From The Dead is the next novel featuring DI Tom Thorne, from the critically-acclaimed crime writer Mark Billingham. Can't wait for it to finally be released! This is one of my favorite series and Mark Billingham has got to be one of the best crime writers around! If you don't believe me, try some of his earlier works, including Sleepyhead and Scaredy Cat and I'm sure you'll be hooked in no time! Anyway, here's an exclusive extract from From The Dead, by Mark Billingham!
Directly behind the platform on which the effigy was mounted, a group of middle-aged men carried staffs with elaborate crosses on the top. They were followed by the penitents; some barefoot or blindfolded, with candles stuffed into makeshift tin-foil holders to prevent the hot wax falling on to their hands. Thorne moved slowly along behind with everyone else, the sense that he was somehow intruding only heightened when he was occasionally nudged gently but firmly to one side by someone clearly more deserving of a place ahead of him in the procession. Yet he felt compelled to follow, if only to see what was going to happen.
He still felt a little uncomfortable, but the spectacle was hypnotic nonetheless, the devotion oddly moving. The Scouser nodded to him from the steps of the bar and Thorne nodded back.
The huge platform swayed from side to side as it was carried, the bearers moving in a choreographed rocking motion that Thorne presumed made their progress easier. Every few minutes a man ahead of them would turn to ring a bell on the front and the platform would be set down. It was not clear if this was part of the ritual or simply a way of giving those carrying it a break, but it gave Thorne the chance to move through the crowd and get close to the effigy itself.
He took out his phone and tried to get into a good position to take a few pictures. He thought that Louise might like to see them.
The platform was thick with flowers; garlands of pink roses arranged around the ornate silver candelabra which twisted up towards the effigy itself. It stood beneath a silver canopy, with more flowers twisting around the struts and arranged on the top.
The Virgin was smiling.
She was five feet or so tall and had a doll’s face. The lips were bright red as though freshly painted, but the pale flesh of her cheek was peeling a little in places and there were cracks on the hands that gripped a sceptre and cradled an even more doll-like infant. The long, brown hair seemed too modern though, falling in curls across her shoulders and Thorne thought the wig looked a little out of place beneath the sunburst of a huge golden crown.
But her expression was simple enough, and dazzling.
Thorne put his phone away and stared, as the bell was rung again and the platform was hoisted back up on to the police officers’ shoulders.
A young girl’s face, trusting and content. But with eyes cast down in understanding, or expectation perhaps of the suffering that was so many people’s lot in life and the cruelty that seemed so much a part of others.
As the platform moved, swaying its way out of the square on its journey around the village, the figure began to wobble a little, but Thorne kept his eyes on the face.
Andrea Keane’s face and Anna Carpenter’s.
A live band started to play, though Thorne could not see them, and those that had not already begun to move away sang along. Thorne felt cold suddenly. It was not a slow song, but the voices sounded sorrowful, as though the Virgin’s expectations had been fulfilled.
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