by Jack Higgins
Faulkner’s whole body seemed to go rigid and then his tortured face twisted with fury. ‘You’re lying!' he said furiously and pulled the trigger. The empty, metallic click echoed through the silence and Shane began to walk slowly towards him.
Behind him Lomax cried out in dismay and clutched at his shoulder but Shane shook him off. He was not conscious of anything except Faulkner’s eyes burning with hate from his ravaged face. This was something personal, something that had to be settled between the two of them.
Faulkner backed slowly away along the terrace, the Luger held out uselessly in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder once and when he turned to face Shane again there was a gleam of hope in his eyes. Shane looked beyond him and saw the iron ladder of the fire-escape and shook his head slowly. ‘You won’t escape me, Simon,’ he said. ‘This is the final ending to the story. This is the moment when all debts are paid.’
Faulkner suddenly flung the Luger at him with all his strength. Shane tried to duck, but it caught him a glancing blow high on the forehead and he cried aloud in agony as something seemed to move inside his brain and the night exploded into coloured lights.
He staggered forward, his hands groping blindly in front of him and Faulkner jumped up on to the balustrade and reached for the ladder. Shane’s right hand secured a grip on an ankle and he pulled. He glanced up and was conscious of the monstrous face glaring down at him, and then Faulkner kicked at him savagely with his other foot.
Shane staggered back, cannoning into Lomax, and Faulkner’s foot slipped and he stepped backwards into space. For a moment he seemed to poise there and then he screamed horribly and disappeared.
The sound of that scream seemed to penetrate into Shane’s brain where it whirled round and round in a decreasing circle and then the light that streamed from the windows seemed to grow into a large ball that started to spin round and round in front of his eyes until it exploded and he plunged into darkness.
16
IT was quiet when he awoke - very quiet and he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He was lying in a narrow hospital bed and the walls of the small room and its furniture were all painted white.
After a while he tried to sit up. For some unaccountable reason his head felt detached from the rest of his body and when he raised a hand to his forehead, he encountered a heavy bandage.
He tried to push himself up even further and at that moment the door opened and a nurse entered the room. She was a large, middle-aged woman with a pleasant face and large, capable hands. She moved forward quickly and gently pushed him back against the pillows. ‘You mustn’t do that,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t even move.’
‘Where am I?’ Shane said weakly. ‘What happened?’
‘You’re in a private room at Burnham General Infirmary,’ she said. ‘You’ve been here for the past five days.’
Shane frowned. ‘Five days?’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand.’
She smoothed the sheets quickly and lifted a temperature chart from a hook on the wall. ‘You’ve had a very serious operation. It’s a miracle you’re here at all.’
For a moment her voice seemed to recede into the distance, leaving him alone as he considered the implication of her words and then he took a deep breath and said slowly, ‘Are you trying to tell me that I’ve had the operation that was needed to remove shrapnel from my brain?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right. You were brought in here in a terrible state. Sir George Hammond flew up specially from London to perform the operation. He was hoping you’d regain consciousness before he left, but he had another important operation in Germany so he had to leave yesterday.’
‘So I’m not going to die after all?’ Shane said slowly.
She laughed cheerfully. ‘Good heavens no. You’ll be here for a week or two yet, but you’ll be perfectly fit when you leave.’
She went out of the room and he lay back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling, suddenly feeling drained of all emotion. Perhaps at some later time he would feel elation, but at the moment he was conscious of nothing - only of an emptiness, a coldness that moved inside him and was not to be explained.
A few minutes later a doctor came in to see him and gave him a routine examination and afterwards, the nurse brought him something to eat.
As she was arranging the tray across his knees, he noticed some flowers in a vase by the window and asked her who had brought them. She smiled. ‘They were from the young lady,’ she said. ‘Miss Faulkner, I think the name is.’
Shane tried to sound casual and unconcerned. ‘She’s been here?’
‘Every day,’ the nurse told him. ‘I’ve promised to phone her the moment you come round.’
After she’d taken the tray away, he lay back against the pillow, staring out through the window at the driving rain and thinking about Laura Faulkner. His senses seemed sharper, more acute than he had ever known them before. He could even smell the perfume of the flowers from across the room and he was filled with an aching longing for her. The door clicked quietly open and he turned eagerly.
Lomax was standing there, a light smile on his face. ‘You look disappointed,’ he said. ‘Expecting someone else?’
Shane grinned weakly. ‘I thought it might be Laura Faulkner.’
Lomax shook his head. ‘Her father was brought in here the same day you were,’ he said. ‘He died yesterday. I understand the funeral is this morning. She’ll probably be pretty busy.’
Shane’s hand tightened over the edge of the sheets and he cursed softly thinking of her on her own. He pushed the thought away from him and said, ‘Got a cigarette?’
Lomax handed him a cigarette and said, ‘She’s got a lot of guts that girl. They buried her brother three days ago and she followed the coffin right to the graveside. That took some doing under the circumstances. From what I can make out he never did much for her or the old man.’
Lomax gave him a light. Shane inhaled gratefully and sighed. ‘I never thought I’d live to enjoy things like this again.’ He gestured to a nearby chair. ‘Sit down and fill me in on what’s happened.’
Lomax took out his pipe. ‘There’s nothing much to tell. Faulkner was killed instantly by his fall. Steele’s in custody. We’ve got him for being an accessory before the fact of at least one murder and a string of other criminal charges. We found some very interesting things when we searched his office. He and Faulkner had their fingers in just about everything from organized prostitution to dope peddling.’
Shane frowned and half-closed his eyes. He tried hard to visualize Simon Faulkner. Simon the good comrade, steady and dependable in a tight corner, always gay and smiling. But it was no use. The memory had become somehow elusive and unreal as if it had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination.
He shook his head helplessly. ‘It shows how little we know anyone - even our closest friends.’ He half-smiled. ‘And what about me? No assault charges? What about that young constable in the alley and the detective on the train? I’m afraid I didn’t have time to be gentle.’
‘Technically I could book you, but under the circumstances …’ Lomax shrugged and got to his feet.
‘I’ll see you again before I leave, I hope,’ Shane said.
Lomax nodded. ‘You can buy me a pint the day you come out.’ He grinned. ‘I must be off. You can lie here in bed if you like, but as far as I’m concerned one crime starts where another finishes.’
As he opened the door, Shane said, ‘Lomax - about Faulkner.’ The detective turned and regarded him curiously and Shane continued. ‘He wasn’t all bad, you know. He saved my life once. I got shrapnel in my foot and he carried me in on his back under heavy fire.’
Lomax shrugged. ‘Like you said, who knows what goes on in the mind of any human being?’ He waved a hand in a small gesture of futility that summed the whole thing up and the door closed softly behind him.
Shane lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about Simon Faulkner and after a while the door opened
quietly and Father Costello appeared. He was wearing a dark raincoat and carried a black bag in his right hand. He smiled warmly and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It does my heart good to see you back in the land of the living, Martin.’
‘Thanks to you, Father,’ Shane told him. ‘If you hadn’t had faith in me …’ His voice trailed away into silence.
‘Nonsense,’ Father Costello said. ‘The truth always comes out in the end if we have a little faith.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay. Laura Faulkner’s father died yesterday. The funeral is this morning and she’s asked me to officiate.’
Shane swallowed hard. ‘How is she, Father?’
The priest shrugged. ‘This thing has hit her harder than anything else, Martin. First her brother and the scandal of what he was and did, and now her father.’ He sighed heavily and walked to the door. ‘I’ll tell her I saw you, Martin. If she comes to see you be gentle with her. Poor girl, she’s quite alone.’
After he had gone Shane lay staring out of the window, thinking about Laura Faulkner and after a while he threw back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. When he stood up and walked across to the wardrobe, he felt as if he were floating and there was a slight buzzing in his ears.
His clothes were hanging neatly from several hangers and he changed as quickly as he could. It took him quite a while to fasten the various buttons and, as his hands were trembling so much, he decided not to bother with a tie. He pulled on his trench-coat and walked across to the door.
The corridor was deserted and he moved quickly along it and went down the stairs at the far end. On the ground floor there seemed to be a great many people moving about, some in uniform, but many of them patients. He moved steadily along a corridor that emptied into a pleasant, tiled foyer and facing him was a wide glass door.
A porter in blue uniform and peaked cap was standing in the porch looking out at the rain and Shane said, ‘Excuse me, I understand someone was being buried from the hospital this morning - a Mr Faulkner. Has the cortege left yet?’
The porter turned and looked at him curiously. ‘About fifteen minutes ago, sir.’
‘Have you any idea where the burial is to take place?’ Shane said.
‘St Augustine’s, I believe,’ the porter replied. He frowned suddenly as Shane half-closed his eyes and swayed a little. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
Shane nodded. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’m not long out of bed, that’s all.’ He moved down the steps quickly before the porter could inquire further and waved for a cab from the nearby rank.
When they reached the church, he told the driver to wait for him and walked slowly through the gate and along a narrow path lined with poplar trees which led to the cemetery.
He could hear Father Costello’s voice as he went forward and then he saw them. There were no more than half a dozen people grouped round the grave and the priest’s voice sounded brave and strong as the rain fell on his bare head.
Shane moved off the path and stood behind a large, marble monument. Laura was standing on the far side of the grave. She wore a black, close fitting suit and there were dark smudges under her eyes. The Dobermann sat beside her and Shane saw that she had one hand fastened firmly about the dog’s collar as if he were the last friend she had left on top of earth.
Shane recoiled at the horrid sound the first spadeful of wet earth made as it rattled against the coffin. He shivered and turned away and walked quickly between the gravestones that reared out of the clammy earth, back towards the gate.
He sat in the cab and waited and after a while they came through the gate. Father Costello talked to her for a moment or two, holding her hand, his face kind and gentle and then she got into a hired car with the dog and they drove away.
Shane told his driver to follow and leaned back against the cushions and lit a cigarette. His body was trembling slightly and the smoke made him feel sick. He tossed the cigarette out of the window and wiped cold sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He had no idea of what he was going to say to her. He was only sure of one thing. He needed her more than he had ever needed anything or anybody in his life before.
The hired car dropped her at the gate of the house and Shane waited until she had disappeared through the gate before paying off his driver and following her.
The place seemed more derelict than ever and the curtains were drawn across the windows, giving them somehow the appearance of great, sightless eyes that looked blindly down at him.
He walked round the side of the house and down towards the studio. The rain increased with a sudden rush into a torrential downpour and a rook lifted out of the trees above the river, protesting shrilly. Shane mounted the steps to the studio and opened the door.
The Dobermann moved across the room like a dark shadow, a growl dying in its throat and unexpectedly nuzzled his hand. Laura Faulkner had been standing by the great glass window and she turned quickly.
Her eyes looked somehow too large in her fine-drawn face. She gazed incredulously at him and then a tiny moan escaped from her mouth and she took a hesitant step forward.
In a moment she was in his arms and he held her close as a storm of weeping engulfed her. After a while she stopped crying and looked up at him with a wan smile. ‘Should you be out of hospital?’
He grinned. ‘They’re probably going crazy at the moment, but that doesn’t matter. I wanted to see you.’ There was a slight pause and he said, ‘I’m sorry about your father.’
She sighed and moved away from him. ‘I’m not, now that it’s all over. It hasn’t been much of a life for him during these last few years.’
‘Or for you,’ Shane said.
She took a deep breath. ‘Before we go any further there are one or two things you should know. I knew that Charles Graham was really Simon.’
‘I know,’ Shane said gently. ‘Simon told me just before he died.’
‘But there’s one other thing you should know,’ she said in an expressionless voice. ‘The night you came here after making Steele give you the key to his safe and told me you intended going to his office for the letters. I warned Simon. That’s what I was doing when you surprised me on the telephone.’
‘I know that, too,’ Shane told her.
For a moment she registered surprise and then her shoulders slumped and she said wearily. ‘I don’t expect you to believe me, but I didn’t know about the other things. I didn’t realize he was trying to drive you insane.’
Shane took a quick step forward and pulled her close. ‘But I do believe you,’ he said.
She gazed up at him in wonder and then shook her head. ‘But why should you?’
He shrugged. ‘Because I love you. I think I loved you on that first day. And I need you desperately, just as much as you need me. We’ve both been reborn in a way and birth is a painful process. The most painful of all. It’s not going to be easy for either of us to pick up the threads of a new life on our own.’
For a timeless moment she gazed up at him and there were tears in her eyes and then she smiled and taking his hand, tugged him towards the door.
‘Where are we going?’ he demanded in bewilderment.
‘To get my car,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re going straight back to hospital.’
For a moment he was going to argue, but she looked up at him belligerently. He laughed softly, feeling suddenly happy for the first time in years, and together they walked up the path towards the house with the Dobermann trailing at their heels.
A Biography of Jack Higgins
Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.
Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbri
nging in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.
Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster The Eagle Has Landed, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures—such as John Dillinger—and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.
Patterson as an infant with his mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. He moved to Northern Ireland with his family as a child, staying there until he was twelve years old.
Patterson with his parents. He left school at age fifteen, finding his place instead in the British military.
A candid photo of Patterson during his military years. While enlisted in the army, he was known for his higher-than-average military IQ. Many of Patterson’s books would later incorporate elements of the military experience.
