Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [74]
The woman’s eyes were round with fear and there were tears in them. ‘Please lie down,’ she said. ‘You must lie down.’
There was a moment of silence and through it he could hear the voice of the old man saying, ‘Yes - he’s here now. No - he’s not dangerous, you fool. Yes, I’m sure it’s Martin Fallon.’ There was a pause and the voice went on, ‘An ambulance as quickly as you can and if you can’t get one here within half an hour, you’d better send a hearse - he’s dying.’
Through the terrible soundless quiet that followed, Fallon shook his head awkwardly from side to side and great, heavy tears coursed slowly from his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not dying – I won’t die. I’m going home.’
He stood up and wrenched his arm away and the needle tore his flesh sending a bright spurt of red blood running over the white skin. His bloody jacket was on the floor and he dropped to one knee and fumbled in the pockets until his hand closed over the butt of the Luger. He came erect as the doctor burst into the room. The old man barred the door, arms outstretched and Fallon said, ‘Out of the way. I’m not dying. Got an appointment to keep. Got to meet Anne.’
‘You’re sick,’ the old man said. ‘You’ve got to lie down.’
Fallon pointed the Luger straight at him. ‘Move!’ he said harshly. ‘I’m going to Doone if it kills me.’
The old man shook his head. ‘You won’t even get to the door,’ he said. For a moment he looked directly into Fallon’s face and then an expression of great compassion showed in his eyes and he stood to one side. Fallon staggered out into the hall, wrenched open the front door, and lurched down the path.
The van started at once. He moved rapidly away from the white light, away into the darkness and the rain on his last journey. His mind seemed to clear for a while and he began to think coherently again. He noticed that he was still holding the Luger in his right hand. It was awkward and hindered him from handling the wheel properly. With a casual, unthinking gesture he threw it out of the window into the night. The upper part of his body was naked except for the bandages and yet he felt no cold and was conscious of no discomfort. He was going home and Anne would be waiting for him – that was all that mattered.
The rain increased into a heavy downpour that flooded across the windscreen so that he could hardly see ahead of him. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. There was nothing to fear any more. He was going home and nothing could stop him - he had to keep his appointment.
A house appeared on the right and then another and another. He topped a rise and went down a short hill that was lined on each side with houses and he knew he was at Doone. He swung the wheel sharply at the bottom of the hill and turned into a long, tree-lined avenue and there at the end, under the floodlight, was the border post.
He felt no fear because there was nothing to be afraid of. He was going through and nothing could stop him. No one would hinder him. They would know. There was a man in a heavy raincoat standing under the light in the porch out of the rain. Fallon halted the van and waited.
His mind was no longer a part of his body. It ranged high in the rain, looking down on the small border post and the men within it. The man in the blue raincoat started towards him from the porch and then a voice called. A tall figure emerged from the interior of the hut. He stood, erect and handsome in his uniform with raincoat thrown carelessly over his shoulders, and held a rapid conversation with the Customs’ man. The other went into the hut and the tall man stepped down into the rain and came towards the van.
When he was a few paces away he recoiled suddenly and a startled gasp came from his mouth. Fallon smiled and said, ‘Hello, Phil. Fancy meeting you here.’
Stuart moved forward and leaned in at the window. There was utter horror in his face. ‘Martin!’ he cried. ‘For God’s sake, Martin!’