: Matt Cahill
: Radioland
: Buckrider Books
: 9781989496701
: 1
: CHF 5.10
:
: Krimis, Thriller, Spionage
: English
: 298
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB

Dead bodies are being found in Toronto; bodies that have been altered in disturbing ways. There are whispers on the streets of a murderer stalking the bars and clubs. No one knows who the killer could be. Maybe it's Kris, a troubled musician who has just reached a level of fame only to have his life collapse around him. Maybe it's Jill, a young woman cursed with a dangerous magic that calls strangers to her.






As Kris struggles to deal with a childhood experience of sexual abuse he finds a strange advertisement pinned to a tree. By answering it he begins texting Jill, another lost soul reaching out for connection. In bits and pieces, they share their stories, discovering truths about themselves and the people surrounding them, until they must face the danger that is stalking them both.

KRIS


Running fixed me, it was my go-to. Running kept my mind sharp. If I couldn’t run, I was fucked. It broke up the pool of garbage coalescing at the back of my head and kept it from inserting its flotsam into my thoughts. Running allowed me to shift focus, dodging suits and tourists along Front Street, past the convention centre and its curbside fry trucks, the CBC mothership and the levelled debris of theGlobe and Mail building on the other side of Spadina. Running helped me shift focus so that life wasn’t just a song on the radio: verse-chorus-verse-chorus. A cab was going to pick me up in two hours, and every two blocks I hacked like a chain-smoker, spitting out bits of phlegm when no one was looking. I could do this. Distance running was awesome: you could do it hungover, stoned, with an empty stomach or, like right now, all of the above. Distance running is awesome because your only opponent is you.

Running. Two hours before a cab was supposed to pick me up, I was running, my first since coming down with a chest cold a few weeks before, worse than anything I’d had as a kid. And today my nerves, not wanting to eat. Feed a fever, starve a cold – was that the right order? Tightness in my chest like it was bound with elastic.

A cab was coming for me.

I needed to keep my head straight for tonight. Focus. Nerves crawling with ants. My legs were struggling as I fought to look forward to the dopamine rush ahead. All the role-playing you have to do when you’re running and not particularly good at it: the coaching, the bargaining and pleading, the faith that you’re going to feel better at some point in the future. Fighting not to think about …

Notices stapled to hydro posts. Ads for underground cinema, punk shows, the ever-present “success workshop.” Distractions that made it easier to take my mind off my lungs. This weird ad I kept seeing repeated throughout my route, offering a service to “cleanse” houses of their “negative energy” or something, “call Geoff.” Shook off the sweat, slicked the hair out of my eyes and looked for familiar landmarks from previous runs, precedents to prove that I could actually pull this shit off – running, the big-ass ceremony tonight, the fucking email I got this morning. Keep pushing, keep pushing.

I remember his teeth, how they were stained by nicotine, how their tarnished ivory was revealed through each parting of his bearded lips.

I could do this. I’d done it before; my legs were up for it. Better now. Push. Relax. Keep moving. As I came out of the underpass my pace was good as I pushed uphill past Liberty Village and La