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      On, Off

      Colleen McCullough

      

       For Helen Sanders Brittain With fond memories of the old days, and much love.

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       PART TWO December, 1965

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       PART THREE January & February, 1966

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-one

       Chapter Twenty-two

       Chapter Twenty-three

       PART FOUR February & March, 1966

       Chapter Twenty-four

       Chapter Twenty-five

       Chapter Twenty-six

       Chapter Twenty-seven

       Chapter Twenty-eight

       Chapter Twenty-nine

       Chapter Thirty

       PART FIVE Spring & Summer, 1966

       Chapter Thirty-one

       Chapter Thirty-two

       Chapter Thirty-three

       About the Author

       By the same author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

PART ONE October & November, 1965

       Chapter One

      JIMMY WOKE UP GRADUALLY, conscious at first of only one thing: the perishing cold. His teeth were chattering, his flesh ached, his fingers and toes were numb. And why couldn’t he see? Why couldn’t he see? All around him was pitch darkness, a blackness so dense he had never known anything like it. As he grew wider awake he realized too that he was imprisoned in something close, smelly, alien. Wrapped up! Panic set in and he began to scream, to claw frantically at whatever was confining him. It ripped and tore, but when the stygian coldness persisted after he managed to free himself, his terror drove him mad. There were other things all around him, the same smelly kind of restraints, but no matter how he shrieked, ripped, tore, he couldn’t find a way out, couldn’t see a particle of light or feel a puff of warmth. So he shrieked, ripped, tore, his heart roaring in his ears and the only noises his own.

      Otis Green and Cecil Potter came into work together, having hooked up on Eleventh Street with a broad grin for each other. Dead on 7 a.m., but wasn’t it great not to have to punch a time clock? Their place of work was civilized, man, no arguments there. They put their lunch pails in the small stainless steel cupboard they had reserved for their own use—no need for locks, there were no thieves here. Then they started the business of their day.

      Cecil could hear his babies calling for him; he went straight to their door and opened it, speaking to them in a tender voice.

      “Hi, guys! How ya doin’ huh? Everybody sleep well?”

      The door was still hissing shut behind Cecil when Otis saw to the least palatable job of his day, emptying the refrigerator. His wheeled plastic bin smelled clean and fresh; he put a new liner in it and pushed it over to the refrigerator door, a heavy steel one with a snap lock handle. What happened next was a blur: something streaking past him as he opened the door, screaming like a banshee.

      “Cecil, get out here!” he yelled. “Jimmy’s still alive, we

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