Contrail by Malcolm Havard

Author:Malcolm Havard [Havard, Malcolm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oakbrook Publishing
Published: 2024-03-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The figure took a half step towards her as she stood frozen with fear, still gripping Ian's jacket in her right hand. She wanted to scream but she had lost all control. The yell seemed to come out of a dream, was it her? No, there were footsteps, heavy, someone running.

In an instant, the killer turned and ran, light on their feet, quiet, as if they were wearing gym pumps.

‘You okay?’ said a voice, male, deep, kneeling at her feet, feeling for a pulse on Ian, ‘Harriet, you okay?’

She still did not answer. The man stood up, facing her. Her eyes would not focus. He grabbed her by the shoulders giving her a gentle shake, ‘Come on, Harriet, he's gone. There's nothing we can do for him now.’

Her rescuer guided her away, gently leading her by the shoulders. She started shivering uncontrollably. She felt the arm around her leave momentarily then return, putting a jacket around her shoulders. They passed under a street light. There was something on her hand. Spots. Blood.

‘I killed him,’ she said, ‘It was me. It was my fault. I killed him.’

Then it all went blank.

*

She was in a car. She knew that.

There were voices, discussing her.

‘We need to get her to the police…’

Her rescuer? Yes, she was sure. So familiar, that voice, who was it?

‘No, I want her away from all this. This is bad enough without her being here too.’ The Colonel. Yes, she was sure that the second voice was his.

The door opened. Someone was pushing her sleeve up, testing her pulse.

Running footsteps, ‘Where is she? Is she alright?’ An anxious voice; Stafford.

Then she felt a needle against her arm, a dull pain.

Ow.’ she said. ‘Stafford?’

The voice again, ‘Yes, she's fine. They got Hunter.’

‘Where is she?’

She struggled to get up. Her head had been clearing but now it was dulling again, she was swimming through a fog, her arms were heavy.

‘What have you…?’ she muttered, ‘No,’ but her tongue wouldn't work now.

‘I've given her something to calm her. Now…’

*

Sunlight. Morning sunlight.

For a moment she couldn't work out how she knew that. Oh yes. That angle. The brightness, the clarity. It all spoke of morning more eloquently than any clock could.

What else? Sheets. Clean sheets. White, well starched, laundered by someone who took pride. A housewife's bedding, not a hotel's.

Cool too. The air was cool. Not the cool of the lowlands; No, this was the cool of the mountains, she was somewhere up high. It was quiet too. The noise and the movement and life of Rome was gone.

The blood had gone, too. The blood. Ian. Poor little Ian. She saw his eyes, the spark of life leaving them. The touch of his lips against hers. Betrayed with a kiss. A kiss to fool him, there was nothing behind it, it was just to make him talk. Her falseness, what a Judas. How could she do that?

Tears flowed down her cheeks. She wiped them away with her hand.

‘Take this,’ she felt a handkerchief pressed into her hand.

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