Psalm 151 (Jason Ford Series)
Page 18
Ford’s expression was grim. Anywhere else he might have laughed at the sight of James Drinkwater, trousers around his ankles, trying to kick his feet free. But not here. The situation became more dangerous by the second.
Ford wished that he had a pistol—he could have picked Drinkwater off without hesitation. But he didn’t have a gun and wishful thinking was negative.
He crawled up another step.
Sandra was attempting to drag her jeans down. Her quivering legs finally gave way and she fell backwards. There was a grunt of pain as she hit the hard floor.
“Get up!” Now it was a shout.
“I … can’t.” She sobbed, lay there, her back resting against the wall.
Drinkwater stooped, grabbed at the jeans. There was a ripping sound and they came away in a rush, throwing him back. He staggered, regained his balance, stared at the whiteness of her legs.
“Lie there, spread yourself!” His whisper was heavy with lust, he tore his shirt from his body, regardless of buttons, shredded it so that it dangled from one arm. “Now …”
Ford made another two steps. Another yard and his outstretched hand would be within reach of the other’s bony ankle. Sandra’s eyes were closed, her head back. She had either fainted or else had resigned herself to the most terrible fate a woman could suffer.
Drinkwater knelt down, fumbled with the lower regions of his body. He grunted, a sound that embodied anger and frustration. Despair.
“Bitch!” he hissed.
Sandra’s eyes were open and she was staring up at the spiral roof, seeming to have divorced herself from awful reality. She wanted to get it over and done with. Maybe she even wanted to die.
Drinkwater was back on his feet, and when a shaft of light washed over his face, his expression was terrible to behold. His eyes were bloated, the pupils rolled, his hands clawed the air in agonising realisation. A shriek, a cry of defiance, mumbled obscenities frothed out of his mouth.
Ford stared in disbelief; he did not understand. Sandra was looking, cowering, an arm flung up to protect herself, fearing a frenzied attack. But the uplifted knife fell from those fingers, clattered to the floor.
“Look! Look, in the name of God, this is what they did to me! They denied me even at the last!”
Had Ford moved then he would have had his man, taken Drinkwater’s ankle, toppled him, overpowered him. But he held back. Not just because the danger was gone, but because he didn’t understand. Two seconds, maybe three, and then it was too late.
In one move, a twist and a bound that belied the stiffness of that naked body, James Drinkwater leaped for the unglazed arched window. Somehow he secured a hold, dragged himself up, crouched on the narrow ledge. A living gargoyle that screamed his hatred for those who had made him thus, cursed them for the pleasures they had denied him.
Perhaps he saw Ford, perhaps not. He gave no sign, seemed to roll forward, a bather on a springboard bracing himself to meet the water below. He did not scream as he went, a silent shape that was lost from the view of the watchers.
“You’re safe, Mrs Corms.” Ford went to Sandra, knelt by her side. “He’s gone. He won’t be coming back.”
She looked up, smiled weakly.
There was a faint thud somewhere outside.
Ford squeezed her hand reassuringly; in a moment he would go and look outside. There was no longer any hurry.
“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Honest.”
“You were very brave, Sandra.” Her first name rolled from his tongue before he realised it. It didn’t matter. “You stalled him all the way.”
“No.” Her voice was husky; perhaps at the end she pitied the wretch his inadequacies. “I don’t think it would have made any difference, there was no way he was going to be able to do what he wanted to do.”
“Maybe not.” Ford moved away from her, crossed to the window.
Outside the floodlights were bright, showed up every detail of the magnificent architecture right down to the roof of the south transept. The tapered spire thickened until it joined with four smaller turreted spires. Upon one of these a tiny shape hung like a rag doll, barely recognisable for what it was. Arms and legs swung limply. James Drinkwater was finally at peace.
Ford turned back, making an effort to appear relaxed, even casual. “Can you make it down if I help you?”
“I’ll try.” She used an arm to lever herself upright. “He couldn’t make it, you know.”
“I know.” Ford slid an arm around her waist, let her lean on him. “The one thing he wanted most in life, but when it came to it, he couldn’t manage it. A painted picture on a piece of wood was the nearest he ever got, and he even destroyed that. In the end there was only one place left for him to go.”
He felt her sobbing on the lengthy descent; crying was best for her right now. She had to get it out of her system.
His own thoughts turned to the chief. Somehow Borman would claim the credit. That was okay by Ford; he didn’t expect anything else.
In the end, it really didn’t matter a damn.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I had my first story published in a local newspaper at the age of 12, followed by 55 more before I was 17. It was a good start to a writing career and I owe much of it to my mother (historical novelist E.M. Weale) who gave me every encouragement. My father, though, was insistent that I followed family tradition and went into banking.
Hence it was twenty years later before I became a full-time author and I had some catching up to do. The 1970’s were a boom time for pulp fiction and I made my debut with ‘Werewolf by Moonlight’ (NEL 1974). It was ‘Night of the Crabs’, though, which really established me as a writer, virtually overnight in that memorable record, hot summer of 1976. This title was the ‘No.1 beach read’. It saw numerous reprints, spawned 6 sequels along with several short stories, as well as a movie.
‘Night of the Crabs’ enabled me to go full-time. At the time with my wife, Jean, and our four children we were living a reasonably conventional life in Tamworth, Staffordshire. It was time to move on though, and in 1977 we moved to our present home in a remote part of the Shropshire/Welsh border hills.
I was no stranger to country life though, and the further away we were from town and traffic the better. For many years I had been writing for the ‘Shooting Times’ and several other sporting publications. Then in 1999 I accepted the post of Gun Editor of ‘The Countryman’s Weekly’. This involved 4-5 articles per week and I relished the challenge.
By this time pulp fiction was virtually out of fashion so diversification suited me, yet my readership has remained faithful to me and technology has made it all possible again with e-books. Thus my backlist is almost completely returned to electronic print along with some new books. It is an exciting time.
The End
Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.
This book is the second of a series of two, both involving the same detective. The first book was The Eighth Day.
In addition to this book the seventy-two books below have been published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 all horror fiction titles were converted by August 2013.
The list of books so far published is :
1. Werewolf by Moonlight.
2. The Sucking Pit.
3. The Slime Beast.
4. Night of the Crabs.
5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.
6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.
7. Return of the Werewolf.
8. Bamboo Guerillas.
9. Killer Crabs.
10. Bats Out of Hell.
11. The Son of the Werewolf.
12. Locusts.
13. The Origin of the Crabs.
14. Caracal.
15. Thirst.
16. Deathbell.
17. Satan's Snowdrop.
18. Doomflight.
19. Warhead.
&
nbsp; 20. Manitou Doll.
21. Wolfcurse.
22. Crabs On The Rampage.
23. The Pluto Pact.
24. Entombed.
25. The Lurkers.
26. Sabat 1: The Graveyard Vultures.
27. Sabat 2: The Blood Merchants.
28. Sabat 3: Cannibal Cult.
29. Blood Circuit.
30. Accursed.
31. Sabat 4: The Druid Connection.
32. The Undead.
33. Crabs' Moon.
34. The Walking Dead.
35. Throwback.
36. The Wood.
37. The Neophyte.
38. Abomination.
39. Snakes.
40. Cannibals.
41. Alligators.
42. Bloodshow.
43. Thirst II: The Plague.
44. Demons.
45. Crabs: The Human Sacrifice.
46. Fiend.
47. The Island.
48. Mania.
49. The Master.
50. The Camp.
51. The Festering.
52. Phobia.
53. The Unseen.
54. Carnivore.
55. The Black Fedora.
56. The Resurrected.
57. The Knighton Vampires.
58. Witch Spell.
59. The Plague Chronicles.
60. The Hangman.
61. The Dark One.
62. Dead End.
63. Dead Meat.
64. Water Rites.
65. The Pony Riders.
66. The Busker.
67. An Unholy Way To Die.
68. Deadbeat.
69. Blackout.
70. The Cadaver.
71. Maneater.
72. Nightspawn.
Recently published (but not part of back catalogue conversion) :-
Night of the Werewolf.
The Eighth Day.
Killer Crabs: The Return.
To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue
Best regards,
Guy and all at Black Hill Books.