Chapter 17
858 Words
Rogan waited , rain soaking his head, streaming across his face. Once a truck passed going down towards Ambleside, but otherwise, Morgan in the lighted telephone box might have been the only inhabitant of a dark world . . . . . . . .
It was perhaps twenty minutes after Morgan had made his telephone call that Rogan heard the sound of an engine faintly through the rain from the direction of Ambleside . A moment later, a mini-car braked to a halt and Jack Pope leaned out of the window.
Morgan got in beside him and they started to talk. It was impossible for Rogan to hear anything of their conversation at all. He watched for a moment or two more,
then withdrew into the darkness and started back along the road to the farm.
Whatever it was they intended, they meant business, so much was certain. But where was Soames and what was he doing? That was the important thing. Or perhaps he was simply the man behind the scenes? God knows, he’d hardly looked like the active type.
The rain seemed to increase in force and Rogan bent his head and pushed on. As he rounded the shoulder of the hill, the valley falling away steeply on his right, he could see the farm nestling in a hollow of darkness, the yellow light reaching out into the night, and Hannah screamed his name aloud.
He was running, splashing in puddles of water and not caring, a strange sense of unreality to everything and saw her, silhouetted in the doorway, her hands clawing at Fletcher’s face as he towered above her.
Brendan was on his knees in a pool of water, dazed and shaken, blood on his face, and Rogan ran forward lightly, a terrible, cold anger surging through him. The girl’s dress was torn to the waist and as Fletcher laughed drunkenly and bent to kiss her, she jerked her head away so that Rogan got a clear picture of her face. There was nothing of fear there, only rage and humiliation and disgust. He grabbed Fletcher by the collar and pulled him away in one easy movement.
Fletcher staggered backwards, lost his balance and fell to one knee. He stayed there for a moment, looking up at Rogan, an expression of bewilderment on his brutal face, then gave a cry of anger and flung himself forward, hands reaching out to rend flesh and muscle.
Rogan swayed to one side and slashed him across the kidneys with the edge of his hand as the big man ran headlong past. Fletcher screamed and hit the wall. As he turned, Rogan punched him with tremendous force beneath the breastbone, the sound of the blow like a mallet striking wood. Fletcher slid down on his knees, the breath coming out of him in a long sigh.
Rogan moved in close and incredibly, one gnarled hand grabbed for his ankle and pulled hard, jerking him off balance so that he fell heavily to the cobbles. Fletcher’s great hand clawed across his body, reaching for the throat. Rogan grabbed at his wrists and they rolled over in the rain . . . . . . . . .
They cannoned into the wall beside the horse trough and Rogan, with a supreme effort, threw him to one side and got to his feet. Fletcher reached for the edge of the trough and pulled himself up. As he reached his full height, Rogan moved in fast and kicked him in the stomach. Fletcher doubled over and a knee like iron lifted into his face sending him back over the edge of the water trough.
He sprawled there, head under the surface and Rogan leaned on the edge to get his breath. After a while, he grabbed the big man by the shirt front and hauled him out. He dropped him on the cobbles and turned to find Hannah and Morgan watching him . . . . . . .
When he spoke, his voice seemed to be the voice of a stranger and the blood pounded in his ears. “You tell him next time I see him with a bottle, I’ll break it over his skull.” He pushed Morgan violently out of the way and lurched across the yard towards the house.
He was sitting in the chair beside the kitchen table, he was aware of that, and Hannah was wiping the blood from his face with a towel and warm water, tears pouring down her cheeks, and then she was in his arms and his lips were against
the cool flesh and it was as if this had always been . . . . . . . . .
Outside in the rain, Morgan crouched beside Fletcher who was moaning in pain, eyes half open. “ What was it you called him, Jesse? Just a big Irish bogtrotter? Hit him in the right place and he’d split clean down the middle.”
He started to laugh, turned and walked to the house and left Fletcher lying there alone in the heavy rain . . . . ..
- Writer
