Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [0]
HELL IS TOO CROWDED
Jack Higgins
Open Road Integrated Media
New York
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
A Biography of Jack Higgins
(1)
TO Matthew Brady, caught between the shadow lines of sleep and waking when strange things fill the mind, the face seemed to swim out of the fog, disembodied and luminous in the yellow glow of the street lamp. Once seen it was not easily forgotten, wedge-shaped with high cheekbones and deep-set, staring eyes.
He was conscious of the wrought-iron frame of the bench hard against his neck, of the light drizzle beading his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again he was alone.
A ship moved down the Pool of London sounding its foghorn like the last of the dinosaurs lumbering aimlessly through a primeval swamp, alone in a world that was already alien.
Somehow, it seemed to sum up his own situation. He shivered slightly and reached for a cigarette. The packet was almost empty, but he fumbled around for a while and finally managed to light one. As he drew in the first lungful of smoke, Big Ben struck two, the sounds curiously muffled by the fog, and then there was silence.
He felt utterly alone and completely cut-off from all other human beings. He leaned on the parapet under the lamp, looked down through the fog to the river, and asked himself what now? Only the foghorn of the ship on its way down to the sea answered him and it was as if it were calling good-bye.
He turned away, pulling up the collar of his jacket, and a woman ran out of the fog and cannoned into him with a gasp of dismay. She started to struggle and he held her at arm's length and shook her gently. "You're okay," he said. "There's nothing to worry about."
She was wearing an old trench-coat tightly belted at the waist and a scarf tied peasant-fashion about her hair. She looked about thirty, with a round, intelligent face, her eyes dark and troubled in the light of the street lamp.
For a moment, she gazed up into his face and then, as if reassured, laughed shakily and sagged against the parapet. "There was a man back there. Probably harmless enough, but he appeared so unexpectedly from the fog, I panicked and ran."
Her English was good, but with a slight foreign intonation. Brady took out his cigarettes and offered her one. "The Embankment is no place for a woman at this time in the morning. Some pretty queer birds doss down here for the night."
The match flared up in his cupped hands and she lit her cigarette and blew out a tracer of smoke. "You don't have to tell me. I only live across the road. I spent the evening with a girl friend in Chelsea. Couldn't get a cab, so I decided to walk." She laughed. "If it comes to that, you don't seem the type for a bench on the Embankment yourself."
"It takes all kinds," he said.
"But not your kind," she told him. "You're not English, are you?"
He shook his head. "Boston, Massachusetts."
"Oh, an American," she said, as if that explained everything.
He managed a tired grin. "Back home I've got friends who'd argue with you on that one."
"Have you far to go?" she said, "or do you intend spending the night here?"
"I'm not even sure how I got here," he said. "I've a room at a hotel near Russell Square. I'll make it all right in my own good time."
Heavy drops of rain spattered down through the branches of the sycamore trees and he pulled the collar of his jacket tightly around his neck, feeling suddenly cold. The woman frowned. "Look, you ought to be wearing a coat at least. You'll catch pneumonia."
"Any suggestions?" he said.
She took his arm. "You can walk me home. I'm sure there's an old raincoat hanging in the cupboard back at my flat. You can have it."
He didn't bother to argue. All the strength seemed to have drained out of him and the moment he started to walk, the fumes of the whisky seemed to rise into his brain again.