Jack Higgins
Cry of the Hunter
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HARPER
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by John Long Ltd 1960
Arrow Edition 1979
Penguin Books Edition 1998
CRY OF THE HUNTER. Copyright © Harry Patterson 1960
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2010
Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007234899
Ebook Edition © JULY 2011 ISBN: 9780007290390
Version: 2016-10-12
PUBLISHERS NOTE
Cry Of The Hunter was first published in the UK by John Long in 1960 and later by Arrow in 1979. It was originally published under the name of Harry Patterson, an author who later became known to millions as Jack Higgins.
This amazing novel has been out of print for some years, and in 2010, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back Cry Of The Hunter for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
Dedication
For Uncle David
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Publishers Note
Dedication
1
Fallon awakened suddenly and completely and lay staring blindly into
2
When the milk train pulled into Castlemore, Fallon was sleeping
3
When Fallon reached the meeting place he found Murphy waiting
4
Fallon slept lightly. When he first awakened and checked his
5
It was chilly in the attic and the rain drummed
6
There was a light that came very close and went
7
He drifted up from a deep pit of darkness into
8
Murphy crouched glumly by the tailboard looking back along the
9
The wind rushed through the beech trees plucking most of
10
Fallon shared a bed with Murphy but his wound pained
11
Fallon sat by the tailboard immersed in his own thoughts.
12
He emerged from a deep well of agony and huddled
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About the Author
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Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Fallon awakened suddenly and completely and lay staring blindly into the darkness. Gradually the room began to take shape as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and he reached for cigarettes to the small table that stood beside the bed. He closed his eyes against the sudden flare of the match and inhaled deeply. His throat was dry and his mouth tasted bad. He groaned and his searching hand groped again in the darkness until it located a bottle.
He pulled the cork with his teeth and swallowed deeply. The whisky burned its way down to his stomach, filling him with a nausea that was followed by a pleasant glow. He leaned back against the pillows with a sigh of relief.
Rain spattered on the window with ghostly fingers and he looked at the luminous dial of his watch and saw that it was eleven-thirty. He wondered what day it was. He lifted the bottle to his lips again and considered the point. He was still dressed so he must have been drunk when he went to bed. That much was obvious, but beyond that point it was difficult to go for memory had a way of playing tricks on him. He decided he must be getting old and took another generous swallow from the bottle. He remembered getting up and it had been a fine morning. He had tried to work but the words had refused to come and the whisky hadnt helped. It hadnt helped at all. One thing was certain. He couldnt have lain there for more than a day because his watch was still going.
A sudden gust of wind loosed a tendril of ivy from the wall and set it tapping against the window with an eerie monotony that was unnerving. He shivered and raised the bottle to his lips again. It was empty and he dropped it carelessly to the floor and decided to get up.
He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray that stood on the small table and then, suddenly, he was alone with the darkness and it moved in on him, pushing against his body with a terrible weightless pressure that was terrifying in its relentless force. The darkness moved in and moved out and a curious sibilant whisper rippled through the void. For a moment he swayed on the edge of panic and then he hurled aside the bedclothes and lurched to his feet.
His trembling fingers fumbled with matches and a small flame blossomed out of the darkness. He turned up the wick of the bedside lamp with his free hand and touched it with the match. Light spread to each corner of the room, driving the shadows before it, and he sat down on the bed and lit another cigarette with hands that shook slightly.
After a while he took the lamp and went into the bathroom. His shirt was damp with perspiration and he stripped it from his body and sluiced his head and shoulders with cold water. As he dried himself he examined his face in the mirror. Dark, sombre eyes that were too deeply set in their sockets, stared out at him with an expression he could no longer analyse even to himself. The ugly, puckered scar that slanted across his right cheek, lifted the corner of his mouth giving him an oddly bitter and sardonic expression that was accentuated by the dark fringe of his beard.
He returned to the bedroom and rummaged in a drawer until he found a clean shirt. He pulled it quickly over his head and buttoned it with fingers that had found their sureness again and then he took the lamp and left the room. It was cold in the stone-flagged passage and he passed quickly into the kitchen. He took a bundle of kindling from a box in one corner and went into the main room of the cottage.
His typewriter rested on a table by the window and the floor was littered with crumpled balls of paper. He gathered them together quickly and used them to start the fire with. In a few moments the dry kindling was burning brightly and he carefully added logs from the pile in the hearth.
He sat back on his heels and stared deeply into the bright flames and after a while, when the fire was burning steadily, he straightened up and moved to a dresser on the far side of the room. He took down a fresh bottle of whisky, turned down the lamp, and sat in a chair by the fire, a glass in one hand and the bottle on the floor beside him.
The flames flickered across the oak-beamed ceiling, casting fantastic shadows that writhed and twisted constantly. The liquor in the glass gleamed, amber and gold, and Fallon savoured it slowly and felt its warmth flowing into him. He sighed with pleasure and started to refill his glass and suddenly a light flashed through the window, illuminating the far wall for a second, and disappearing as quickly as it had come.
He moved quickly to the window and peered out into the darkness and the driving rain. There was nothing to be seen. He was about to turn away when car headlights appeared from a dip in the road below. The car was moving slowly and then it appeared to stop. He watched it for a few moments until the lights moved forward again and turned into the track that led to the cottage.
Fallon pushed the typewriter out of the way and opened a drawer in the table. He took out a Luger automatic pistol and an electric torch. He checked the action of the Luger and then opened the door and moved out into the covered porch.
The car came to a halt a few feet away and the engine was turned off. For a little while there was silence and he waited patiently in the darkness as the rain hammered steadily into the ground. He heard one of the doors open and there was a snatch of conversation and then the door closed again and two figures came towards him. They paused a few feet away from the porch and a voice said, Its a God-forsaken spot. Do you think hes here?
Fallon eased the safety-catch off and held the Luger against his right thigh. He raised the torch and said quietly, Hes here! Light stabbed through the darkness, picking out the startled faces of the two men who stood before him.
There was silence and then a voice that he had not heard for many years said, Is it yourself, Martin?
For a moment he held the torch steady on them and then he directed the beam downwards and said, Youd better come in. Watch the step with that leg of yours, OHara.
He went back into the cottage and turned up the lamp. The two visitors followed him in and closed the door behind them. Fallon turned and faced them. He suddenly realized that he was still holding the Luger in one hand and he laughed shortly and put it down. The younger of the two men said, Old habits die hard.
Fallon shrugged. What would you be knowing about my old habits?
The man he had addressed as OHara laughed. A good answer, he said. A good answer. He was old with sagging shoulders and he supported his massive frame on a stick.
Youd better take your coat off and sit down, Fallon told him. He turned away and took two extra glasses from a shelf.
The younger man helped OHara off with his coat and the old man sat down in a chair by the fire with a sigh of relief. Ah, now, is it a drop of the right stuff youre going to offer us? he said as Fallon came forward with the glasses.
Fallon poured a generous measure into a glass and gave it to him. Whos your friend? he said.
OHara laughed again. Fancy me forgetting my manners like that. This is Jimmy Doolan. Hes wanted to meet you for a long time, Martin.
Doolan smiled quietly and held out his hand He was a small, quiet man with good capable hands and a Dublin accent. Ive dreamed of this day, Mr Fallon. Youve been a hero to me since I was a kid.
Fallon grunted. A fine sort of hero. He handed Doolan a glass of whisky. A lot of bloody good it did me.
A puzzled expression appeared on Doolans face and OHara leaned forward and said easily, Now then, Martin. Dont tell me youve turned bitter in your old age.
Fallon shrugged and sat down. Bitter? It depends how you look at it. Its one of the few luxuries I can afford these days.
There was another short, uneasy pause before OHara said, Hows the writing going? I never seem to see anything under your name.
Fallon nodded. You never will. I write thrillers under two different names. They wouldnt interest you. They dont even interest me. All they do successfully is pay the bills and keep me in whisky.
Doolan leaned forward. Dont you ever feel like doing something else, Mr Fallon?
Fallon looked at him for a moment and then smiled. Not particularly. What would you suggest?
Doolan fumbled for words. Well, now, what you were doing before was not such a bad thing.
I was in prison before, Fallon told him. I was doing hard labour. Would you have me do that again? There was a short, tense silence and he stood up and said, What is it, OHara? What do you want with me?
OHara sighed heavily and poked a log that was threatening to fall into the hearth, back into place with the end of his walking stick. The Organization needs you, Martin, he said. It needs you bad.
Fallon started so that whisky slopped over the edge of his glass. He gazed at OHara in astonishment and then he laughed harshly. The Organization needs me? he said and there was incredulity in his voice. After all these years it needs me?
OHara nodded slowly. Its right enough. Doolan and I have been asked to come and see you.
Fallon began to laugh uncontrollably. Thats rich, he said. Thats damned rich.
Doolan jumped up and said angrily, Whats so funny, Mr Fallon?
The fact that the Organization can bloody well do without me, Fallon said. Thats whats so funny.
Doolan swore savagely and turned to OHara. Is this the great Martin Fallon? Swilling his guts with whisky and rotting in a back-country pigsty?
Fallon moved so quickly that Doolan didnt stand a chance. A fist caught him high on the right cheek and he stumbled, tripped over a loose rug and fell heavily to the floor. Fallon hauled him to his feet and pushed him down into a chair. Listen to me, he said, and his voice was ice-cold. When I was a schoolboy I lived and breathed the I.R.A. I joined when I was seventeen. When I was twenty-two I was the leader of the Organization in Ulster. I was a name in the land. Im forty years of age and Ive spent nine of them in prison. Ive done my share for Ireland.
Now then, Martin, OHara said soothingly. No one is denying what youve suffered but it should only strengthen your resolve to fight until the whole of Ireland is free again.
Fallon threw back his head and laughed savagely. For Gods sake, are you still handing out that kind of clap-trap? The country is as free as it wants to be. If they ever want to change things north of the border theyll do it through the government and through law. Guns and bombs will only serve to make them realize how well off they are without us.
Doolan groaned and shook his head several times and Fallon handed him a glass of whisky which the small man swallowed at a gulp. After a while he fingered his face gingerly and said with a wry smile. Thats a hell of a wallop youve got, Mr Fallon, and no mistake.