Dark Side of the Street - Jack Higgins [35]
"Hello there," Youngblood said. "What happened to your father?"
"He went into the next village with Billy. I came up here to check the sheep."
She had spoken without looking round and he lit a cigarette, aware of a sudden unbearable tightness in his chest that threatened to choke him. She had taken off her coat and the black woollen dress she wore was, like the cotton one of the previous night, a size too small and stretched tightly across her buttocks and thighs.
Outside, thunder echoed faintly and the rain increased with a sudden rush. She glanced briefly, almost furtively over her shoulder and again, he was conscious of that same strange trick of the light as the shadows of the hut smoothed away her plainness, softened the harshness of that strong, ugly face, making her beautiful.
She stood up, reaching to a rack on the wall and Youngblood, his throat dry, dropped his cigarette and moved close, his arms sliding around her, pulling her against him. When he turned her around, she stood there woodenly, her face expressionless, making no move to stop him as his hands crawled across her body.
Five years. Five long, hard years. Forgetting about Saxton and Hoffa and Chavasse's strange behaviour, Youngblood, hot with desire, threw every other consideration to the winds and pushed her back on to the pile of hay in the corner.
It was only when he penetrated her that she came to life, her hands tightening in his hair, her mouth fastening on his with great bruising kisses that were almost frightening in the intensity of their passion.
Below in the valley, Sam Crowther's old Ford turned off the road and started along the track to the farm.
Youngblood surfaced, his face damp with sweat and stared up at the roof. There had been no finesse about what had happened, nothing gentle and now it was over. She lay beside him, eyes closed, breasts heaving, moisture beading her upper lip and he was filled with something very close to disgust. She was ugly--God dammit, everything about her was ugly from the unkempt hair and sallow face to the dowdy black dress and darned stockings.
He eased away and she turned at once, opening her eyes. He forced a smile. "You all right, kid?"
"Oh, Harry, I love you. I love you so much." She clutched his hand and turned her face into his shoulder.
It was a cry from the heart of someone who had never known love or kindness or any kind of affection in her life before, but Youngblood had neither the perception nor the sensitivity necessary to understand, that for her he had become the only real thing in a world of illusion.
He patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and pulled away, taking out his cigarettes and lighting one. Looking for a change of subject, he remembered what Chavasse had said.
"What went on between you and Paul? When he passed me on the way down he seemed pretty excited about something."
She got up, took a comb from the pocket of her coat and ran it through her hair. "He was asking me questions about the other people who came here, that's all."
"Like George Saxton and Ben Hoffa?"
"That's right."
"And what did he want to know?"
"If I'd seen them leave."
Youngblood frowned. "And did you?"
She shook her head. "The others who came used to stay two or three days, but I never saw either of your friends again after I brought them up here."
Youngblood stared at her in horror as the full implication sank in. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.
In the same moment, both barrels of a shotgun were fired in rapid succession, the sound echoing flatly through the rain as it drifted up from the valley below.
He turned to the door and the girl grabbed his arm. "Don't go, Harry--don't go!" she screamed.
He struck her across the face with the flat of his hand, sending her backwards into the hay. "You bitch!" he said. "You dirty little bitch! You've sold us out!"
And then he was gone and she picked herself up and stumbled after him, crying hysterically.
When Chavasse reached the farmyard he paused, suddenly