Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [73]
He leaned against the wheel, his head down, and cried bitterly, the sobs tearing his whole body. I don’t want to die, he told himself. I mustn’t die. I must get home. I must get home. Suddenly he realized why it was so important. Anne was waiting for him. She was waiting there at his cottage across the border from Doone. She was waiting for him and he couldn’t let her down.
It was almost with a sense of surprise that he found himself driving forward into the darkness again. His hands were steady on the wheel and one small, firm corner of his mind was concentrating with all its power on keeping them there. The van lifted over a slight hill and down below him in a hollow he saw the lights of a small village. He passed along the village street, empty and forlorn in the rain, and ahead of him, on the right-hand side, he saw a round white bowl of light shining through the dark.
He stopped the van and scrambled out. The round lamp was perched on top of a tall, brick gate and etched on it in black letters was the name Patrick Quinn, M.D. Fallon opened the gate and walked towards the front door.
The path went on for ever and the door seemed to be receding from him. Suddenly it loomed over him and then it turned completely on to its side. It took him several moments to realize that his cheek was pillowed on the ground. Slowly and wearily he scrambled to his feet and fell against the door. He raised his fist and hammered weakly against it. It opened so suddenly that he fell in and then strong arms picked him up and a door opened and a hall stretched before him.
He was lying on a couch and there was a confused babble of voices and then a face was looking down at him – a narrow face, topped by white hair. A face full of sympathy and understanding. Fallon moistened his lips and tried to speak, ‘Lost blood,’ he croaked. ‘Lot of blood - been bleeding for hours. Help me. I mustn’t die.’ He half-raised himself. ‘I mustn’t die!’
A hand gently pushed him back and a quiet voice, the voice of one who had lived long and seen most things, said, ‘I’ll help you, son. Just take it easy and lie still.’
Hands lifted him upright and carefully stripped his coat and jacket from him and he was laid back against the pillow again. Something moved along his chest and he looked down and saw a pair of scissors neatly parting his shirt and the bandages underneath. There was a sudden, terrified gasp of horror and a woman’s voice said, ‘Oh, my God!’
He struggled up on one elbow and saw a young woman standing at one side of the couch holding a basin and then the scissors completed their work and the bandages were cut away. Immediately a dreadful smell became apparent. Fallon heard the old man say quickly, ‘Bandages – hurry. There’s no time to lose.’
Again he was lifted upright and he felt bandages encircle his body again. He was perfectly conscious of all that was taking place and yet it was as if he was an outsider looking in on all this - as if it were happening to someone else in another time - another place. The room began to undulate and the ceiling heaved. He was laid gently back against the pillow and closed his eyes. He was going to make it. He was going back to his cottage and Anne would be waiting. She would be waiting and nothing was going to stop him from getting there. Then why was he lying here?
The thought came as a complete surprise. A few miles away was the border and he was lying here. He opened his eyes and saw that a needle was fixed in his arm by a piece of sticking plaster and from the needle a tube ran to a bottle which was held above his head by the woman. ‘What am I doing