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The rain pounded on the tin roof, making a sound like a thousand Caribbean steel drums. Curtis wished it was the Caribbean; the weather had turned foul, his situation dire. And Patrick wasn’t doing anything to help. Ever since the curiously uniformed police had hauled them into the back of the carriage and brought them to this hellish place, he had sat in the far corner, knees drawn up to his chest, staring into nothingness. A small iron brazier burned next to him, giving off a comforting light, but it appeared to make no impression on Patrick’s mood. From the glow, Curtis could make out his friend’s features. He looked like death, in a state of delayed shock, everything kicking in at a rush. Turney hanging from the rope, the attacker, whoever he was, the manner of his death …The more
