Dark Side of the Street - Simon Vaughn 01 (v5) by Jack Higgins Page B
Authors: Jack Higgins
Ads: Link
and started along the track to the farm.
Youngblood surfaced, his face damp with sweat and stared up at the roof. There had been no finesse about what had happened, nothing gentle and now it was over. She lay beside him, eyes closed, breasts heaving, moisture beading her upper lip and he was filled with something very close to disgust. She was ugly--God dammit, everything about her was ugly from the unkempt hair and sallow face to the dowdy black dress and darned stockings.
He eased away and she turned at once, opening her eyes. He forced a smile. "You all right, kid?"
"Oh, Harry, I love you. I love you so much." She clutched his hand and turned her face into his shoulder.
It was a cry from the heart of someone who had never known love or kindness or any kind of affection in her life before, but Youngblood had neither the perception nor the sensitivity necessary to understand, that for her he had become the only real thing in a world of illusion.
He patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and pulled away, taking out his cigarettes and lighting one. Looking for a change of subject, he remembered what Chavasse had said.
"What went on between you and Paul? When he passed me on the way down he seemed pretty excited about something."
She got up, took a comb from the pocket of her coat and ran it through her hair. "He was asking me questions about the other people who came here, that's all."
"Like George Saxton and Ben Hoffa?"
"That's right."
"And what did he want to know?"
"If I'd seen them leave."
Youngblood frowned. "And did you?"
She shook her head. "The others who came used to stay two or three days, but I never saw either of your friends again after I brought them up here."
Youngblood stared at her in horror as the full implication sank in. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.
In the same moment, both barrels of a shotgun were fired in rapid succession, the sound echoing flatly through the rain as it drifted up from the valley below.
He turned to the door and the girl grabbed his arm. "Don't go, Harry--don't go!" she screamed.
He struck her across the face with the flat of his hand, sending her backwards into the hay. "You bitch!" he said. "You dirty little bitch! You've sold us out!"
And then he was gone and she picked herself up and stumbled after him, crying hysterically.
When Chavasse reached the farmyard he paused, suddenly uncertain, not even sure what he was looking for. If his suspicions were correct, if Saxton and Ben Hoffa had never left this place alive, their bodies could be anywhere. Tossed into a peat bog or simply buried a foot under the surface somewhere out there on the moors, they could lie for five hundred years without being discovered.
He went inside the farmhouse and stood in the stone flagged passageway for a moment, wondering what to do next, conscious of the eerie silence. There was a door to his left and one on the right leading to the parlour and living room respectively and the kitchen was at the far end. And then he noticed another under the stairs.
When he opened it, unpleasant, dank odour drifted up to meet him from the darkness below. He fumbled for the light switch and clicked it on to disclose a flight of stone steps. He went down cautiously and found himself in a narrow whitewashed passage that turned into another, various storerooms leading off on either side.
There was the usual accumulation of rubbish that was to be found in the cellars of any old house and many of the rooms had obviously been used to store provisions in other days. He was wasting his time, so much was obvious and he turned and went back along the passage.
"Doing a bit of exploring, eh?" Sam Crowther said from the top of the stairs.
He was standing in the doorway, a double-barrelled shotgun under one arm. Chavasse paused fractionally at the bottom of the steps and kept on going.
"That's right. Hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." Crowther moved back into the passageway, a jovial smile on his face. "And
Youngblood surfaced, his face damp with sweat and stared up at the roof. There had been no finesse about what had happened, nothing gentle and now it was over. She lay beside him, eyes closed, breasts heaving, moisture beading her upper lip and he was filled with something very close to disgust. She was ugly--God dammit, everything about her was ugly from the unkempt hair and sallow face to the dowdy black dress and darned stockings.
He eased away and she turned at once, opening her eyes. He forced a smile. "You all right, kid?"
"Oh, Harry, I love you. I love you so much." She clutched his hand and turned her face into his shoulder.
It was a cry from the heart of someone who had never known love or kindness or any kind of affection in her life before, but Youngblood had neither the perception nor the sensitivity necessary to understand, that for her he had become the only real thing in a world of illusion.
He patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and pulled away, taking out his cigarettes and lighting one. Looking for a change of subject, he remembered what Chavasse had said.
"What went on between you and Paul? When he passed me on the way down he seemed pretty excited about something."
She got up, took a comb from the pocket of her coat and ran it through her hair. "He was asking me questions about the other people who came here, that's all."
"Like George Saxton and Ben Hoffa?"
"That's right."
"And what did he want to know?"
"If I'd seen them leave."
Youngblood frowned. "And did you?"
She shook her head. "The others who came used to stay two or three days, but I never saw either of your friends again after I brought them up here."
Youngblood stared at her in horror as the full implication sank in. "Jesus Christ!" he whispered.
In the same moment, both barrels of a shotgun were fired in rapid succession, the sound echoing flatly through the rain as it drifted up from the valley below.
He turned to the door and the girl grabbed his arm. "Don't go, Harry--don't go!" she screamed.
He struck her across the face with the flat of his hand, sending her backwards into the hay. "You bitch!" he said. "You dirty little bitch! You've sold us out!"
And then he was gone and she picked herself up and stumbled after him, crying hysterically.
When Chavasse reached the farmyard he paused, suddenly uncertain, not even sure what he was looking for. If his suspicions were correct, if Saxton and Ben Hoffa had never left this place alive, their bodies could be anywhere. Tossed into a peat bog or simply buried a foot under the surface somewhere out there on the moors, they could lie for five hundred years without being discovered.
He went inside the farmhouse and stood in the stone flagged passageway for a moment, wondering what to do next, conscious of the eerie silence. There was a door to his left and one on the right leading to the parlour and living room respectively and the kitchen was at the far end. And then he noticed another under the stairs.
When he opened it, unpleasant, dank odour drifted up to meet him from the darkness below. He fumbled for the light switch and clicked it on to disclose a flight of stone steps. He went down cautiously and found himself in a narrow whitewashed passage that turned into another, various storerooms leading off on either side.
There was the usual accumulation of rubbish that was to be found in the cellars of any old house and many of the rooms had obviously been used to store provisions in other days. He was wasting his time, so much was obvious and he turned and went back along the passage.
"Doing a bit of exploring, eh?" Sam Crowther said from the top of the stairs.
He was standing in the doorway, a double-barrelled shotgun under one arm. Chavasse paused fractionally at the bottom of the steps and kept on going.
"That's right. Hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." Crowther moved back into the passageway, a jovial smile on his face. "And
Similar Books
