Savage Awakening
IT WAS the chimes of the church clock that woke him.
Ironically enough, he'd grown used to sleeping through the wailing call of the muezzin. Four years in North Africa, the last eighteen months in an Abuqaran jail, had made such sounds familiar to him. That, and the staccato shots that erupted from time to time across the prison yard.
Not that he'd slept well, of course. A thin blanket thrown on a concrete floor was hardly conducive to a sound — let alone a comfortable — slumber. But it was amazing what the body could get used to, how little sustenance it needed to survive.
Still, he had survived, and after six months back in England he should have become accustomed to the ordinary sounds of civilised living again.
But he hadn't. He was still coming to terms with the fact that he was not the man he used to be and whether or not he slept well — or at all — was a small problem in the larger scheme of things.
Not liking the direction his thoughts were taking, he thrust back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. At least sitting up no longer caused the sickening feeling of dizziness he' ... read full excerpt from: Savage Awakening ebook
