Cry of the Hunter

Fallon offered her a cigarette and smiled sadly. ‘How right he was.’ He stared into space, back into the past, and said slowly, ‘He was a remarkable man. He used to shelter me when I was on the run and spend the night trying to make me see the error of my ways.’ He straightened up in his chair and laughed lightly. ‘Still, he used to see a lot of Stuart, as well. Poor Phil – if only he’d realized what was going on under his nose.’

Anne Murray sipped her tea and said quietly, ‘What did you want with my father this time?’

Fallon shrugged. ‘For once, nothing – except a chat. I hadn’t seen him for several years, you know.’

‘Yes, he wasn’t even sure you were still alive. He thought you would have written to him if you had been.’

Fallon shook his head and explained. ‘I’ve been buried in the wilds of Cavan,’ he said. He grinned suddenly and poured himself another cup of tea. ‘To tell you the truth I decided to change my ways. I’ve kept body and soul together by doing a bit of hack writing. I have a cottage about half a mile from the border. It’s been most restful.’

She chuckled, deep down in her throat. ‘I’m sure it has. But what did you find to take the place of the other thing?’

A sudden unease moved inside him and he forced a laugh. ‘What other thing?’

‘The thing that made you what you were; that made you live the kind of life you did for all those years.’

He stood up and paced restlessly about the room. The girl was getting too near the truth for comfort. After a few moments he swung round and said brightly, ‘Anyway, what are you doing here? I hadn’t realized you were so grown up. Didn’t your father pack you off to some aunt in England after your mother died?’

‘He did,’ she said. ‘Then I went to a boarding school. After that, Guy’s Hospital in London. I’m a nurse,’ she added simply.

He nodded. ‘You came home for the funeral?’

She shook her head. ‘I was here for a few days before he died. I’ve only stayed on to sell up. A lot of the furniture has gone already.’ She shivered suddenly. ‘I don’t want any of it. I just want to get rid of everything and go away.’

For the first time grief showed starkly in her eyes and he put a hand on her shoulder. For a few moments they stayed together, tied by some mystical bond of sympathy, and then she moved slightly and he took his hand away. She looked up into his face and said quietly, ‘What have you come for, Martin Fallon? Are you back at the old game?’

For a long moment their eyes were locked and then he sighed deeply. He moved across to his chair and sagged down into it. ‘Yes, I’m back at the old game,’ he said.

She nodded slowly and stared past him in an abstracted manner as if thinking deeply. After a moment she said, ‘But why? That’s what I can’t understand. After all these years why come back to it?’

He shook his head several times. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. I thought I was doing it for a woman who had already suffered too much, but now I’m not so sure. Some impulse of self-destruction, perhaps. After all, why did I live the way I did for so many years?’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I don’t think it was entirely for Ireland.’

The girl stood up and carried the cups to the sink. For a moment she paused, her back to him, and then she turned. ‘I only know what my father told me. That you were a fine man ruined and a good mind wasted.’ She shook her head slowly and repeated as if to herself, ‘Wasted.’

At that moment the bell jangled sharply, waves of harsh sound breaking the silence that had followed her words.

For a brief second they stood looking at each other and then she opened the door and went swiftly along the dark passage. She was back in a moment. ‘It’s Philip Stuart,’ she said. ‘I can see him through the side window.’

Panic moved inside Fallon and for a moment a strange dizziness caused him to sway slightly. He staggered and almost lost his balance and then he was cold and calm again. His hand dipped inside his coat and came out clutching the Luger. ‘What’s he want?’ he said and there was a deadness in his voice.

The girl grasped his wrist firmly and pushed the weapon down towards the floor. ‘There will be none of that,’ she said. ‘He’s been handling the sale of the house for me. He’s a busy man at the moment and has to come when he can.’ For a moment Fallon resisted and she put her face close to his and said, ‘Put the gun away.’

He relaxed suddenly and slipped it back into the shoulder holster. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She took him by the arm and led him across to another door. When she opened it he saw a flight of stairs. ‘Straight up to the landing,’ she said. ‘The first room on the left is my bedroom. You can stay there until I come for you.’ He tried to speak and then the bell rang again and she pushed him forward, throwing his hat and coat after him, and closed the door.

He found her room with no difficulty. A bed and an old dresser seemed to be the only furniture and a few suitcases stood against one wall. He sat down on the edge of the bed. His hands were trembling and after a few moments his whole body began to shake. He let his body fall back against the pillows, his hands clasped together, and closed his eyes as a sob rose in his throat. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, half aloud. ‘I’m scared to death. I’ve lost my nerve.’ He lay there, his body shaking, and then after a while he felt drowsy. The room was quiet and still and there was the faint womanly smell of the girl upon the bedclothes. Quite suddenly he relaxed. She seemed to come very close to him, bringing with her an inexpressible comfort, and then the tiredness came to him. His head dropped gently to one side as he drifted into darkness.

He came awake quickly from a dreamless sleep and lay staring at the ceiling. For a few moments he couldn’t remember where he was. Awareness came to him and he swung his feet to the floor and looked at his watch. It was almost noon. He cursed softly and stood up, and then he realized with surprise that his shoes had been taken off and were standing neatly at the side of the bed. He frowned in puzzlement and sat down again to put them on. His coat and hat had disappeared and he spent several moments looking for them before he went to the door and opened it cautiously. The house was quiet. He advanced along the passage and began to descend the back stairs.

Faintly from the kitchen came sounds of music. For a moment he hesitated at the door and then he opened it and went in. The music came from a wireless on a shelf in the corner. The girl was standing at the gas cooker stirring something in a pan. She turned quickly and said, without smiling, ‘You’re awake.’

Fallon nodded. ‘Why did you let me sleep?’

She shrugged. ‘You looked as though you needed it.’ She moved across to the table and spooned stew on to a plate. ‘You’d better sit down and have this.’ She had changed into a tweed skirt and green, woollen jumper. Somehow she looked older, more sure of herself.

Fallon sat down and said, ‘I’ll have to be quick. I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock.’

As he ate, the girl sat on the opposite side of the table, a cup of tea in her hands, and watched him. After a while she said, ‘Stuart’s found me a buyer for the house. It won’t fetch much – it’s too run down for that – but it will be better than nothing.’ Fallon nodded and went on eating. For some strange reason he couldn’t think of anything to say. There was an air of tension in the air as if something was going to snap at any moment. Suddenly the girl leaned forward and said, ‘You’re here to get that fellow Rogan, aren’t you?’

He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, and looked at her searchingly. ‘Who told you that?’

She leaned back, satisfied. ‘I just put two and two together. It had to be something special to bring you back. I should have thought of it before.’

‘Did Stuart say anything?’ Fallon asked.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing special. He mentioned Rogan in passing. Said they would be moving him to Belfast soon. I suddenly realized there must be a connection.’

Fallon pushed the empty plate away from him. ‘That was nice,’ he said.

She leaned across the table again and there was anger sparking in her eyes. ‘You damned fool. You’ll get yourself killed this time. And for what? For a cold-blooded murderer who deserves to hang.’

He shook his head and shrugged. ‘Some people might say he was a soldier.’

She laughed harshly. ‘Don’t talk rubbish. He’s a dirty little terrorist who shoots people in the back.’

He didn’t try to answer her because he knew that she was more than half right. For a few moments he looked into her blazing, angry eyes and then he dropped his gaze and began to trace a pattern in the table cloth with the handle of his knife. ‘Rogan has a mother,’ he said. ‘She’s lost a husband and a son already. Both shot down fighting for the Cause. She wants him back. He’s all she has left.’

Anne Murray gave a little moan and jumped up suddenly. ‘It’s always the women who suffer,’ she said. For a moment she stood with her head lowered and then she shook it slowly from side to side. ‘It won’t do,’ she said. ‘It’s not a good enough reason.’

He got up from the table and took down his hat and coat from the rack where she had put them to dry. ‘I must go,’ he said.

She moved slowly towards him and paused when their bodies were almost touching. There was iron in her voice when she spoke. ‘That woman isn’t the reason you came, is it?’ He made no reply and she raised her voice and said demandingly, ‘Is it?’

For a moment there was a great silence as they stood close together staring into each other’s eyes, and then she swayed suddenly and he reached out to steady her. ‘A man ought to finish what he starts,’ he said.

She nodded wearily. ‘Men!’ There was almost a loathing in her voice. ‘Men and their honour and their stupid games.’

She came with him to the door. The rain was still falling steadily and remorselessly into the sodden ground. He belted his coat around him and pulled his hat down over his eyes. For a moment they stood together there on the top step and then a sob broke in her throat and she pushed him off the step, and said angrily, ‘Go on – go to your death, you fool.’

The door slammed into place and for a moment he stood looking at it, and then he turned and walking down through the tangled garden, let himself out into the rain-swept square.

3

When Fallon reached the meeting place he found Murphy waiting for him. The boy was sitting behind the wheel of an old Austin reading a newspaper. Fallon walked quickly round to the other side of the car and opened the door. Murphy looked up, an expression of alarm on his face. He smiled with relief. ‘God help us, Mr Fallon. I thought you were the polis.’

Suddenly Fallon felt desperately sorry for the boy. He wanted to tell him that this was how it would always be. That there was no romance and no adventure in it at all. That from now on he would live with fear. But he said none of these things. He looked into the boy’s eager, reckless young face and saw himself twenty years ago. He smiled and said, ‘Do you smoke?’ Murphy nodded and they lit cigarettes and sat back in comfort while the rain drummed on the roof.

‘Do you like the car?’ Murphy asked. Fallon nodded, and the boy went on. ‘I got it a bit cheaper, but I thought it would be less conspicuous. Did I do right?’