The Room with Eight Windows by Jane A. Adams

Author:Jane A. Adams [Adams, Jane A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2023-04-03T00:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

Had anybody at that moment asked Henry Johnstone if he felt like a survivor, he would have answered in the negative. He regained consciousness slowly and painfully and was aware that he was very cold and there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hurt. He began to move and then stopped, listening cautiously for any sound that might suggest the men had returned. Finally he got to his knees and then struggled to his feet. Walking was difficult. He suspected he had several cracked ribs and hoped they were only cracked and not broken, knowing how easily he could pierce a lung. Breathing was hard but not impossible. His abdomen was black with bruises, as observed when he tucked his torn shirt and undershirt as best he could into the top of his trousers. He pulled his overcoat tight, but his hands gripping the thick black wool were incapable of fastening the buttons. They were bloodied and bruised and swollen and useless, and he inventoried his injuries while allowing that his theory that he had probably been left for dead was most likely true. The truth was he barely felt alive.

Alert to every sound, he staggered down the path and on to the road. Once there he looked back towards the house, trying to commit it to memory. He thought it had once been a farmhouse, solidly built but not large. Slates were missing from the roof and several of the windows were broken. It was clear that the place must have been abandoned for some time, and as he turned back to the road and looked left and right his heart sank as he realized that he might be miles from anywhere.

With an effort, he rallied himself. At least there was a road. It had to lead to somewhere, but should he go left or right?

He chose left because the road to his right climbed upwards and he realized he was not capable of anything that took more effort than the massive struggle to put one foot in front of the other and not fall over. Even that proved beyond him. The road at first began to slope downwards and Henry’s feet, though just about capable of the process of taking baby steps on a level surface, took exception to the idea of walking downhill. Suddenly Henry was falling and tumbling and rolling and it hurt like hell. Rolling into the hedge halted his progress and for a moment or two he lay there, winded and unable to move. He struggled into a sitting position and looked around, trying to get his thoughts into order. The hedges were low, the road narrow, but the rolling landscape told him that he was still on the Downs and therefore had not been taken too far from the coast. This hinterland he remembered was an area dotted with small villages and settlements, farms and sheep and, hopefully, with the occasional car going by.

What if the men came back? What if the

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