Cry of the Hunter. Jack Higgins

      Jack Higgins

      Cry of the Hunter

      Copyright

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      HARPER

       An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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       London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by John Long Ltd 1960

       Arrow Edition 1979

       Penguin Books Edition 1998

      CRY OF THE HUNTER. Copyright © Harry Patterson 1960

      Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2010

      Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

      HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

      Source ISBN: 9780007234899

      Ebook Edition © JULY 2011 ISBN: 9780007290390

      Version: 2016-10-12

      PUBLISHER’S NOTE

      Cry Of The Hunter was first published in the UK by John Long in 1960 and later by Arrow in 1979. It was originally published under the name of Harry Patterson, an author who later became known to millions as Jack Higgins.

      This amazing novel has been out of print for some years, and in 2010, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back Cry Of The Hunter for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

      Dedication

      For Uncle David

      Contents

       Cover

      Title Page

      Publisher’s Note

      Dedication

      1

      Fallon awakened suddenly and completely and lay staring blindly into…

      2

      When the milk train pulled into Castlemore, Fallon was sleeping…

      3

      When Fallon reached the meeting place he found Murphy waiting…

      4

      Fallon slept lightly. When he first awakened and checked his…

      5

      It was chilly in the attic and the rain drummed…

      6

      There was a light that came very close and went…

      7

      He drifted up from a deep pit of darkness into…

      8

      Murphy crouched glumly by the tailboard looking back along the…

      9

      The wind rushed through the beech trees plucking most of…

      10

      Fallon shared a bed with Murphy but his wound pained…

      11

      Fallon sat by the tailboard immersed in his own thoughts.

      12

      He emerged from a deep well of agony and huddled…

       Keep Reading

      About the Author

      Other Books by Jack Higgins

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      1

      Fallon awakened suddenly and completely and lay staring blindly into the darkness. Gradually the room began to take shape as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and he reached for cigarettes to the small table that stood beside the bed. He closed his eyes against the sudden flare of the match and inhaled deeply. His throat was dry and his mouth tasted bad. He groaned and his searching hand groped again in the darkness until it located a bottle.

      He pulled the cork with his teeth and swallowed deeply. The whisky burned its way down to his stomach, filling him with a nausea that was followed by a pleasant glow. He leaned back against the pillows with a sigh of relief.

      Rain spattered on the window with ghostly fingers and he looked at the luminous dial of his watch and saw that it was eleven-thirty. He wondered what day it was. He lifted the bottle to his lips again and considered the point. He was still dressed so he must have been drunk when he went to bed. That much was obvious, but beyond that point it was difficult to go for memory had a way of playing tricks on him. He decided he must be getting old and took another generous swallow from the bottle. He remembered getting up and it had been a fine morning. He had tried to work but the words had refused to come and the whisky hadn’t helped. It hadn’t helped at all. One thing was certain. He couldn’t have lain there for more than a day because his watch was still going.

      A sudden gust of wind loosed a tendril of ivy from the wall and set it tapping against the window with an eerie monotony that was unnerving. He shivered and raised the bottle to his lips again. It was empty and he dropped it carelessly to the floor and decided to get up.

      He stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray that stood on the small table and then, suddenly, he was alone with the darkness and it moved in on him, pushing against his body with a terrible weightless pressure that was terrifying in its relentless force. The darkness moved in and moved out and a curious sibilant whisper rippled through the void. For a moment he swayed on the edge of panic and then he hurled aside the bedclothes and lurched to his feet.

      His trembling fingers fumbled with matches and a small flame blossomed out of the darkness. He turned up the wick of the bedside lamp with his free hand and touched it with the match. Light spread to each corner of the room, driving the shadows before it, and he sat down on the bed and lit another cigarette with hands that shook slightly.

      After a while he took the lamp and went into the bathroom. His shirt was damp with perspiration and he stripped it from his body and sluiced his head and shoulders with cold water. As he dried himself he examined his face in the mirror. Dark, sombre eyes that were too deeply set in their sockets, stared out at him with an expression he could no longer analyse even to himself. The ugly, puckered scar that slanted across his right cheek,