âSaint Hilda and her Abbey at Whitbyâ, A History of Whitby , the Pitkin guide to âLife in a Monasteryâ, and several others. She slung the bag behind her hip and shrugged experimentally to confirm it stayed put; she didnât want it swinging forward and tripping her up. Getting your neck slashed in a dream was one thing; breaking your neck while trying to get down a steep flight of stairs in the dead of night was quite another.
In the event, she managed without any problem, and was soon standing in the cold breeze of the White Horse and Griffinâs side lane, cobbles underfoot. The town was so quiet she could hear her own breathing, and Church Street was closed to traffic in any case, yet still she ventured forward from the alley very, very carefully â a legacy of her accident in Bosnia. Even in a pedestrianised cul-de-sac in a small Yorkshire town at four in the morning, you never knew what might come ripping around the corner.
In the dark, Whitby looked strange to Siân â neither modern nor medieval, which were the only two ways she was accustomed to perceiving it. In the daylight hours, she was either working in the shadow of the abbey ruins, coaxing the remains of stunted Northumbrians out of the antique clay, or she was weaving through crowds of shoppers and tourists, that vulgar throng of pilgrims with mobile phones clutched to their cheeks or pop groups advertised on their chests. Now, in the unpeopled stillness of night, Whitby looked, to Siân, distinctly Victorian. She didnât know why â the buildings and streets were much older than that, mostly. But it wasnât a matter of architecture; it was a matter of atmosphere. The glow of the streetlamps could almost be gaslight; the obscure buildings and darkened doorways scowled with menace, like a movie backdrop for yet another version of Bram Stokerâs Dracula . Any alleyway, it seemed to Siân,
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