Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [62]
He turned and limped back towards the farmhouse. He tried to take short breaths because he found they didn’t hurt him as much. As he was passing through the gate he paused and clutched at the fence for support as a terrible burning pain coursed through his entire body. He had never experienced such agony before. He hung on for several minutes until gradually the pain died away and he could breathe easily again. He wiped the perspiration from his face with a handkerchief and his hands were shaking. There was something wrong. Something very wrong. He knew it was the wound – there was nothing else it could be. For the moment, however, the only thing that interested him was what had happened to Murphy.
He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. Anne Murray was standing with her back to him, her arms bared to the elbows and covered with blood. Johnny Murphy was lying on the table staring up at the ceiling. Hannah was wiping the sweat from his forehead with a damp cloth. Every now and then his eyes rolled up and he stifled a scream in his throat. Fallon moved over to the table and looked down. The boy’s stomach was like a piece of raw meat and there was more blood than Fallon had ever seen in his life before. He closed his eyes and turned away. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ he said.
The girl was attempting to block some of the more serious gashes with great pads of lint and cotton wool. ‘We’ll have to get him to a hospital,’ she said.
‘The nearest one’s Stramore,’ Hannah told her.
There was a moment of absolute stillness as Anne Murray’s back stiffened and then the boy groaned deeply and she returned to her bandaging. ‘We’ll have to try,’ she said.
Fallon took a deep breath and walked forward until he was standing at the side of the table looking down at the boy. Murphy opened his eyes and death stared out at Fallon. The boy struggled for words and Fallon said, ‘Don’t try to speak. We’ll get you to a doctor. You’re going to be all right.’
Murphy shook his head weakly and a tired grin touched the corners of his mouth. ‘The terrible liar your are, Mr. Fallon.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. ‘Did you get him?’ he said with difficulty.
For a moment Fallon hesitated and then he smiled and took one of the boy’s hands in his. ‘Yes. I got him,’ he said.
A smile of deep content appeared on the white face and Murphy closed his eyes. ‘Up the Republic, Mr. Fallon!’ he said. His hand tightened on Fallon’s for a moment and then it slackened and his head turned gently to one side.
Over in the comer Charlie was crying quietly. For a little while Fallon stood staring down at the body and then he turned away wearily and went to the window. ‘Did you get him?’ Hannah said quietly.
He shook his head. ‘No, I winged him, but he managed to get to his van. He’s ten miles away by now.’
He sank down in a chair and dropped his head into his hands. Hannah moved over to him and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Martin,’ she said. ‘It was meant to be. None of us can argue with fate.’
He looked up at her and smiled tightly. ‘But I do blame myself – that’s the trouble.’
She frowned and raised her eyebrows. ‘Then blame yourself if it makes you happy. The boy gave his life to save you – don’t throw it back in his face by wasting it.’ She moved across to Charlie and shook him. ‘Come on, get up. Go and get two spades from the tool shed.’ Charlie left the room, snivelling, and Hannah said to Fallon, ‘I want him buried and out of the way before morning.